Into the Sun

There's nothing like having a good quart of scotch with you when you're falling into the sun, said Lejeune. Won't you join me, gentlemen?
Listen to him, sputtered Geitz. He's enjoying this. He likes being cooked in a cubby-holed space ship; he likes to sit here day after day while the floor beneath him is burning his shoes.
Lejeune, the wiry French biologist, lowered the half-empty bottle from his lips and scowled at the ship's doctor. But not for long, my dear Geitz, not for long. Our fate lies within a few hours. The ship will be drawn closer and closer to the sun. The heat will become unbearable. Then—pffffft!—the ship will be a little spark—
You're a pain, growled Captain Rogers.
Lejeune raised his eyebrows quizzically and grinned. He said nothing, walked to a bunk, and sat down beside Lane, the pilot.
The silence continued for some time, broken only by the footfalls of Captain Rogers in his nervous pacing. There was nothing to do but wait. The four of them knew that. The ship couldn't hold out much longer; it would burst under the terrific strain, would be reduced instantly to a cinder by the sun's blistering heat.
They were trapped, falling into the sun inevitably.
One meteorite, said Lejeune casually, one hurtling fragment of some interstellar gadabout which chose to cross our path at the wrong time. That's all it took to smash our jets and send the four of us toward that fiery mass.
Shut up! snapped Rogers. It's bad enough without your moaning!
Oblivious to the captain's words, Lejeune patted his bottle affectionately.
In the name of heaven! growled Geitz, leaping to his feet. Why do we sit here like a lot of mummies? There's a rocket capsule aboard, you say, with sufficient power to carry one of us to Mercury. Why don't we use it? I ask you, Rogers.
You answered that yourself, the captain said bluntly. True, that rocket capsule can carry one of us to Mercury. Just one, understand—there's room for but one person in a capsule. I ask you—which one of us would that be?