"Well," said the captain, sitting, eyes shut, sighing. "Well, where do we go now, eh, we are we all going?" He felt his men sitting or standing all about him, the terror dead in them, their breathing quiet. "When you've gone a long, long way down to the sun and touched it and lingered and jumped around and streaked away from it, where are you going then? When you go away from the heat and the noonday light and the laziness, where do you go?"
His men waited for him to say it out. They waited for him to gather all of the coolness and the whiteness and the welcome and refreshing climate of the word in his mind, and they saw him settle the word, like a bit of ice cream, in his mouth, rolling it gently.
"There's only one direction in space from here on out," he said at last.
They waited. They waited as the ship moved swiftly into cold darkness away from the light.
"North," murmured the captain. "North."
And they all smiled, as if a wind had come up suddenly in the middle of a hot afternoon.
Where are we all going? Hard to say for sure, but in Bradbury's capable hands, always to good places.