"I didn't. Took the engine out, put in a well and center-board, shipped
a mast, and rigged her for sail. She's tucked away up in Marshwater
Creek."
They were astounded. Nobody had sailed pleasure craft for a generation:
no leisure and no money for such a waste of time; and sail craft were
too inefficient for food collecting.
"My God, George," Ranson said, "you're a living anachronism!"
Carter nodded. He adjusted his glasses, looked at me, and said quietly,
"He is also an able man."
"His abilities will be largely wasted in a Penal Food Processing
Plant," Ranson said grimly.
"Oh, I agree, I agree." Carter nodded his head emphatically. "The wrong
environment entirely. No scope. No initiative." He gave me a glance of
understanding that warmed me right through and also had the unfortunate
effect of taking some of the starch out of me. I had been prepared for
hostility and indifference. I stood up and walked to the sink for a
glass of water I didn't want.
"Now," Carter said, talking to Ranson, "you take the way he walks.
Notice how he swings his arms, with his hands a little forward, as if
ready to grip, and the tilt of his head, alert, watchful. You don't see
that often. Different attitude, different environment."