"Five years ago we could have—"
"I couldn't see it."
Meteridge swore. "And now, like everybody else, you've changed your mind too late?"
"No, doc. I haven't changed my mind. I just wish it had been different."
"So do we all. But five years ago—"
"I know. I know. Five years ago you could have given me twenty years more, but it meant staying on my backside for the whole route. I took six years of active life in favor of twenty years as a total loss. I'd do it again."
"I suppose you would. So would I, to tell you the truth."
Dave chuckled. "So I just called to tell you the usual. I'm okay and feeling no pain."
"Good. Keep me informed. And when you start feeling the pangs, let me know. We can give you some relief."
They hung up and Dave, deliberately putting the thought out of his mind, went to work on his news story. It was the sort of thing that a stable man does not dwell upon; within him, burning at his vitals, was a fission fragment. Dispersed, it was. Too widespread for a single removal; years and years of almost continuous operations and convalescence would remove the danger, but it would leave Crandall abed most of his active life.