Joe still didn't know all the details, but he tried to concentrate on
what he did know as he put his uniform on again. He didn't want to think
how little it meant, now. The silver space ship badge didn't mean a
thing, any more. There weren't any more space ships. The Platform wasn't
a ship, but a satellite. There'd never been but two ships. Both had
ceased to exist.

Joe walked painfully forward in the huge, roaring plane. The motors made
a constant, humming thunder in his ears. It was not easy to walk. He
held on to handholds as he moved. But he progressed past the bunk space.
And there was Mike, sitting at a table and stuffing himself with good
honest food. There was a glass port beside him, and Joe caught a glimpse
of illimitable distances filled with cloud and sky and sea.

Mike nodded. He didn't offer to help Joe walk. That wouldn't have been
practical. He waited until Joe sank into a seat opposite.

"Good sleep?" asked Mike.

"I guess so," said Joe. He added ruefully, "It hurts to nod, and I think
it would hurt worse to shake my head. What's the matter with me, Mike? I
didn't get banged up in the landing!"

"You got banged up before you landed," said Mike. "Worse than that, you
spent better than six weeks out of gravity, where in an average day you
took less actual exercise than a guy in bed with two broken legs!"

Joe eased himself back into his chair. He felt about 600 years old.
Somebody poked a head into view and withdrew it. Joe lifted his arm and
regarded it.