Willy said with simple directness:
"If you want us, we'd like to go with you."
Of all the things that had happened to him in the last twenty-four hours, this took Walther most completely by surprise. He stared, speechless, from Willy to the musicians, most of them older men.
"These few came to me," Willy said. "They don't want to go back to our own music—Neither do I!" His voice broke, and he continued, pleading: "We can help bring your dream to life in the few years left to us."
Walther enveloped the old maestro in a bear-hug that crushed the breath out of him.
"Want you?" he cried. "Now, who's a fool?"
"You are," gasped Willy, "if you thought I'd leave part of my heart behind!"
Walther looked around quickly.
At the top of the shuttleship ramp stood a young woman with half a smile and half a question on her lips. There was doubt in that smile, and fear. There was loneliness and wonder, and hope. It was a promise and a warning of all that lay ahead for them, out there beyond the stars.
Humbly, more knowing that he had yet been in his short life, Walther held out his hands and walked up the ramp toward her—toward a dream that was over, and a reality that could be more bitter, more sweet, than any dream.