Claude Marshall smiled. "No, Billy. This is as far as we're going—as far as anyone's going."
"But he said—"
"He was only joking, Billy. Maybe someday people will be going to those places, but not now." He glanced at his wife, sitting with her hands folded in her lap.... "I'm glad it's over, Joan," he said. "It's been a long trip—a very long trip."
The woman nodded. She had dark hair, and blue eyes, and minute lines of maturity around her eyes and mouth that seemed to soften, rather than age her. She looked almost too young to have mothered a nine-year-old boy—but of course that was one of the requirements.
"Is this where we're going to live?" the boy asked.
Claude looked out the port. "Yes, Billy. This is where we're going to live."
"Why?"
"I've already told you why. Don't you remember when I showed you the pictures, and asked you how you'd like to live where you'd have lots of room to play, and wouldn't have to worry about the bombs or anything?"
"Sure, Pop," the boy said. "I remember. But tell me about it again?"
Claude looked at his wife; watched her nod, and answer his smile. "All right," he said. He raised his arm over the foam-cushion seat-back till it rested on the boy's shoulder.