"Oh, no doubt you could. But such a lot of trouble for an unwilling victim. And I'm your brother, Dan. Remember?"
Dan Fowler spread his hands in defeat, then sank down in the chair. "Paul, tell me why."
"I don't want to be rejuvenated." As though he were saying, "I don't want any sugar in my coffee."
"Why not? If I could only see why, if I knew what was going through your mind, maybe I could understand. But I can't."
Dan looked up at Paul, practically pleading. "You're needed. I had a tape from Lijinsky last month—do you know what he said? He said why couldn't you have come to Starship ten years earlier? Nobody knows that ship like you do, you're making it go. That ship can take men to the stars, now, with rejuvenation, and the same men can come back again to find the same people waiting for them when they get here. They can live that long, now. We've been tied down to seventy years of life, to a tight little universe of one sun and nine planets for thousands of years. Well, we can change that now. We can go out. That's what your work can do for us." He stared helplessly at his brother. "You could go out on that ship you're building, Paul. You've always wanted to. Why not?"
Paul looked across at him for a long moment. There was pity in his eyes. There was also hatred there, and victory, long awaited, bitterly won. "Do you really want me to tell you?"
"I want you to tell me."
Then Paul told him. It took about ten minutes. It was not tempered with mercy.
It split Dan Fowler's world wide open at the seams.