The Rolling Stones

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The two brothers stood looking the old wreck over. "Junk," decided Castor.

"Not junk," objected Pollux. "A jalopy - granted. A heap any way you look at it A clunker possibly. But not junk."

"You're an optimist, Junior." Both boys were fifteen; Castor was twenty minutes older than his brother.

"I'm a believer, Grandpa - and you had better be, too. Let me point out that we don't have money enough for anything better. Scared to gun it?"

Castor stared up the side of the ship. "Not at all - because that ­thing will never again rise high enough to crash. We want a ship that will take us out to the Asteroids - right? This super­annuated pogo stick wouldn't even take us to Earth."

"It will when I get through hopping it up - with your thumb-fingered help. Let's look through it and see what it needs."

Castor glanced at the sky. "It's getting late." He looked not at the Sun making long shadows on the lunar plain, but at Earth, reading the time from the sunset line now moving across the Pacific.

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