The audience had clapped and cheered for so long that Peter had felt obliged to play all three of the encores he had prepared. His manager had been almost delirious with happiness as he'd thought of the publicity that would precede the rest of the tour. Peter was now officially The Best. There was no comparison with anyone else on the globe. Peter Wells was the most incredible violinist who had ever lived. That was the verdict of the select audience of the Opera House, Munich, where his first world tour had opened.

In the early hours of the morning Peter finally had his dressing room to himself. Even his manager was out for a few minutes, organising transport back to their hotel.

Peter sank down onto the cot in the corner, exhausted. There were a full forty-nine other concerts ahead of him, plus rehearsals and informal recitals, and on top of that, of course, all the inevitable dinners and the less formal gatherings. He had no idea how he was going to face them

He shuddered at the recollection of the applause that had shaken the theatre as he'd finished playing the Bruch concerto. And then the thunder at the end of the Mendelssohn! The standing ovation had gone on for ten minutes after his third encore... Yet he knew that he hadn't been playing his best. What would the crowds in Vienna, Paris, New York, Bombay, Sydney, and all those other places be expecting once they had read the critics' paeans of praise in tomorrow's papers or once they'd seen the replays on CNN?

The first concert -- and already he was feeling the utter weariness his doctor had warned him would gradually get worse over time. He had not said a word about that doctor's visit, and its subsequent battery of tests, to Martin Scott. He had taken advantage of his manager's quick pre-tour vacation to get checked out and what he had found out had so horrified him that he dared not tell Martin about it. He hoped he would be able to finish the tour -- then he would probably have to face putting his violin away in its case for the last time.

He lay on the cot, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Already he could no longer play as well as had been able to only a week before. He himself knew it. Yet this audience, normally so musically discerning, had not noticed! How long would it be before the difference became noticeable to such finely attuned ears? Hopefully not until he had completed the tour!

There was a light knock at the door. It wouldn't be Martin. His manager always knocked firmly and promptly walked in without waiting for an invitation. This knock was almost tentative, as if the caller were not sure he should even be knocking. Or she. Maybe it was a female visitor. He certainly had plenty of them after every concert. Martin had once said disgustedly that it was his looks the women were after, not his music. Peter had replied hotly that he hadn't chosen his looks, and that if he, Martin, was jealous it wasn't his fault. Peter himself was not all that thrilled by his fans, but he tried to be nice to them. After all, they made it possible for him to live.

"Come in," he said, trying to sound cheerful.

The door opened and a balding, elderly man poked his head around it and looked around the small room. Catching sight of Peter, who was still lying down, he smiled broadly, came in, and closed the door. He was dressed in an evening suit which to Peter looked brand new, and was holding a small, slim briefcase.

"Good evening, Mr. Wells," he said, holding his briefcase in both hands and bowing slightly, "I hope I'm not disturbing you?"

"Not at all," Peter replied, smiling back, "I was just resting. You don't mind, do you, if I stay lying down? The first concert of a tour always wipes me out."

"No, no, of course I don't mind," the man assured him warmly, "I'm not surprised that you should be quite worn out after your performance. A brilliant performance, I might add. Marvelous! Thank you so much!"

"It's a pleasure," Peter said, "And I mean that. I love playing."

"That is obvious as soon as you put the violin to your chin," the man said. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Please do," Peter answered, "How can I help you?"

"Oh, I came to see if I can help you," the man said as he pulled over the chair from the dressing table. "With your condition I should imagine that you must be wondering if you'll make it to the end of this world tour of yours. This was only the first concert, after all."

Peter, completely taken by surprise, stared at him. Slowly he raised himself, and sat up on the edge of the cot, facing his visitor. "What condition are you referring to?" he asked warily.

"You know as well as I do," the man replied quietly, "I am the pathologist who organised all your blood tests."

"But how can you know they were my tests? You must do thousands of them every day."

"Oh, now and then I do notice the name of the patient, you know. And this patient had a very well-known name, to a lover of beautiful music, anyway. Your name. I made some discreet enquiries about any other tests that might have been carried out. And I read your folder. I learnt what the diagnosis had been."

"I see. So you decided to come and see me. You came all the way to Munich to see me!"

"To see you and to hear you! I have a good friend here. He is a surgeon and a professor at the University. I asked him to get tickets for your concert, and he managed to find two people who were willing to sell him theirs. And here I am."

