shion, the pants
narrow at the cuff where today's were bell-bottomed. She must have been
out here a while; not more than thirty years, though. She did not look
more than twenty-five now, and the normal life span was a hundred
and ten.... Pink snapped his queer thoughts sharply into line. What did
her age matter to him?

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?"

"I'm Joe Silver," said that young upstart over Pinkham's shoulder.

"Nobody asked you," said Daley. They had left the screen, all but Jerry,
who was making course for the second speck of life in the asteroid belt.

"This is the _Elephant's Child_, flagship of Armada Seven, 843 days out
of Terra to explore star systems 87 through 93," said Pink quietly. "We
just plucked you off an asteroid in System Ninety. This is--" _take it
easy_, he said to himself this time, "this is October 18th, 2176."

"Holy Holmendis," said the girl, turning a little pale. "Our ship split
up her seams in November of 2158."

Daley, the oldest of the lot at thirty-six, and the coolest spacehead of
them all, said, "May I introduce Captain John Pinkham, our leader?"
Formalities eased a