He stared down at his fingernails. "Maybe that's because I never wanted anything of real value."
"Maybe," she agreed. "But what have you wanted?"
"Damned little out of life," he answered her truthfully. "Fun and games, mostly."
"And I suppose they came easy?"
He nodded. "Being a space pilot has—well, a certain egoboo. You find yourself invited here and there by people who have never been any farther out of New York than Hackensack, or maybe no farther out of Chicago than Evanston." He looked down at his fingernails again. "There's always women happy to claim they've slept with a man who has been to Castor, or Pollux, or Polaris, or even Centauri. A man gets his bed and breakfast and his fun. But—" Abashed, he let it trail off.
"So what about Mr. Andrews?" she prompted.
"He's been there, too. But his—well, somehow I think—"
Alice smiled quietly. "In other words, Mr. Andrews' spacing is only a means to his own advantage instead of being the end itself?"
"I guess that's what I mean. Andrews doesn't use spacing as his business. He uses it to get to his business."
"That's right."