All of them were wrong.
What was a man to do?
He wrote:
Think of you often. Write me when you can.
Morley would write him. An enthusiastic letter, a letter with a fine shade of envy tingeing it, the letter of a man who wanted to be, but couldn't be, on Kimon.
For everyone wanted to go to Kimon. That was the hell of it.
You couldn't tell the truth, when everyone would give their good right arm to go.
You couldn't tell the truth, when you were a hero and the truth would turn you into a galactic heel.
And the letters from home, the prideful letters, the envious letters, the letters happy with the thought you were doing so well - all of these would be only further chains to bind you to Kimon and to the Kimon lie.
He said to the cabinet: "How about a drink?"