If poison, then death would be but a matter of days; the bubble of Made-in-U.S.A. atmosphere that he'd brought thirty million miles across Space had supplied him for the nearly four months the Journey had taken. It had done its job, he could demand no more than that. Two weeks more, at best, and it would be spent forever.
Two weeks, thirty-five years, five thousand centuries—
He swung the outer air-lock open.
And breathed. And breathed. And breathed deeply again.
Joshua Thorn wanted to cry. There was a hurt in his throat, and he wanted to yell, and he wanted to laugh great peals of laughter even as the unchecked salt tears streamed across the deep valleys of his cheeks.
He walked, he ran. He stopped, he turned his face to the sky, he spread his arms wide and let the great bellows of laughter roll from his lips in the lusty prayer of thanks that only the living who are full with life and amid the teeming fullness of life can know.
Thank you, God. Thank you God. Thank you....
(For this little while more, for this little while more for the race of Man; I am the last of Man, You know—)
He prayed thank you, but he did not pray for more, because this was already more than he deserved; the Almighty had been merciful, compassionate and merciful, and he could not ask for more, in no way dared ask—
The thunder seemed straight above him.