He couldn't escape. Commander Seymour, looking from over Chet's shoulder like a walking sneer, stuck close. But he gave the impression of following a man who smelled bad.
Was he? Chet wondered.
Wondering, he unconsciously hung his head, slowed—stopped. Dr. Pine caught up. He and Commander Seymour, faintly breathless from the trying need to regulate their respiration consciously, looked at Chet questioningly.
Again they were sizing him up. Suddenly Chet wished he could go back to that first interview in the sickbay, and change all the things he'd said.
"We can't go on!" he blurted. "You don't know what you're getting into, Doctor!"
"Oh?" said Dr. Pine agreeably. "I know more than you think, young feller." He smiled encouragingly.
"That—that I've killed a witch-doctor? That you may be taken for a murderer?"
"Sure! You—ah—you talked about it under drugs. We ... weren't spying, Chet. We just wanted you to tell your story without reliving all the agony. It wasn't intended as—ah—a trap...." He massaged his fingers apologetically.
"No...." Chet agreed. "But-I-was-trying-to-lead-you-into-one!"