"Do you want her to die?"
"She was so old that she's probably dead by this time anyway. But listen, Captain, I—I'm not sure yet that this planet—"
Captain Torkel whirled frantically to Lieutenant Washington, kicked him lightly in the side. The lieutenant, apparently somewhat sobered by the cool air, rose shakily.
"Lieutenant, you remember the people of Earth. Can't you still see their faces in your mind?"
"The only face I remember," drawled Lieutenant Washington, "is my Mom's. A good face, with a lot of work in it, but thin around the lips and wrinkled around the eyes. It was a cold face, though. Mom was born in Louisiana and then moved up to Maine as a girl. Her bones weren't the kind to take those New England winters. So Mom slept, ate, lived and died cold. Been dead now for eight years, and I think she's still cold, even in her grave. I don't believe Mom'd mind one bit if the Earth burns up. She'd be warm then. I think she'd like it."
"That's not the point," said Captain Torkel angrily. "The point is—"
Fox broke in: "What do you remember, Captain?"
Captain Torkel swallowed hard. "Me? Why, I remember, I—" His mouth remaining open, he scratched the back of his neck. His memories suddenly vanished like puffs of smoke.
"Just like the rest of us!" burst Garcia, triumphantly.