Then, for a long time, there was a gentle rocking moment and a vision,
half-remembered, of the three thousand holdouts splashing out across
the surf toward the rescue flotilla, then, after that, a slow drifting
off toward sleep.
She knew they would make it, knew not a human being, Earthman or
Mandmooran, would be on Mandmoora when the sun's blowup occurred. She
knew she would not see the blowup from deep-space: she would be aboard
the spaceship in a hospital room.
She regretted that. It was a once-in-a-lifetime story, the kind of
story a reporter didn't want to miss. But she had seen another story, a
far greater story, the story of the final Mandmooran exodus, the story
of life triumphant in the face of superstition and death.
She knew that was a far better story. And, besides, she had lived it.