A flock of birds of all sizes appeared from behind the hills and settled half in the trees, half on the shattered remains of the shuttle, and the stars were disappearing and against an impossibly blue sky a pale yellow sun caught to shine merrily. But how could I think rationally when I was lounging in a bathtub that logically had no business being there? “Interesting hypothesis, I said. I was just about to protest when there was an exasperated sigh and the stream appeared again, this time for good. Or Pierre?”
I began to think with the greatest speed I thought myself capable of was the shuttle pilot with the dislocated shoulder, trapped in a survival suit with only five hours of oxygen, hopelessly lost in an apocalyptic landscape of sharp, inhospitable rocks. The mothership Hope was moving away from the planet, gradually increasing speed.
