But now he felt less certain of imminent death and he had to answer the summons of the captain. In his inarticulate way, Mark resented that summons. He was used to having his own way, seeing what he felt like seeing. Who was the captain to—
The impulse kept returning to tell Dr. Sheffield about this and let it rest there.
But Mark was curious, so he knew he would have to go.
It was his one great vice. Curiosity!
It also happened to be his profession, and his mission in life.
Captain Follenbee of the Triple G was a hard-headed man. It was how he habitually thought of himself. He had made government-sponsored runs before. For one thing, they were profitable. The Confederacy didn’t haggle. It meant a complete overhaul of his ship each time, replacement of defective parts, liberal terms for the crew. It was good business. Damned good business.
This run, of course, was a little different.
It wasn’t so much the particular gang of passengers he had taken aboard. (He had expected temperament, tantrums and unbearable foolishness but it turned out that eggheads were much like normal people.) It wasn’t that half his ship had been torn down and rebuilt into what the contract called a “universal central-access laboratory.”
Actually, and he hated the thought, it was “Junior”—the planet that lay ahead of them.
The crew didn’t know, of course, but he, himself, hard-head and all, was beginning to find the matter unpleasant.