“Don’t say it. You’re my wife, that’s all. If anyone asks what and who you are, you’re a native of Earth and a citizen of the Empire. If they want further details, you’re my wife.”
“Well, and after you make this address at Trantor to your archaeological society, what next?”
“What next? Well, first we take a year off and see every major world in the Galaxy. We won’t skip one, even if we have to get on and off it by mail ship. You’ll get yourself an eyeful of the Galaxy and the best honeymoon that government money can buy.”
“And then . . .”
“And then it’s back to Earth, and we’ll volunteer for the labor battalions and spend the next forty years of our lives lugging dirt to replace the radioactive areas.”
“Now why are you going to do that?”
“Because”—there was the suspicion of a deep breath at this point in Arvardan’s Mind Touch—“I love you and it’s what you want, and because I’m a patriotic Earthman and have the honorary naturalization papers to prove it.”
“All right . . .”
And at this point the conversation stopped.
But, of course, the Mind Touches did not, and Schwartz, in full satisfaction, and a little embarrassment, backed away. He could wait. Time enough to disturb them when things had settled down further.
He waited in the street, with the cold stars burning down—a whole Galaxy of them, seen and unseen.
And for himself, and the new Earth, and all those millions of planets far beyond, he repeated softly once more that ancient poem that he alone now, of so many quadrillions, knew:
“Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made . . .”
