Some books lay in front of him. “Come here, Kern,” he called. “Evening is approaching, the time when beasts seek solitude and man looks for company. How are you making out with your permit?” “It’s still good for a week.” Kern sat down beside him. “A week in prison is a long time; a week of freedom is short.” Marill tapped the books in front of him. “Exile is educational! At my advanced age I’m learning French and English.” “There are times when I can’t stand the word ‘exile,’ ” Kern said morosely. Marill laughed. “Nonsense! You’re in the best of company. Dante was an exile. Schiller had to leave his country. Heine. Victor Hugo. Those are just a few. Look up there at pale Brother Moon—an exile from the earth. And Mother Earth herself—an old emigree from the sun.” He squinted. “Of course it might have been better if that particular migration had never taken place and we were still roaring around as fiery gases. Or as sun spots. Don’t you agree?”