"But you travelled all the way from Melbourne?" Peter asked incredulously.

"It was very convenient that there was an international conference in pathology in Berlin last week," the man replied, smiling modestly, "My department sent me as their delegate. It was easy enough to convince them to let me take my annual leave at the same time. You know -- one can't go all the way to Europe and not do some sightseeing!"

Peter grinned. "Have you done any?" he asked.

"A little," the man laughed, "We -- my wife and I -- had a quick look around in Berlin and here in Munich. But that was not the reason for my wanting some extra time, really. I've already told you the real reason."

Peter considered him thoughtfully. Why should this man be so concerned about him that he would go to such lengths to try and help him? Was he after money? Reflected glory?

"Why have you come?" he asked meaningfully, "Tell me the real reason."

"Because I would like to try and help you," the man answered, shrugging and spreading his hands, "You need it."

"I can afford the best specialists in the world," Peter pointed out.

"I know that. But I don't think you will find help there," the man said.

"Why do you say that?"

"They're not people who would be willing to stake their careers on the possibility of helping one lone man. Even if he does happen to be the best violinist in the world. You see, it's such a very remote possibility. Chances of success are virtually nil, as far as anyone knows. I am a pathologist and a pharmacist. I happen also to have done postgraduate studies and research in neurology. My wife is a nurse and physiotherapist. I can't promise anything except that we'll do what we can. And we'll stay with you."

"You're willing to stake your career?"

"Yes, if you'll let me."

"How do I know that you're not just trying to get some publicity for yourself?"

"Oh, I hope I don't get any publicity!" the man exclaimed. He seemed genuinely horrified. "I certainly hope that I can remain incognito! I don't want my name in print or on TV or anything like that! You are the one who is famous. I have no desire whatsoever to be famous! No, thank you!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-- to--"

"That's all right. It's a legitimate thing to consider. I suppose all celebrities come across people who want to share their glory."

Peter gazed at him for some moments, wondering what it was about this stranger that appealed to him. There was something about him that convinced Peter that he was trustworthy. He certainly seemed genuine.

"May I tell you something?" he asked the man at last.

"What?"

"I hate being glorified. I wish I could play my music, fill people's hearts with its beauty, and send them home to dream about it, to marvel that there are people who can compose such wonderful music, without any reference being made, ever, to my name or to myself. If it were up to me, I would play in such a way that no-one would know who is playing. But my manager has to live, too, and so do all the people who are involved in my concerts. So I try to be patient and not worry about the acclaim. It means all those people can make a living, after all."

"As can those to whom you pass on most of your earnings, eh?" the man said, smiling warmly.

Peter reddened. "What do you know about that?"

"Well, I am one of the recipients..."

"One of the recipients? How?"

"Your name is on the special pathology fund at the hospital."

"Oh. You mean they put my name on it?"

"Of course."

"But I asked them not to."

"Did you get them to sign a promise?"

"No. I took their word for it that they wouldn't use my name."

"Next time, get them to put it in writing. The temptation to name-drop is too great for most folks to resist."

A loud knock on the door announced the return of Martin Scott, who came into the room in his usual rush. He was not a big man -- in fact he was shorter than Peter -- but his former wrestler's muscles strained the seams of his dinner jacket and gave an impression of barely contained energy.

He was about to say something when he noticed Peter's visitor. "Ah, uh, good evening, I mean, good morning," he said hurriedly to the man, sizing him up in one glance as probably harmless. Turning to Peter, he added, "Sorry, didn't know you had a visitor. The car's all ready, though, and you need to get some sleep. Tomorrow's another big day."

"We can go in a minute, Martin," Peter said, "May I introduce Doctor-- Uh, Doctor-- I'm sorry, Doctor, I don't know your name..."

"Oh, of course you don't," the man smiled, "I haven't told you my name!"

"So who are you?" the manager asked, his suspicions aroused despite his earlier conclusion, "You've left it a bit late to come and visit, you know. It's two in the morning!"

"I wanted to wait until Mr. Wells was quite alone. My business with him was of a private nature."

Peter repeated his statement. "I still don't know your name."

The man turned to him seriously. "Can you promise complete secrecy? Can your manager here promise it? I told you, I do not want any publicity whatsoever, as much for your sake as for my own."

"What's this all about?" Martin asked.

