She was limp in his arms, as relaxed as a sleeping kitten. Her eyes, deep brown, were open but heavy-lidded. He half-knelt, cradling her comfortably, as Jerry anticipated his question and said, "She's okay. She'll be out of it in a few minutes. She's still living slower than we are."
Joe Silver, unaccountably across the room by the life-scanner, said, "Hey! There's another one!"
"Another what?" asked his senior lieutenant, Daley.
"Another fellow—or girl—in a Slugjet. Down that direction a few thousand miles."
As all of them but Pink raced to the screen, the girl began to sing, softly, musically, and very slowly.
"I am sick of this bucketing Lunar run
In this dirty old steel cocoon;
I'm sick of the Earth and I'm sick of the Sun
And I'm sick to death of the Moon...."
That was—what was the name?—the Lament of the Veteran Rocketeer, a ballad that Pink had been singing in his grade school days. He hadn't heard it for more than a dozen years. Probably popular when this gal blasted off Terra.
She stopped singing. "'Bout time you got here," she said drowsily. "I've been waiting for months. Didn't Fawcett's crest radio reach you?"
"Take it easy," said Pink, and told himself that was a stupid thing to say. "Who are you? What was your expedition?"
She blinked. "You aren't Commander Dyevis, are you? Who are you?"