"I remember, Joe."
"You always got a funny look about you, just before we went off on one of our pranks. You have that same look now."
"I'm not up to any pranks," said Jon. "I'm not stealing anything."
"We've been friends for years," said Joe. "You got something on your mind . . ."
Jon, looking down at him, tried to see the boy, but the boy was gone. Instead was the man who sat beneath the Picture, the man who read the Ending, the pious man, the good man, a leader of the Ship's community.
He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Joe."
"I only want to help."
But if he knew, thought Jon, he wouldn't want to help. He'd look at me in horror, he'd report me to the chapel, he'd be the first to cry heresy. For it was heresy, there was no doubt of that. It was a denial of the Myth, it was a ripping away of the security of ignorance, it was a refutation of the belief that all would be for the best, it was saying they could no longer sit with folded hands and rely upon the planned order of the Ship.
"Let's play a game," he said with resolve.
"That's the way you want it, Jon?" demanded Joe. "That's the way I want it."