"Most accidentals are nearly immortal. Not quite of course; we may die four or five hundred years from now. Meanwhile there is no reason why we can't be explorers for you. Rockets are slow. You'd die before you got to Alpha Centauri and back. We won't. Time means nothing to us.
"Perhaps better faster rockets will be devised after we leave. You may get there before we do. We don't mind. We will have tried to repay you the best way we know how and that will satisfy us."
With an effort Docchi smiled. The instant he did so he felt it was a mistake, one he couldn't call back. Even to himself it seemed more like a snarl.
"You know where we're kept—that's more polite than saying imprisoned. We don't call it Handicap Haven. Our name for it is: Junkpile. And we're junkmen. Do you know how we feel?
"I don't know how you can persuade the Medicouncil to let us man an expedition to the stars. We've appealed and appealed and they've always turned us down. Now that we've let you know it's up to you. Our future as humans is at stake. Settle it with your conscience. When you go to sleep think of us out there on the junkpile."
He nudged the switch and sat down. His face was gray and his eyes were rimmed and burning.
"I don't want to bother you," said Jordan. "What'll we do about these?"
Docchi glanced at the telecom. The ships were uncomfortably close and considerably more numerous than the last time he had looked. "Take evasive action," he said wearily. "Swing close to Earth and use the planet's gravity to give us a good fast sendoff. We can't let them take us until people have a chance to make their feelings known."
"Now that you've finished I want to discuss it with you," said Cameron. There was an odd tone to his voice.
"Later," said Docchi. "Save it. I'm going to sleep. Jordan, wake me if anything happens. And remember you don't have to listen to this fellow if you don't want to."