Wright turned away. "Dorothy?"
She said warmly, "Yes. You."
"I—oh, my dear, I don't know that it's—best." Fretfully he added: "Shouldn't need a leader. Only six of us—agreement——"
Dorothy held her voice to lightness: "I can even disagree with myself. Sears will want you to take over. Ann too, probably."
His gray head sank in his hands. "As for that," he said, "inside of me I'm apt to be a committee of fifteen." Paul thought: But he's not old! Fifty-two. When did he turn gray, and we never noticing it...? "For now," Wright said, "let's not be official about it, huh? What if my dreams for Lucifer are—not shared?"
"Dreams are never quite shared," Dorothy said. "I want you to lead us."
Wright whispered with difficulty, "I will try."
Dorothy continued: "Ed may want things black and white. Not Ann, I think—she hates discussions, being obliged to make up her mind. You're elected, soldier.... Can you open the door, Paul?"
It jammed in the spoiled frame after opening enough for a tight exit. Wright stared into evening. "Not the leader kind. Academic." His white hands moved in doubtful protest. "Hate snap decisions—we'll be forced to make a lot of them."
Paul said, "They're best made by one who hates making them."