Warren Field was a man much thinner than we imagined. When he died a natural death, he was a centenarian, his body shriveled almost beyond recognition. This elderly starship commander sat quietly on the only chair in the small storage room, covered with a layer of frost; his hair and beard were completely white, his face deeply wrinkled, and his skin was dark, resembling an old farmer who had labored in the fields for many years. The only thing that still attested to his military identity was the impeccably straight officer's uniform on his body: it fit him a little loosely but still looked majestic.
The old man's hands were rigidly frozen over his chest, under the frost was a small data terminal clutched tightly by him.