"It's a long story, Martin," Peter said wearily, "How about we go back to the hotel and talk about it there? I could use a post-midnight snack and some hot cocoa."

"Do I understand that this bloke comes with us?" the manager asked, looking at the visitor dubiously.

"I have a rented car. I can drive over myself," the doctor replied, "Which hotel are you in?"

"The 'Empire'. Room 25, the 'Prince's Suite'," Peter said.

"Wait a minute!" Martin exclaimed, "How do we know this fellow's not up to some mischief? You can't just give out your room number like that to every Tom, D--"

"I don't," Peter said quietly, "and 'this fellow', as you call him, is fair dinkum. I have reasons for believing him which I will tell you about later. Besides, where I'm staying is hardly a secret."

"Well, get your gear and let's go, then," Scott said, beginning to collect some of Peter's things together.

Peter got up and walked over to the dressing table on which his violin case lay open. He gazed a moment at the instrument lying in it, the magnificent Guarneri that another world-renowned violinist, now deceased, had handed to him at the end of his very first public performance, like a runner passing on the baton. It looks like a body lying in state, he thought morbidly, which is what it will be, at the end of this tour, unless I find someone else to pass it on to... He checked again that the bow was loosened, then closed the case and locked it.

"Okay," he said, "That's it. Let's go."

"My wife is waiting by the exit," the doctor said, "May she come along too?"

"Of course," Peter said. He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Martin opened his mouth to say something then apparently changed his mind and closed it, shrugging. He turned to his manager and patted his shoulder. "You'll understand shortly, Martin," he said softly, "Be patient."

As they came out of the stage door the visitor and his wife, who had been introduced namelessly, started off towards the street.

"We'll see you at the hotel," the man said, "My car's parked out on the street."

"Fine," Peter said, but Martin just growled.

"All right, then," Martin said as all four finally sat in the lounge of Peter's suite and tucked into the spread provided by Room Service, "Let's have it, now. What's this all about? Some sort of a joke?"

Peter appeared to examine the sandwich he had just bitten into as he chewed, swallowed, and then sighed deeply. "Martin," he said slowly, "Prepare yourself for a bit of a shock."

"Eh?" Martin said, aware that none of the three were smiling.

"Remember you went off for a couple of weeks' rest," Peter said, still slowly, "just before we left Australia for this tour?"

"Yeah, of course I remember!" Martin exclaimed, "I only got back from that four days ago, after all!"

"Well, while you were away..." Peter looked at his manager apologetically. "Uh, I didn't tell you about it because I didn't want to worry you," he said, then went on. "While you were away I had a few days in hospital. Quietly. Sam--" He glanced at the doctor and explained, "Sam's my agent," and turned back to his manager. "Sam told the press I'd gone on holiday too..."

Martin gaped at him. "You were in hospital? Just before a world tour? Whatever for? You weren't sick, as far as I know! Did you have an accident? No, that would have been all over the media, if you'd had an accident... What on earth were you in hospital for?"

"For tests."

"Tests? Tests?" Martin jumped up from his seat and strode back and forth between his chair and the window, bits of his sandwich flying off unnoticed in various directions as he threw his arms about. "You went to have tests?" he fairly bellowed.

Peter got up and took his arm. "Calm down -- it's three o'clock in the morning. You don't want to wake the whole place up, do you?"

Martin stared at him a moment, reddened, and returned to his seat, and Peter went back to his. "All right, I've calmed down," the manager said, "Now tell me what's going on."

"That's what I was trying to do," Peter said, and glanced at the doctor and his wife, who hadn't moved at all. "I'm sorry," he said to them, "but I hadn't told Martin about this."

"So I gather," the doctor replied, half smiling, "I understand."

"All right," Peter said, turning back to his manager, "The day after you left, I had a little adventure which prompted me to head straight to my doctor's office, and which prompted him to send me to hospital there and then, no time even to collect my toothbrush. I rang Sam and told him I'd just decided to have a little holiday of my own, and would he please look after my violin until I came back."

"I can imagine Sam was quite calm about it..."

"No, he was furious. But never mind, I couldn't let on what the truth was."

"So what was this little adventure?"

"The day you left, in the evening, that is, I had a hot bath. When I got out of the bath I found that one of my legs wasn't working properly. I had trouble standing. And then I blacked out. When I regained consciousness I seemed to be all right, but I was scared, I tell you. I got dressed and I went straight over to see Dr. James. He packed me off to hospital for tests. I was in there four days."

