"Why not. It's open for business. Would you prefer a reeking skid row dive?"

From anyone but Mr. Clifford, Lee thought, that would have been an insult. "I'd be more at home there," he mumbled.

"The greatest spacial flight theorist who ever lived? I think not." Clifford's voice was a trifle sharp and the something stood out again, holding back Lee's retort. At that moment the waiter arrived. He poured the drinks and Mr. Clifford motioned. The waiter set the bottle on the table and left.

Lee knocked off his drink. His belligerence returned. "If you're doing this for laughs, that's okay. I've got it coming. If you want an autograph—no soap. I couldn't hold a pencil."

Mr. Clifford picked up the bottle and poured a second drink for Lee. He had not touched his own. "So you failed," he said, pensively.

"Yes, I failed."

"So have others."

Lee sneered. "You can pass it off with such beautiful casualness. Do you realize eleven men were killed on that ship?"

"I know. And it seems to me they faced their destiny with a lot more courage than you are facing yours."

"If I have to take a lecture with your liquor, I'd rather—"

"Certainly not. Have another."

Mr. Clifford poured and Lee had the grace to feel ashamed. "Look—I'm done—washed up—I'm at the bottom. Why should you—?"

"On the bottom, yes. But sometimes people have to hit the bottom in order to ascend to the top."

Lee tossed off the third scotch. "Well I've hit bottom, that's for sure."

"You asked me why I brought you here, Mr. Hayden. That's the reason."

"What's the reason?"

"To see if you've really hit bottom."

"You make it sound important," Lee sneered.

 Prev. P 3/21 next