"Try the atmospheric recorder," said Emerson. "If the air's okay, I'd like to stretch my own legs."
Nichols twisted chrome wheels, staring at a red line that wavered on a plastic screen, then straightened abruptly, rigid.
"Hey," yelled Nichols excitedly. "It's pure. I mean actually pure. No germs. No dust. Just clean air!"
Emerson leaped to his side, staring, frowning.
"No germs. No dust. Why—that means there's no disease in this place! No disease."
He began to laugh, then caught himself.
"No disease," he whispered, "and every one of us is going to die of cancer."
Mussdorf came up through the trap and passed out the sun-blasters. They buckled them around their waists while Mussdorf swung the bolts of the door. He threw it open, and clean air, and faint tendrils of whitish mist came swirling into the ship.
Nichols took a deep breath and his boyish face split with a grin.
"I feel like a kid again on a Spring day back on Earth. You know, with a ball and a glove under your arm, with the sun beating down on you, swinging a bat and whistling. You felt good. You were young. Young! I feel like that now."