"But why here—in this plush joint?"
"Why not. It's open for business. Would you prefer a reeking skid row dive?"
From anyone but Mr. Clifford, Lee thought, that would have been an insult. "I'd be more at home there," he mumbled.
"The greatest spacial flight theorist who ever lived? I think not." Clifford's voice was a trifle sharp and the something stood out again, holding back Lee's retort. At that moment the waiter arrived. He poured the drinks and Mr. Clifford motioned. The waiter set the bottle on the table and left.
Lee knocked off his drink. His belligerence returned. "If you're doing this for laughs, that's okay. I've got it coming. If you want an autograph—no soap. I couldn't hold a pencil."
Mr. Clifford picked up the bottle and poured a second drink for Lee. He had not touched his own. "So you failed," he said, pensively.
"Yes, I failed."
"So have others."
Lee sneered. "You can pass it off with such beautiful casualness. Do you realize eleven men were killed on that ship?"
"I know. And it seems to me they faced their destiny with a lot more courage than you are facing yours."