Sam snatched back the bottle. "No!" His weak old eyes showed traces of fire. "No. Old Sam's—"
"Sam," Johnny Nine said gently, "we're almost Home, Sam, almost Home."
Sam laughed bitterly. He shook his head. "No, Johnny. Can't fool old Sam. 'Course folks say we are. But I know. Old Sam knows. I'll be drinkin' this any day now."
"Sam, listen. In four—" He bit his tongue before he could say 'months'. That superstition. "In a little while, we'll be Home. It's true, Sam, I wouldn't lie."
Sam's eyes brightened. "You ain't foolin' me?"
"No, Sam."
Sam seemed to relax. "Home," he said. "You know, Johnny, lately I've been dreamin' of Home. Now you say we're almost there.... You know, I remember, when old John Turner—I guess you don't remember old John—before your time—when old John, well, he told Molly Dawn (she was his partner), he said, 'Molly, it sure looks like the only way we can get Home is live as long an' as useful a life as Sam. Because Sam is just too stubborn to grow old like the rest of us.' Yes, sir, that's just what he said: 'Old Sam is too downright stubborn to grow old like the rest of us.'"
Sam slapped his knee. "Now don't that beat all? 'Too stubborn,' he says."
Sam leaned back against a row of crates. His eyes glistened in the light. Then the excitement died from them.