“Well, yes. I should say so. Now my own calculations show me that under the heightened oxygen tension of this world the psychogenic respiratory infection is both inevitable and particularly severe. For instance, you’ve observed the moon—Sister, I mean—in the last few nights.”
“Yes, I have observed Ilium.” Cimon did not forget Sister’s official name, even now.
“You watched it closely and over lengthy periods? Under magnification?”
“Yes.” Cimon was growing uneasy.
“Ah,” said Sheffield, “now the moon colors in the last few nights have been particularly virulent. Surely you must be noticing just a small inflammation of the mucous membrane of the nose, a slight itching in the throat. Nothing painful yet, I imagine. Have you been coughing or sneezing? Is it a little hard to swallow?”
“I believe I—” Cimon swallowed, then drew in his breath sharply. He was testing.
Then he sprang to his feet, fists clenched and mouth working. “Great galaxy, Sheffield, you had no right to keep quiet about this. I can feel it now. What do I do, Sheffield? It’s not incurable, is it? Damn it, Sheffield”—his voice went shrill—“why didn’t you tell us this before?”
“Because,” said Sheffield, calmly, “there’s not a word of truth in anything I’ve said. Not one word. There’s no harm in colors. Sit down, Dr. Cimon. You’re beginning to look rather foolish to say the least.”
“You said,” said Cimon, thoroughly confused, and in a voice that was beginning to strangle, “that it was your professional opinion that—”
“My professional opinion! Space and little comets, Cimon, what’s so magic about a professional opinion. A man can be lying or he can just plain be ignorant, even about the final details of his own specially. A professional can be wrong because he’s ignorant of a neighboring specialty. He may be certain he’s right and still be wrong.