In the background, Mark Annuncio’s pointed nose fairly quivered with the intensity of his curiosity. He turned to Sheffield, who was at his side, and whispered, “Ghosts? No authentic case of seeing—”
Sheffield touched Mark’s thin shoulder lightly. “Only a way of speaking, Mark. But don’t feel badly, that he doesn’t mean it literally. You’re watching the birth of a superstition, and that’s something, isn’t it?”
A semi-sullen Captain Follenbee sought out Cimon the evening after Fawkes’ second return, and said in his harumphy way, “Never do, Dr. Cimon. My men are unsettled. Very unsettled.”
The port-shields were open. La-grange I was six hours gone, and Lagrange II’s ruddy light, deepened to crimson in setting, flushed the captain’s face and tinged his short gray hair with red.
Cimon, whose attitude toward the crew in general and the captain in particular was one of controlled impatience, said, “What is the trouble, captain?”
“Been here two weeks, Earth-time. Still no one leaves without suits. Always irradiate before you come back. Anything wrong with the air?”
“Not as far as we know?”
“Why not breathe it then?”
“Captain, that’s for me to decide.”
The flush on the captain’s face became a real one. He said, “My papers say I don’t have to stay if ship’s safety is endangered. A frightened and mutinous crew is something I don’t want.”