“Nothing,” said Cimon.
“Looks good to me,” said the other man in the lounge. He was Groot Knoevenaagle—physician—short, plump, and known to man by no name other than Novee.
He went on to ask, “Where’s Junior?” then bent over Cimon’s shoulder, peering out of slightly myopic eyes.
Cimon looked up and shuddered, “It’s name is not Junior. You can’t see the planet, Troas, if that’s what you mean, in this wilderness of stars. This picture is Scientific Earthman material. It isn’t particularly useful.”
“Oh, Space and back!” Novee was disappointed.
“What difference is it to you, anyway?” demanded Cimon. “Suppose I said one of those dots was Troas—any one of them. You wouldn’t know the difference and what good would it do you?”
“Now wait, Cimon. Don’t be so superior. It’s legitimate sentiment. We’ll be living on Junior for a while. For all we know, we’ll be dying on it.”
“There’s no audience, Novee, no orchestra, no mikes, no trumpets, so why be dramatic. We won’t be dying on it. If we do, it’ll be our own fault, and probably as a result of overeating.” He said it with the peculiar emphasis men of small appetite use when speaking to men of hearty appetite, as though a poor digestion was something that came only of rigid virtue and superior intellect.
“A thousand people did die,” said Novee, softly.
“Sure. About a billion men a day die all over the galaxy.”