He swung the outer air-lock open.
And breathed. And breathed. And breathed deeply again.
Joshua Thorn wanted to cry. There was a hurt in his throat, and he
wanted to yell, and he wanted to laugh great peals of laughter even as
the unchecked salt tears streamed across the deep valleys of his cheeks.
He walked, he ran. He stopped, he turned his face to the sky, he spread
his arms wide and let the great bellows of laughter roll from his lips
in the lusty prayer of thanks that only the living who are full with
life and amid the teeming fullness of life can know.
Thank you, God. Thank you God. Thank you....
(For this little while more, for this little while more for the race of
Man; I am the last of Man, You know--)
He prayed thank you, but he did not pray for more, because this
was already more than he deserved; the Almighty had been merciful,
compassionate and merciful, and he could not ask for more, in no way
dared ask--
The thunder seemed straight above him.
The sound of his own laughter had drowned it out at first, and then
the two had mingled, and then as he stood gasping for new breath, as
his hoarse voice rested, he heard it--welling as if from a great heavy
throat, and now rising to a baleful cry, then falling--falling gently,
and now a new thunder to drown it, a mightier thunder than the first.
Joshua Thorn stood transfixed as he watched the gleaming bullet-shape
descend its pillar of fire. It could have been twin to Vanguard-I. It
was descending--it was--_maneuvering_ to be near him!
From somewhere far back in his brain the words formed again, _and Mrs.
Grundy here's dirt for you--you may have a new neighbor in your block
but not like you at all--probably a world between you--don't take any
wooden nickels...._