The group was marching swiftly through a dim tunnel, Captain Brady in the lead, the others trailing. They had been moving for an hour, in a labyrinth of passages through which the captain unerringly found his way. Now he looked back and remarked:
“That’s right. I know this maze pretty well, but Jacklyn knows it blindfolded. He’s practically a Copt himself. Hasn’t been above ground for fifty years.”
“You must like it here,” Jimmy remarked.
Jacklyn said, very softly, “It’s hell. You been in New York lately? Yeah? How does the old burg look now?”
“It’s changed in fifty years,” Phil said. “But you know that already.”
“Times Square, though—that’s there, eh? I remember I used to feel empty whenever I got out of the old town. God, I’d like to see it again—but not on a televisor. In fact,” he went on slowly, “I’d like to smell fresh air again. Not this artificial ventilation. See starlight and green growing things.”
“And the Sun,” Jimmy nodded understandingly. He glanced at Jacklyn—and then caught his breath at sight of the expression on the legionnaire’s pallid face. Horror—and hate!
It was gone immediately. Jacklyn ignored the remark. He said, “I was one of the first spacemen. There’ve been plenty of improvements since my time, what with liquid fuels instead of powder, and those new magnetic induced-gravity screens they’re working on. But it’s like shipping, I guess—steam or sail, it’ll never really change. There’ll be the sea under you, or space around you. We—”
“Sh-h!” Brady held up a warning finger. “Hold it!”
They paused, but no sound came. The captain relaxed.