Harris looked incredulous. "But why?"
Carlin did not believe he owed him any explanation—he was receiving a fair salary—but something, perhaps a couple of drinks, made him speak.
"The ship is my way out," he said. "A way by which I shall be remembered. I have Matson's Disease."
If he had expected sympathy he was disappointed.
"So have I," Harris announced. "Can't you see?"
Carlin could, now that his attention was called to it. That subtle softening of the lines....
A flush spread across Harris' hollowed cheeks and his eyes took on an almost maniacal glitter.
"Look here, you. To you this is just a great big childish show-off trick. Like those people who hesitate and draw a big crowd before jumping from some tall building. And it will accomplish just about as much. You'll either louse up the controls and crash, or else you'll have enough liquor aboard to stay in a drunken stupor until your oxygen runs out."
Carlin, livid at those outrageously disrespectful words, tried to break in as Harris continued in mingled pleading and fury.