"Fine. Brief ceremony planned. To be broadcast to the three planets. At conclusion of it, we will send yur pilot to you. He will move yur Ship into an orbit around Earth, and you can be taken down within three days. That will be the fastest course, and we know all of you are anxious to land at the first possible moment." Johnny Nine started for the door. "Wait!" the Captain ordered. "I'll tell the passengers. You get ready to board their ship for the welcome." Johnny Nine felt a lump in his throat. "Yes, sir!" "Hello, Flight One. We can approach you to a thousand meters." * * * * * Marte helped him into his suit. Her fingers fluttered nervously. "Three days, Johnny. Three days! It's not bad luck to say it anymore. Only three more days and we'll be Home!" Johnny Nine worked the hermetically sealed helmet swivel. His movements were stiff. "Three days." "And then--" "Marte, I love you." "Of course you do, but say it again." "I love you, Marte." He kissed her lightly. "I love you too," she told him. The passengers all gathered around him at the air lock. He looked at them, saw each of their faces, knew them as friends. Over to one side was a long, rude box. Newly made. Sam spoke to him from the muted memory of the dead; the memory not of Sam alone, but of nineteen generations. Marte, standing at Johnny Nine's side, clinging to his arm, looked up at him, and smiled. She was beautiful with the innocence of youth, and her smile was that of a girl who has never seen her dreams crushed. He tried to think of something to say. Finally, in desperation, he said: "I won't be gone long." He reached up and flipped his helmet forward. He buckled it in place with stiff fingers and stepped into the airlock. The door clanged shut behind him. The outer door opened into space and he popped away from the Ship, borne outward by the air pressure. It was silent. He could tell by the way the Ship appeared and disappeared that he was spinning end over end. There was no gravity, even this close to the Ship's artificial fields. It was the first time any of his generation had been in free space. It was awkward. He floundered. He could see the pilot ship lying off there to his left. Above him. Below him. He tried to do something about that, fumbled for the blast studs, found them, pushed one. It was like guiding a very small rocket that has very powerful trigger jets. It seemed to take an eternity to bring himself under control. But he drew nearer the pilot ship. He pushed a stud. The ship loomed large; it hit him. He tried to twist as he had read it should be done, to place his feet against the ship's plates. Got them there ... and drifted away. He realized that he had forgotten to switch on the magnetic shoe plates. He magnetized his plates, gritted his teeth, pushed a stud. He hit the ship. Hard. Rolled. There. He was all right now.