What he was thinking was wrong, of course. But no man could be two men; a man could not split himself down the middle and say: this is your life here, this is your life there, for it is unthinkable that a man be prisoner of one life only—No, a man could not do that; a man had only one life.
Wrong, was it?
And who, any more a man than himself, could dare to be judge?
He would call Carruthers; he would explain, and Carruthers would inform the rest. As for Command—
A buzzer roared on the desk in front of him. It was the dispatch unit communicator—it would be Southard.
A huge forefinger hit the toggle almost hard enough to wrench it from its socket.
"Command!" Joel grated into the sensitive pick-up. "Proceed with your message." He reached for the flagon, drained it, filled it again.
"Lieutenant Southard calls Command from Servogroup 4." The youngster's voice sounded tight, excited. Now what the hell—"Request task mission. Request task mission. Position—"
Joel quickly jacked in the ship's armory circuit. An alarm klaxon would be electrifying the entire complement of combat personnel stationed in that quarter of the ship even as armory communications was taking down the co-ordinates Southard was dictating. And within one minute and forty-five seconds after that, combat units would be assembling in machine-like precision, deploying into advance order at the ship's stern.
And as the two huge sections between the White Whale's slender atmosphere fins opened like hungry steel mouths, disgorging flat, thick-bodied machines with their grim burdens of armed men and destroyer-artillery. Ship's Guard would be taking up defense positions, manning gun stations which commanded an energy potential sufficient to destroy a minor planet in a single, searing second of blue-white heat.