Five hours later a worn out, nervous Whiteford left the control panel and drifted wearily over to the hammock. He was dead tired—so tired he couldn't sleep.
It was the thirteenth day out.
A floating drop of water brushed lightly past Whiteford. He batted at it, swore, and began to cry; a peculiar sobbing that shook his whole body. He blubbered for ten minutes.
He was sick and hungry. The cut on his head begun to fester and his whole head throbbed with pain. There was a first-aid kit in the cabin but he felt too weak to get it. His beard itched and his body felt slimy; sweat didn't drop off but stuck and spread over his skin until it formed a thin coating.
Just a poor little lamb who is lost in space, ha—ha—ha!
The tune slipped into his mind and at the end he laughed with the chorus. He couldn't stop laughing. It built up to a hysterical roar that left him shaking silently in the hammock.
Oh, Whiteford had a spaceship, its hull as white as snow; but every time he pressed the stud, the ship refused to go!
That was hilariously funny, too.
He was sick, he was tired, he was dirty. He hadn't had enough energy or ambition to fill in the log books for the last two days.