"What did the tests show?"

"I have multiple sclerosis."

Again Martin gaped at him. Recovering himself, he echoed dully, slowly, "Multiple sclerosis?" He stared incredulously at his client, who also just happened to be his closest friend. Again he repeated, "Multiple sclerosis?" He took a deep breath. "I wouldn't have thought it was so urgent as to put you into hospital without warning like that, then."

"It wasn't just that one episode Dr. James was going on," Peter explained, "When I described it to him, he gave me a check-up, and said he'd order some blood tests. And then he thought for a bit, and suddenly he asked me if anything else unusual had happened over the last few weeks. Anything at all, he said, even just spots before my eyes for a second. I sat there thinking hard about everything that had happened during our New Zealand tour..."

"And did you recall anything?" Martin asked dubiously.

"Some forty incidents," Peter said softly, "that by themselves seemed insignificant, even if unusual. He wrote them all down as I told him. And then he said he was sending me to hospital for tests. Just like that!"

"Did you ask him why?"

"Of course I asked him why! Do you think I enjoy being packed off to hospital suddenly like that when I didn't even feel sick?!"

"So what did he say?"

"Said he had a feeling something was definitely wrong with me, that he wanted to find out right away what it was, that he knew I had a world tour coming up, and the sooner the tests were done the better."

"So who told you the news?"

"He did. Dr. James."

"Sworn to secrecy?"

"He's the most tight-lipped bloke I've ever come across--" Peter stopped, looked at the pathologist and grinned. "No, I take that back. I've now met two like him. We still don't know your name, Doctor." He turned back to Martin. "Well, anyway, there's no way he was going to tell anyone but me. He knows how the media would go wild with it. He remembered Jacqueline Dupré. He knows I can't afford to let it out until I can't avoid its being obvious."

"Multiple sclerosis..." Martin said softly, "How could you keep quiet about it, Pete? Why didn't you tell me? Have you even told your parents?"

"I've told no-one, Martin. I couldn't tell you because you weren't there, and even when you got back, I didn't want to risk spoiling the tour for you... My parents don't know, and they won't know until the tour's over. If we finish the tour, that is."

"But, my goodness! A violinist can't afford to get MS! How long before you can't play anymore?"

"I don't know, but Dr. James and the neurologist -- I forget his name -- weren't exactly optimistic. Do you remember when I dropped my bow suddenly that time, in the middle of the Beethoven?"

"Yeah. Just as well it was only a rehearsal!"

"I had a great deal of trouble finishing the piece, if you recall. Do you want to know why?"

"Why?"

"I couldn't feel the violin. I couldn't feel where to place my fingers. I was going by sight..."

"Oh, God..." The manager covered his face with his hands a moment, then looked at his friend again. "It's like a death sentence, almost," he said, "How do you feel about it, Pete?"

"Devastated," Peter replied, almost in a whisper, "Sort of like the world's coming to an end."

"Which it might as well be doing, for you. A professional violinist with MS! The world's most incredible virtuoso violinist with MS! How cruel can nature get?"

"Nature's cruelty has little to do with it." The pathologist broke his silence quietly. "Nature does not think or feel or show cruelty. It just is. Disease of any sort just happens to be part of it, because of the Fall."

Peter gave him a bewildered look.

"What do you mean?" Martin asked with a hint of annoyance.

"I'll be more explicit," the doctor said, "This is as good a time as any. Do either of you know God?"

"God?" Martin said blankly.

"Do you mean do we believe in God?" Peter asked.

"No, I mean do you know Him?"

"Uh, no, I guess not," Peter said, confused by the turn in the conversation, "Do you?"

"Yes, I do," the doctor replied, "and so does my wife. Would you allow us to talk to you about Him?"

"Wait a minute!" Martin said impatiently, "What does this have to do with Pete's illness?"

"Everything," the doctor's wife said, speaking for the first time since her husband had introduced her to them, "God has allowed it to happen to Peter, after all, knowing full well what it would mean to his career."

"Well, but I did read that sometimes it just goes away by itself..." Peter said hopefully.

"Don't clutch at non-existent straws," the man said almost angrily, "You know what Dr. James told you."

"Uh, yeah, I guess I do..." Peter replied, looking lost.

"What did he tell you?" Martin asked quickly.

