"We'll know in the morning," Fomar said. "Let's get some sleep."
The sun came up chill and austere. The three people, two men and a woman, stepped through the port, dropping down on the hard ground below.
"What a day," Dorle said grumpily. "I said how glad I'd be to walk on firm ground again, but—"
"Come on," Nasha said. "Up beside me. I want to say something to you. Will you excuse us, Tance?"
Tance nodded gloomily. Dorle caught up with Nasha. They walked together, their metal shoes crunching the ground underfoot. Nasha glanced at him.
"Listen. The Captain is dying. No one knows except the two of us. By the end of the day-period of this planet he'll be dead. The shock did something to his heart. He was almost sixty, you know."
Dorle nodded. "That's bad. I have a great deal of respect for him. You will be captain in his place, of course. Since you're vice-captain now—"
"No. I prefer to see someone else lead, perhaps you or Fomar. I've been thinking over the situation and it seems to me that I should declare myself mated to one of you, whichever of you wants to be captain. Then I could devolve the responsibility."
"Well, I don't want to be captain. Let Fomar do it."