"Doctor Von Ulrich, maybe I'm not normal, but—"
"Then you admit the regression. That this basketball floating in space is a substitute for your mother's womb. You admit it!"
"Why, sir, I didn't—"
"But you know it's true don't you?"
"I didn't say anything about it. You said it."
"I said it because it's a summation of years of careful diagnosis. Look at the etiology. A man who never matured, never was able to accept responsibility as a mature adult. Always just drifting along, into one job, out of it, into another job, out of that, never establishing roots anywhere, always floating about. Unable to accept any responsibility for your marriage, wanting to escape it. Never able to get close, get involved with others, only wanting to receive, never give. What does it add up to? A fix, a freeze in the pre-natal stage where you were floating free and completely irresponsible in your mother's amniotic fluid. That's why you're here in the basketball."
Von Ulrich's intense eyes seemed to reach out like arms to enfold Barton, then recoiled as Barton shrugged and said: "So, it's like my Ma's womb. What difference does it make what you call it as long as I'm happy in it and do my job?"
Von Ulrich's lips moved soundlessly and then he pointed a finger into Barton's nose. "It makes a helluva lot of difference what you call it. You may be doing an efficient job here, but for the wrong reasons. I wish I could recommend, on the basis of my diagnosis, that you agree to a month's checkup in the Martian Clinic but—"
Barton interrupted. "I'm glad you can't. I wouldn't like that as much as this. Maybe your reports won't cut much ice as long as I keep up the perfect service record."
Von Ulrich's jaws were ridged. "Damn the military system! Damn a system that says a man has to stay up here till he's dead or crazy or makes a mistake!"