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about the prospect of spending—uh—however long it might be, staring at that empty bunk across the way. Specially,” I added loudly, to interrupt what he was going to say, “if I had to spend some hours or weeks or maybe a decade with the knowledge that I was alone because I took off with a mad on.”
    “This isn’t what you might call a fit of pique,” snapped Clinton. “It’s been years building—first because I had a need and recognized it; second because the need got greater when I started to work toward filling it; third because I found who and what would satisfy it; fourth because I was so wrong on point three.”
    “You
are
wrong? Or you’re
afraid
you’re wrong?”
    He looked at me blankly. “I don’t know,” he said, all the snap gone out of his voice. “Not for sure.”
    “Well, then you’ve no real problem. All you do is ask yourself whether it’s worthwhile to take off alone because of a problem you haven’t solved. If it is, go ahead.”
    He rose and went to the door. “Clinton!” My voice must have crackled; he stopped without turning, and from the corner of my eye I saw Judson sit up abruptly. I said, more quietly, “When Judson here suggested that he go away and leave us alone, why did you tell him to come in? What did you see in him that made you do it?”
    Clinton’s thoughtfully slitted eyes hardly masked their blazing blue as he turned them on Judson, who squirmed like a schoolboy. Clinton said, “I think it’s because he looks as if he can be reached. And trusted. That answer you?”
    “It does.” I waved him out cheerfully. Judson said, “You have an awesome way of operating.”
    “On him?”
    “On both of us. How do you know what you did by turning his problem back on himself? He’s likely to go straight to the launching court.”
    “He won’t.”
    “You’re sure.”
    “Of course I’m sure,” I said flatly. “If Clinton hadn’t alreadydecided
not
to take off alone—not today, anyhow—he wouldn’t have come to see me and get argued out of it.”
    “What’s really bothering him?”
    “I can’t say.” I wouldn’t say. Not to Judson. Not now, at least. Clinton was ripe to leave, and he was the kind to act when ready. He had found what he thought was the perfect human being for him to go with. She wasn’t ready to go. She never in all time and eternity would be ready to go.
    “All right,” said Jud. “What about me? That was very embarrassing.”
    I laughed at him. “Sometimes when you don’t know exactly how to phrase something for yourself, you can shock a stranger into doing it for you. Why did I like you on sight, years ago, and now, too? Why did Clinton feel you were trustworthy? Why did Tween feel free to pass you some advice—and what prompted the advice? Why did—” No. Don’t mention the most significant one of all. Leave her out of it. “—Well, there’s no point in itemizing all afternoon. Clinton said it.
You can be reached
. Practically anyone meeting you knows—feels, anyhow—that you can be reached … touched … affected. We like feeling that we have an effect on someone.”
    Judson closed his eyes, screwed up his brow. I knew he was digging around in his memory, thinking of close and casual acquaintances … how many of them … how much they had meant to him and he to them. He looked at me. “Should I change?”
    “God, no! Only—don’t let it be
too
true. I think that’s what Tween was driving at when she said not to jump at any decisions until you’ve reached the comparative serenity of certification.”
    “Serenity … I could use some of that,” he murmured.
    “Jud.”
    “Mm?”
    “Did you ever try to put into one simple statement just why you came to Curbstone?”
    He looked startled. Like most people, he had been living, and living ardently, without ever wondering particularly what for. And like most people, he had sooner or later had to answer the jackpot question: “What am I doing