"Can these things be killed?" he asked.
"I don't know," Halliday answered. "The two chances I had I was too scared to find out."
Ward felt a cold anger against this man growing in him. This man had been entrusted with the task of surveying the atmospheric conditions of this area—a vital, desperately necessary job—and he was dawdling along, timidly hugging the cover of this fortress because of a stupid, half-imaginary fear of the natives of the area. He felt his cheeks growing hot.
"We can't stay cooped up here indefinitely," he said. "How about the work we're supposed to be doing. Or does that bother you?"
Halliday looked at him queerly and then dropped his eyes. He fiddled nervously with his glasses.
Ward suddenly found the gesture maddening.
"For Pete's sake!" he exploded. "Leave 'em on, or leave 'em off, one or the other. That's apparently your only job here, taking those damn glasses off and putting them back on again."
"I'm sorry," Halliday said quickly, apologetically. "It's just a habit I guess. It's a little something to break the nervous tension of being here all alone, thinking...."
His voice trailed off and his hand moved nervously toward his glasses and then fell back limply in his lap.