"Why, such a lack of conditioning, Quadrate! Don't you know killing me is supposed to be so repulsive to you that you couldn't even stomach the thought of it? Tell me, don't I make you sick, Quadrate?"
Tayne's hand went to the hilt of his weapon. He half-drew it, slammed it back in its scabbard.
"Blair, we have twenty hours aboard this ship together. We can be at each other's throats like children. Or not, as you please."
Doug sat down on the edge of the acceleration hammock. Perhaps it would not be so difficult. Carefully, he entered the role further. He must have just the right kind of smile.
"Ah, but think of all the trouble I can get you in if I make you lose your temper and kill me! And you have got to admit, where I'm going, it doesn't make much difference—to me, I mean."
Tayne turned back to the instrument panel as though to signify that he had suddenly become a deaf man. And Doug kept talking, as though to signify a complete lack of interest in whether Tayne was a deaf man or not.
"As the matter stands, they took my sword away. So you'd never get anywhere with a self-defense alibi. Lord, how they'd make you sweat! By Saint Napoleon's mother I like the thought of that! And, after all, since this is going to be my last flight, I really think I'm entitled to a little amusement."
Silence.
"You know, Quadrate," Doug kept on relentlessly, "I don't imagine you expected even me to act like this, did you? No, of course not. Not very much the officer and gentleman. But that makes us more or less even. You don't know what a gentleman is. You're so stupid you don't even know who the next President of the United States is going to be!—Oh, sorry. I keep forgetting—I don't think I ever told you that I'm not the real Senior Quadrate Blair, and that I'm not from your universe at all, did I, Tayne? Ever hear of the World Series? Oh, there I—"