"My mind's made up," Rogers retorted. "I'm staying. In case you've forgotten, a captain is the last man to leave his ship. As for you three, fight it out among yourselves. Draw straws—anything. The consequences will be your worry."
"I'll stay," murmured Lejeune, lifting his bottle to his lips.
"You don't mean that," said the youthful Lane. "You want to go—we all want to go—but it can only be one of us."
He fell silent, placing his head in his hands. Rogers resumed his pacing.
The ship drifted on, slowly it seemed, ever nearing the solar furnace, falling toward the flames that were eager to dissolve the tiny cruiser locked in an unyielding gravitational pull.
"Soon," mused Lejeune. "Soon we'll be too close for the rocket capsule to break free of the sun's drag. Then there will be no doubt as to what will be done. Ha!"
"Damnation!" yelled Lane, jerking erect. "How can you be so confounded happy about it all? We're falling into the sun, man—doesn't that have any effect upon you?"
Lejeune shrugged. "Perhaps. We are falling into the sun, yes. We'll die, no doubt, so my future is definite. I know what is coming. Soon I shall be but a tiny spark, drifting nowhere in a big sun. Do I regret being a tiny spark? Not when I have my scotch with me."
"You're a smart guy," Lane thrust at him. "Maybe you can tell us how to choose the rocket capsule's passenger."
"Simple, my friend. The captain won't go—he must stay with the ship. I have no relatives, only my scotch, so I am satisfied. The doctor must stay—he's too fat to get in the capsule. M'sieu Lane, the honor is yours. Au revoir."