"Maybe."
"I don't insist it's true," said the psychologist. "It's an idea. Fear. Fear of the unknown, maybe. Too much fear to hold."
"You think I'll crack?" asked Johnny.
The psychologist didn't answer directly. "It's an idea, as I said. I just wanted you to think it over."
"I will," said Johnny. He stood again, his jaw held tight. "Is that all?"
"Yes, Colonel, that's all," said Lambert.
When Johnny left, the psychologist sat in brooding silence, staring morosely at a trail of blue smoke rising from his pipe bowl. He sat there until the afternoon light faded from the desert base. Then he stood in the darkened office, sighed, lit his pipe and went home. He was very tired.
Six weeks later, Johnny Youngbear walked out of the Control blockhouse into the cold desert morning, carrying his helmet under his arm.
He ran his eyes swiftly up the length of Ship II, trying to forget those other eyes staring at his back from the blockhouse. The Ship rippled and gleamed, alive, eager, the thundering power in her belly waiting to be born.