In answer to Keighley's probing questions, Tim described his symptoms. The doctor rummaged in his bag for a hypo-pak and ampule. After the shot, he took out a bottle of capsules, closed his bag and drew up the chair from the desk.
"You know, Tim," he began softly, "we're both old men. We can keep going indefinitely as long as the rate is slow and steady. Acceleration is mighty dangerous. Now you're going to rest."
"... could stand a few days of taking it easy...."
"Not a few days—months. Flat in bed."
"But the ship ... the people...." The vision of Samuel Wyckoff rose again.
"The crew and the Lord can take care of the ship; we people will have to take care of ourselves. We'll need you more the last few months of flight and after we land. If you've got to see anybody, I'll get them right now before that sedative takes effect."
Tim's hand rose and fell. "All right, Doc," the thin, exhausted voice fell too. "Even Moses didn't make the Promised Land."
"You'll make it, you fuddleheaded old Moses, if you obey Doc Keighley's commandments. Even Moses had more sense than to try to be captain and master of ceremonies and life of the party and general trouble shooter all at once."
Daneshaw smiled wanly. "I'll be good. Better have El Avery come up before I go to sleep. He'll have to take on some of my duties or figure out somebody else. He knows as much about the ship as anybody. Don't worry him, though, Frank. He's a nervous old dog.... By the way, can I read?"