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Updated: May 29, 2025
"Hilary Grendon Hilary Grendon," rumbled the other in manifest perplexity. It was evident the name meant nothing to him. This then was the homecoming he had dreamed of in the unfathomable reaches of space. Hilary thought bitterly. Five short years and he was already forgotten. Then the irony of it struck him, and he laughed aloud. "Yes," he said.
Brookenham's failure to repudiate the vision appeared to suffice, and her visitor cheerfully took a further jump. "As much of Tishy as she wants AFTER. But not before." "After what?" "Well say after Mr. Mitchett. Mr. Mitchett won't take her after Mrs. Grendon." "And what are your grounds for assuming that he'll take her at all?"
Hilary Grendon piloted his battered, time-worn space flier, the Vagabond, to the smiling Earth that rose rapidly to greet it. Only the instinctive ease of long practise prevented a smash-up, his hands trembled so at the controls. Home again the old familiar Earth! He could scarcely believe it!
How different it all was from the harsh red angularities of Mars! He was outside, breathing deeply, inhaling the perfumed air with delight. This was the only heaven; beyond that far-flung immensity of planetary orbs was hell! He, Hilary Grendon, the carefree, smiling skeptic of old, was a Fundamentalist now.
A groan went up as he described swiftly the holocaust of the day before. "That was why I warned you all to wait. We can't fight them yet. But I'm forgetting...." He turned to Hilary, who had remained quietly aside. "This is Hilary Grendon, your Chief. He's the man who is responsible for the revolt. I told you about him. We all take orders from him hereafter.
Indignantly he had taken his calculations, his blue prints of the spheroid, along with him. If the flight was a success, well and good; if not, they would not be worth much anyway. In spite of his fever to be off, he carefully locked the controls, sealed the outer air-lock. Hilary Grendon was a methodical man: that was the reason he had survived. Then he struck across country, walking very fast.
The next morning, as dawn burst over the mountain tops, he started on his perilous mission. But no one who knew Hilary Grendon would have recognized him in the meek, shambling, slightly bent Earth slave who climbed the last rung of the rope ladder out of the hidden gorge. He had changed his clothes for an old, space-worn suit that one of his former comrades could never have any further use for.
Were I minded to use in this connexion a "loud" word and the critic in general hates loud words as a man of taste may hate loud colours I should speak of the composition of the chapters entitled "Tishy Grendon," with all the pieces of the game on the table together and each unconfusedly and contributively placed, as triumphantly scientific.
Grendon expressed to their young friend a lingering wonder. "Do you mean you go in for the adoption ?" "Oh Tishy!" Nanda mildly murmured. Harold, however, had his own tact. "The dear man's taking her quite over? Not altogether unreservedly. I'm with the governor: I think we ought to GET something. 'Oh yes, dear man, but what do you GIVE us for her? that's what I should say to him.
Jane's hostess now spoke as simply as an earnest anxious child. She gave a vague patient sigh. "I suppose I must begin!" The Duchess remained for a little rather grimly silent. "How old is she twenty?" "Thirty!" said Mrs. Brookenham with distilled sweetness. Then with no transition of tone: "She has gone for a few days to Tishy Grendon." "In the country?"
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