"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 A face withdrawn behind vacant eyes, ready to crumble.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...."

 Prev. P 10/17 next