Silence filled the black, disc-shaped hall.
Only the overlapping sounds of air flowing in and out of breathing pores remained.
Every Proxima Centauri person was pondering the implications of the news.
"So, what should we do now?"
Rex's voice rang out again, drawing the attention of everyone present.
At Rex's question, Lair reined in some of the disdain and contempt in his eyes for the other Proxima Centauri people.
After a moment's thought, he said, "Given our current situation, interstellar migration may be our only chance of survival."
"Interstellar migration?"
Rex narrowed his visual organs slightly. "Our technology isn't advanced enough to take all our people away, is it?"
"Of course not," Lair replied matter-of-factly.
"To be precise, we can only take one hundred thousand Proxima Centauri people."
His words sent a stir through the hall.
One hundred thousand Proxima Centauri people.
What did that mean?
It meant that over 99 percent of their people would have to face a gradually dying star within their lifetimes.
It would be an agonizing, painful process.
As the energy released by their primary star steadily diminished, the surface temperature of Proxima b would fall lower and lower.
Even with its dense atmosphere retaining as much heat as possible, the surface temperature would still plunge below freezing within a few decades.
By then, there would be no liquid water left on the surface of Proxima b.
That would undoubtedly deal a devastating blow to Proxima b's ecosystem.
With the energy generated by fusion reactors, the Proxima Centauri people left behind could still live inside buildings, or rather, in the Underground City.
But that was merely the opening course of the disaster.
As time passed, the surface temperature would reach a critical threshold after a hundred and fifty years.
That was the temperature at which