And someday soon Cap Lamb’ll stomp into my airlock, cry, “Rap her tight!” and we’ll be off to war again! Off to war! Living and breathing and moving again. Captain Lamb and I and may be Hillary and Slop if we can find them after all this time. Next week. In the meantime I can think.
I’ve often wondered about that blueeyed Martian dancing girl with the silver bells on her fingers.
I guess I could read it in Captain Lamb’s eyes, how that turned out.
I wish I could ask him.
But at least I won’t have to lie here forever. I'll be moving on—next week!
Stories gathered from the internet and from friends
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