But this day Babs and Cochrane went together into the grand concourse of the Spaceways terminal.  There were people everywhere.  The hiring-booths of enterprises on the three planets now under development took applications for jobs on those remote worlds, and explained how long one had to contract to work in order to have one’s fare paid.  Chambers of Commerce representatives were prepared to give technical information to prospective entrepreneurs.  There were reservation-desks, and freight-routing desks, and tourist-agency desks ...

“Hmmm,” said Cochrane suddenly.  “D’you know, I haven’t heard of Dabney in months!  What happened to him?”

“Dabney?” said Babs.  She beamed.  Women in the terminal saw the clothes she was wearing.  They did not recognize her—­Cochrane had kept her off the air—­but they envied her.  She felt very nice indeed.  “Dabney?—­Oh, I had to use my own judgment there, Jed.  You were so busy!  After all, he was scientific consultant to Spaceways.  He did pay Jones cold cash for fame-rights.  When everything else got so much more important than just the scientific theory, he got in a terrible state.  His family consulted Doctor Holden, and we arranged it.  He’s right down this way!”

She pointed.  And there was a splendid plate-glass office built out from the wall of the grand concourse.  It was elevated, so that it was charmingly conspicuous.  There was a chastely designed but highly visible sign under the stairway leading to it.  The sign said; “H.  G. Dabney, Scientific Consultant.”

Dabney sat at an imposing desk in plain view of all the thousands who had shipped out and the millions who would ship out in time to come.  He thought, visibly.  Presently he stood up and paced meditatively up and down the office which was as eye-catching as a gold-fish bowl of equal size in the same place.  He seemed to see someone down in the concourse.  He could have recognized Cochrane, of course.  But he did not.

He bowed.  He was a great man.  Undoubtedly he returned to his wife each evening happily convinced that he had done the world a great favor by permitting it to glimpse him.

Cochrane and Babs went on.  Their baggage was taken care of.  The departure of a ship for the stars, these days, was much less complicated and vastly more comfortable than it used to be when a mere moon-rocket took off.

When they were in the ship, Babs heaved a sigh of absolute relief.

“Now,” she said zestfully, “now you’re retired, Jed!  You don’t have to worry about anything!  And so now I’m going to try to make you worry about me—­not worry about me, but think about me!”

“Of course,” said Cochrane.  He regarded her with honest affection.  “We’ll take a good long vacation.  First on the glacier planet.  Then we’ll build a house somewhere in the hills back of Diamondville ...”

“Jed!” said Babs accusingly.

“There’s a fair population there already,” said Cochrane, apologetically.  “It won’t be long before a local television station will be logical.  I was just thinking, Babs, that after we get bored with loafing, I could start a program there.  Really sound stuff.  Not commercial.  And of course with the Dabney field it could be piped back to Earth if any sponsor wanted it.  I think they would ...”