He looked away. He stared at the ceiling and the clock with the moving finger. "Yes. We'll grow old."
"What if we grow old—instantly. When we step from the ship won't the shock be too much?"
"Maybe."
Another silence. He began to move his limbs, testing them. He was very hungry. "The others are waiting," he said.
Her next words made him gasp. "The others are dead," she said. "Or will be in a few hours. All those we knew back there are old and worn."
He tried to picture them old. Dark, his sister, bent and senile with time. He shook his head, wiping the picture away. "They may die," he said. "But there are others who've been born."
"People we don't even know," said Lyte, flatly.
"But, nevertheless, our people," he replied. "People who'll live only eight days, or eleven days unless we help them."
"But we're young, Sim! We're young! We can stay young!"
He didn't want to listen. It was too tempting a thing to listen to. To stay here. To live. "We've already had more time than the others," he said. "I need workers. Men to heal this ship. We'll get on our feet now, you and I, and find food, eat, and see if the ship is movable. I'm afraid to try to move it myself. It's so big. I'll need help."