"But the broadcast, the commentary—"
Kellon said wearily, "Oh, for Christ's sake all of you shut up, and let the planet die in peace."
He turned his back on them. He did not hear their resentful voices, did not even hear when they fell silent and watched through the dark filter-windows as he was watching, as the camera and the galaxy was watching.
And what was there to see but a dark dot almost engulfed in the shining veils of the sun? He thought that already the stones of the old house must be beginning to vaporize. And now the veils of light and fire almost concealed the little planet, as the star gathered in its own.
All the atoms of old Earth, Kellon thought, in this moment bursting free to mingle with the solar being, all that had been Ross and Jennie, all that had been Shakespeare and Schubert, gay flowers and running streams, oceans and rocks and the wind of the air, received into the brightness that had given them life.
They watched in silence, but there was nothing more to see, nothing at all. Silently the camera was turned off.
Kellon gave an order, and presently the ship was pulling out of orbit, starting on the long voyage back. By that time the others had gone, all but Borrodale. He said to Borrodale, without turning,
"Now go ahead and send your complaint to headquarters."
Borrodale shook his head. "Silence can be the best requiem of all. There'll be no complaint. I'm glad now, Captain."