Johnny Nine bent forward. "I guess he means we'll get a pilot ship inside the orbit of Mars. They'll probably set us around Earth. We've got too much bulk to land."
"They'll probably ferry us down in one of their best ships," the Mate said; there was a weariness and an undefined, non-directional bitterness in his voice. A germ of thought lay buried beneath the words, a half-formed memory concept: Ferry us down like they ferried our ancestors up—four hundred years ago—to the Leviathan—built in space—too big ever to land.
The voice from Earth sighed out of the speaker; only the sputter of static remained. Earth was awaiting, now, the reply.
The Mate snapped off the speaker. The new silence was stark, as if something other than sound had been withdrawn.
The Captain rubbed the back of his left hand with the palm of his right.
None of them could quite find words for their thoughts.
It was the Captain, finally, who spoke.
"I guess—there isn't much to tell them, is there?"
The Captain turned his swivel chair until it faced the broad Observation window; through it he could see out into the inconceivable depths of star-clustered space.
"I've been thinking," he mused, half to himself. "Thinking a lot, lately." He rubbed his forehead. "About the Ship ... I've lived here a long time—my whole life. That's a long time. I was wondering how it would seem not to live here anymore."