The reality was here, just beyond the walls, where Neptune hung ashen above glittering snow that was not snow, where a thin poisonous wind whimpered between barren snags, where the dark and the cold flowed triumphantly close. The reality would be a block of solid gas, a hundred human corpses locked in it like flies in amber, it would be death and the end of all things.
He spoke slowly, through numbed lips: "Why has man always supposed that God cared?"
"We don't know if He does or not," said Catherine. "But man cares, isn't that enough?"
"Not when the next nearest man is so far away," said Alemán, trying to smile. "I will believe in God; man is too small."
Danton turned around again. "Then why won't He help us now?" he cried. "Why won't He at least save the children?"
"I said God cared," answered Alemán quietly, "not that He will do our work for us."
"Stow the theology, you two," said Catherine. "We're going to pieces in here. Can't somebody start a song?"
Alemán nodded. "Who has a guitar?" When there was no response, he began singing a capella:
"La cucaracha, la cucaracha,
Ya no quiere caminar—"