"Uh, I'll tell you later," Peter said, "Let's hear what-- Uh, do you think you could possibly tell us your name now, Doctor?"

"Will you -- both of you -- promise not to tell anyone about me?" the pathologist asked.

"Yes, of course," Peter said.

"Hang on!" Martin said hurriedly, "Why should it be a secret?"

"He doesn't want any publi--" Peter started to explain.

"We'd rather not be identified to any members of the press or other media," the doctor said, interrupting him, "as much for Peter's sake as for our own. At least while this world tour is on. After that, it won't matter so much if someone lets it slip, but we'd rather it didn't happen even then. We just want to help. We want none of the spotlight."

"What's in it for you, then?" Martin asked suspiciously, "Is someone paying you?"

"No. There's nothing in it for us, and nobody's paying us. In fact, you're the only ones besides us who know what we're up to. And God, of course."

"Yes, God," Peter said, "You were talking about Him..."

"Before we go on with that," the doctor said, "my name is Edmund Page, and this is my wife Cheryl."

"Edmund Page!" Martin exclaimed, "Are you--"

"Yes, I am."

"Is he who?" Peter asked, looking in confusion from one man to the other.

"He is Dr. Edmund Page, the man who has made the greatest advances into the causes and treatment of MS," Martin said, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness, "Probably the most famous pathologist and neurologist in the world! That's all!"

Peter stared at the doctor open-mouthed. "Is he right?" he asked at last, softly, "Is Martin right?"

"He's right," the man replied simply.

"B-But then, how can we keep it a secret? If everybody knows who you are?" Peter asked.

"Did you know?" Cheryl put in gently.

Peter turned to her and saw her properly for the first time since meeting her. Her evening dress was simple and modest but becoming; her dark grey hair was lightly permed and framed a round face with wide-set dark brown eyes; the many wrinkles on her smiling face were untouched by make-up. Peter had thought, without knowing anything about them, how well suited to each other the doctor and his wife seemed to be. He had noticed little gestures, smiles, looks, going between them. If I ever get married, he had thought, I hope it will be as happily as they are. And then he'd caught himself. I'll never get married now. No girl would have me...

"Well, no, I didn't know," Peter replied, "I don't keep track of the medical world. I don't have time..."

"Six hours of practice every day doesn't leave stacks of time for keeping track of much else," Martin explained, "Especially when you add the social functions, the rehearsals, the press conferences..."

"Not to mention travelling, eating, and sleeping," Dr. Page added helpfully.

"That, too," the manager agreed.

Peter had not forgotten the topic the pathologist and his wife had introduced earlier. "Could we go back to talking about God?" he asked, "We can address you by name, now, anyway."

"What do you know about God?" Dr. Page asked.

"Uh, that He is, uh..." Peter began, and looked confused again, "Well, I don't know, actually. I don't know if I know anything about Him, really. I'd never given it much thought..."

"You hear God mentioned all the time," Martin said uncomfortably, "But nobody talks about Him except in church, as far as I know."

"Hmmm. All right, then," Dr. Page said, "Let's say you know nothing about Him. We'll start by telling you that God is. God exists. Unlike everything else in the universe, He has always existed, and also unlike anything else, He will always exist. He's the one who made everything that exists in this universe, from the tiniest particle of matter to the hugest galaxy. This tells you right away that He's able to do anything He wants. Thus, He knows about every particle of matter in the universe, every single one, and He knows every hair on your heads. He knows what happened in the past, every single nanosecond of it, and He knows what will happen in the future, because He isn't bound by time like we are. He can see the beginning and the end of time and everything in between."

Martin had crossed his arms and his legs and had on his best skeptical look. Peter was leaning his elbows on the table, his head on his hands, listening attentively.

"You can expect," Cheryl said, "that such a God must be so different from His creation that He's more special than we can possibly imagine. This is why He's referred to as 'holy', or 'separate'. God is also good, completely good, no evil in Him whatsoever."

"Yes, I think He could only be good, being so completely other," Peter mused out loud, "Everywhere you look, down here, no matter how good something is, there's always some bad with it."

Martin gave him an odd look.

Dr. Page took over from his wife. "God made everything, and that includes human beings--"

"So why is there so much badness, I mean evil, in the world, then, if God is only good?" Martin interrupted peevishly.

