Kitson was carefully unrolling his breechskins.
"I'd like to hear the rest of it, I said."
"Yes, sir," someone murmured.
"... was seated next to Charles Lathrop, who had escorted her to the
banquet, in the absence of the Captain. They danced frequently to the
strains of the Deimos Orchestra which was rocketed here for the pro--"
"That's enough," said Hastings, staring whitely.
The mechanic took two steps toward him. "Is something wrong, sir? You
look ill."
"Not at all, Mr. Kitson, not at all." His eyes snapped back to the man
in front of him, astraddle a newborn idea. "I was merely considering
Peeping Toms, Mr. Kitson."
"Beg pardon, Sir?"
"Peeping Toms. Never heard of them, have you?"
"No, sir. I don't think any of us have."
"What a pity. A most fascinating subject. Found in a twentieth century
history of the minor vices."
"Yes, sir."
"You display no curiosity, Mr. Kitson." His eyebrows raised. "In this,
you differ significantly from our Peeping Tom. _He_ wanted to know
a great many things, and he settled the whole matter with a pair of
binoculars." His voice sounded like scraped stone. "Yes indeed--_a pair
of binoculars_."
"I'm afraid I wasn't subjected to that facet of knowledge
indoctrination, sir." Kitson shrugged imperceptibly. When the captain
got like this--his shoulders spoke for him.
Hastings had caught the movement, however. "You find my words
uninstructive?"
"No, sir--I mean--"
"Very well." Something was growing big in the man. "Since you view your
deficiencies so lightly, you may report for punishment duty in the
morning."
"But, sir! I only said--"
"That will be all, Mr. Kitson." Hastings climbed the ladder, an ear
splitting silence hurrying him upward. His face appeared through
the hatch. A face withdrawn behind vacant eyes, ready to crumble.
"Remember, Kitson, I'll see you topside tomorrow. You will endeavor to
compensate for this most regrettable omission in your education, while
I--I will contemplate the advantages of twentieth century sins."
The hatch closed.
Everyone was suddenly very busy. Holmes picked up empty beer containers
and threw them into the deatomizer. A big sandy man laced and unlaced
the binding-pad on his bunk. Kitson sat down and stared vacantly.
After three or four minutes he said something.
"The sonovagun," he said. "The poor, poor, sonovagun."
* * * * *
Impersonal words broke into the dream. "We have seen. It is
sufficient." The screen flickered and grew dim. "Can you stand further
probing, Captain? May we proceed?"
"Yes."
"There is yet one more time. March fifteenth."
"I remember."
"Then relax ... drift. There are two men. They hang above a yellow
sun ... space sleeps at their feet...."
An image formed and wavered and formed again.
"Their words are whispered ... they speak softly in the presence of
immensity...."
It crystallized....
"I'm asking as Vortler, your friend. Not Vortler, the psychosurgeon."
Side by side, they sat in the tattered light of the observation hull.
Centauri lay less than one day ahead. It dangled like a full, blush
peach, their silhouette its only bruised spot. Rockets hummed.
"There's no use asking any more questions Angus. The time for questions
is past. This is exams."
"That's what I mean, John. Remarks like that. You've gotten to be a man
who talks to himself."