Jak's tastes and desires ran more to other things, Jon knew. To medicine, and to all growing things, whether plant, animal or human. Jak had always been far more interested in what made life grow and perform its miracles, than he had in how and why machines operated.
And, Jon acknowledged honestly, it was a good thing for them all in this present emergency. If good old Jak wasn't half a doctor already, Pop would really be in a bad way ... and so would all of them, if they lost that steady and competent prop on whom they all leaned so confidently.
"I sure wouldn't have known what to do," Jon admitted to himself, as the thought of his father made him hurry the removing of his suit. "I probably would have run for my tool kit, not the first-aid one."
He finally got the suit off and hung it back in the closet. He gathered up the scraps of used plastic and stuffed them into the near-by trash disposal chute. Then he ran into the living room and on to the side of his father's bunk, where his mother and brother were standing, watching.
"How is he?"
"Just the same."
"You're sure he ... he isn't...?"
"No, he's still alive, and I'm sure he'll pull out in time. Only question is, how long it'll take?"
Jon's mind began churning with problems. What would they do while Pop was "out"? Who was to run the ship; make the calculations on orbits and trajectories? Who's to handle the controls of landing when we reach our destination, which won't be very long now? Who'll do the thousand and one things Pop has always done? Who'll make the decisions?
Again the sense and knowledge of his personal loss came home—and young Jon Carver sank onto the deck of the bunkroom. Again he was just a boy who had lost his dearest pal, his ideal. Pop just couldn't die! Who'd help him with his problems; teach him the many things he was always wanting to know?