"Because God, being good, allowed the masterpiece of His creation -- human beings -- freedom of choice. He allowed them to choose whether they would obey Him or not. And we chose to disobey. So He had to punish us."

"How can we choose to disobey Someone we don't even know?"

"Do you know why you don't know Him?" Dr. Page replied.

"He's never shown Himself," Martin said.

"Hasn't He, though?" the pathologist said gently, "Have you never looked at the night sky? Have you never seen a bird fly? Have you never read about how the human eye works?"

Martin shifted uncomfortably on his chair and glanced at Peter. The violinist's head was cradled on his arms on the table. He was fast asleep.

"Uh, I think we ought to get this fellow to bed, don't you?" Martin said hesitantly to Dr. Page.

The doctor smiled and got up. "You and I can get him onto his bed," he said.

The two men helped Peter up and walked him over to the bedroom. The violinist was so worn out that he didn't even wake up.

"It's getting late," Martin said, looking at his watch as they came back into the sitting room, "Perhaps you ought to get back to your hotel and get some sleep..."

"It's early," the doctor corrected, with a laugh, "and I would rather not leave until I finish telling you about God, Martin. Unless, of course, you insist that I do..."

Martin walked over to the window without answering. He closed the curtains which were still open despite the hour of the night, then having run out of things to do to avoid answering, he turned back to the doctor. He sighed. "Okay, then. Tell me all you have to say..."

Dr. Page walked over to him and handed him a small, thick book. "Have you ever read this?" he asked.

Martin turned the Bible over and over in his hands, flicked the pages back and forth, then looked up at him. "Yeah, I have," he said softly, "Years ago..."

"Then you know, don't you?"

"Yeah, I do."

He went to sit in one of the armchairs and leant over, his elbows on his knees, and flipped through the pages of the book. Finally he seemed to find what he had been looking for, and he read it out. "'Since the beginning of the world God's characteristics, though invisible, have been clearly discernible -- His everlasting might and His divinity. They are obvious from all He has made. People's excuses cannot stand.'"

"Why did you turn from Him?" Cheryl asked quietly.

"I wanted to do my own thing..." Martin said, shrugging.

He sighed deeply. He thought about his friend lying in the bedroom, about the world tour just begun, about the wrestling trophies lining a wall of his flat back in Melbourne, about his savings account and his stocks and shares, about his failed marriage that couldn't withstand the strain of his ambitions...

"What should I do now, then?" he asked the doctor.

"God has shown a way out -- the only Way out," Dr. Page answered, "Do you know what that is?"

"Yeah," Martin sighed, "I know. Jesus Christ. He is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No one can get to God other than by Jesus Christ..."

"How is it that you know this so well?" Cheryl asked, "Why didn't you turn to Jesus if you knew about Him?"

"I wanted to do my own thing. I told you. I learned all about it in Sunday school, and in Youth League, of course. But I was also wrestling champion at school -- a Christian school, too, I'll have you know. That was more important. And then other things became more important once my wrestling days came to an end after I was badly injured."

"Do you want to change that?"

"Change what?"

"What's important."

Martin didn't answer but stared at the bedroom door. He thought of tomorrow's concert, of the forty-eight concerts after that... At what point would Peter's illness make its presence public? How could he possibly help Peter when that happened? He had nothing to stand on, no assurance that good could come out of it... He couldn't offer Peter a hope that he himself didn't have.

"There's no hope..." he muttered.

"What did you say?" Dr. Page asked.

"The only hope is to turn to God," Martin said, half to himself, "and the only way to turn to God is by Jesus Christ, because He, though He is God, took on a human body, died for us, and rose again from death, so that those who put their trust in Him might be reconciled to God and have eternal life... It all comes back, doesn't it?"

He got up again and went over to the table, poured himself a glass of water, and drank half of it slowly. Then he turned to the doctor and his wife.

"There is really only one choice that makes any sense, isn't there?" he said, "I should have made it years ago. Do you think it's too late for me?"

"It's never too late," Dr. Page said, "as long as you can still hear Him calling you."

"Yes, that's it," Martin said, "He's calling me. I understand that now. That's why you're here, isn't it? This, and to help Peter?"

"We didn't know it when we came, you know," Cheryl said, "We thought we were coming here just for Peter..."

"We knew we were coming for Peter -- we felt it was God Himself who set us this, uh, this mission, if you will. Well, we're still here to help him, but it looks like we had to be here for you first."