"Fine, Colonel," Cantrell said. "Not a dog or a cat in sight."
"Can you see Earth?"
Cantrell manipulated dials, activating the lower television eyes. "There she is," he said. "Looks real impressive. I can see nearly all of North America now and a good part of the Pacific. The land looks queer from up here,"—he frowned—"something like—" He broke off, staring. "Like—"
"Like what?" Jarvis' voice demanded suddenly. "It looks like what, Cantrell?"
Cantrell shook his head bewilderedly. "Nothing," he said uncertainly. He felt a sudden irritation that Jarvis couldn't let him alone even with so much of space intervening. "It looks like I'm going to make it to the moon, that's all."
"You were going to say something else, Cantrell, what?"
"Let him alone, Jarvis," Evans whispered; "he's got enough to worry about."
"That's right," Cantrell said irritably, "and I'm going to worry about it in silence." He reached for the radio switch.
"But, Cantrell—" Evans said. Then the radio went dead.
Cantrell grinned and watched Earth getting smaller below. The grin faded as he thought of his almost-spoken comparison of a few minutes before, of the land resembling the shriveled skin of an animal. Jarvis would have made much of that, of course, with his psychiatric ramblings. Yet, the comparison was disturbing just the same. Why did he torture himself?