The captain seemed to find that unsatisfactory. He puffed at his cigar and stared down at Mark with eyebrows hunched down over his eyes. He said, slowly, “Glad to see you now, anyway. Get acquainted a little. Shake hands. The Triple G ’s been on a good many government-chartered cruises. No trouble. Never had trouble. Wouldn’t want trouble. You understand.”
Mark didn’t. He was tired of trying to. His eyes drifted back hungrily to the stars. The pattern had changed a little.
The captain caught his eyes for a moment. He was frowning and his shoulders seemed to tremble at the edge of a shrug. He walked to the control panel, and like a gigantic eyelid, metal slithered across the studded observation port.
Mark jumped up in a fury, shrieking, “What’s the idea? I’m counting them, you fool.”
“Counting —” The captain flushed, but maintained a quality of politeness in his voice. He said, “Sorry! Little matter of business we must discuss.”
He stressed the word “business” lightly.
Mark knew what he meant. “There’s nothing to discuss. I want to see the ship’s log. I called you hours ago to tell you mat. You’re delaying me.”
The captain said, “Suppose you tell me why you want to see it, eh? Never been asked before. Where’s your authority?”
Mark felt astonished. “I can look at anything I want to. I’m in Mnemonic Service.”
The captain puffed strongly at his cigar. (It was a special grade manufactured for use in space and on enclosed space-objects. It had an oxidant included so that atmospheric oxygen was not consumed.)