Harker shrugged. "That's up to Gibbons." He wanted to ask what the hell
difference it made where the kid was born, but for once he held his
tongue. He turned away. Somewhere in the waste a woman was screaming in
delirium. There were three shapes wrapped in ragged blankets and laid
on planks by the port scuppers. Harker's mouth twitched in a crooked
smile.
"We'll probably stop long enough to bury them," he said. "Maybe that'll
be time enough."
He caught a glimpse of McLaren's face. The hope in it was not tired any
more. It was dead. Dead, like the rest of Venus.
Gibbons called the chief men together aboard his ship--the leaders,
the fighters and hunters and seamen, the tough leathery men who were
the armor around the soft body of the colony. Harker was there, and
McLaren. McLaren was young, but up until lately he had had a quality of
optimism that cheered his shipmates, a natural leadership.
Gibbons was an old man. He was the original guiding spirit of the five
thousand colonists who had come out from Earth to a new start on a new
world. Time and tragedy, disappointment and betrayal had marked him
cruelly, but his head was still high. Harker admired his guts while
cursing him for an idealistic fool.
The inevitable discussion started as to whether they should try a
permanent settlement on this mud flat or go on wandering over the
endless, chartless seas. Harker said impatiently:
"For cripesake, look at the place. Remember the last time. Remember the
time before that, and stop bleating."
Sim, the big black, said quietly, "The people are getting awful tired.
A man was meant to have roots some place. There's going to be trouble
pretty soon if we don't find land."