Docchi edged forward, his face literally lighting up.
Dr. Cameron kept his eyes averted; the man was damnably disconcerting. "You know what the answer is. A flat no, for the present."
Docchi leaned back. "We should have expected that," he said wearily.
"It's not entirely hopeless. Decisions like this can always be changed."
"Sure," said Docchi. "We've got centuries." His face was flushed—blazing would be a better description.
Absently, Cameron lowered the lights in the room as much as he could. It was still uncomfortably bright. Docchi was a nuisance.
"But why?" asked Docchi. "You know that we're capable. Why did they refuse?"
Cameron had tried to avoid that question. Now it had to be answered with blunt brutality. "Did you think you would be chosen? Or Nona, or Jordan, or Anti?"
Docchi winced. "Maybe not. But we've told you that we're willing to abide by what the experts say. Surely from a thousand of us they can select one qualified crew."
"Perhaps so," said Cameron. He switched on the lights and resumed staring at the top of the desk. "Most of you are biocompensators. Ninety per cent, I believe. I concede that we ought to be able to get together a competent crew." He sighed. "But you're wasting your time discussing this with me. I'm not responsible for the decision. I can't do anything about it."