For the moment, Sheffield was less concerned with Mark’s “knowledge,” whatever it was, than that he had acted independently on the basis of it. It had happened before. Mark had searched the ship’s log on the basis of a theory of his own. Sheffield felt pure chagrin at not having probed that tendency to the uttermost then and there.
So his next question, asked in a grim enough voice, was, “Why didn’t you consult me about this, Mark?”
Mark faltered a trifle. “You wouldn’t have believed me. It’s why I had to hit you to keep you from stopping me. None of them would have believed me. They all hated me.”
“What makes you think they hated you?”
“Well, you remember about Dr. Rodriguez.”
“That was quite a while ago. The others had no arguments with you.”
“I could tell the way Dr. Cimon looked at me. And Dr. Fawkes wanted to shoot me with a blaster.”
“What?” Sheffield whirled, forgetting in his own turn any formality due the trial. “Say, Fawkes, did you try to shoot him?”
Fawkes stood up, face crimson, as all turned to look at him. He said, “I was out in the woods and he came sneaking up on me. I thought it was an animal and took precautions. When I saw it was he, I put the blaster away.”
Sheffield turned back to Mark, “Is that right?”