“Talking to someone who understands a little,” he expanded the idea.
“I’m jangling damnably...overwork.....”
“Not overwork,” Dr. Martineau corrected. “Not overwork. Overwork never hurt anyone. Fatigue stops that. A man can work—good straightforward work, without internal resistance, until he drops,—and never hurt himself. You must be working against friction.”
“Friction! I’m like a machine without oil. I’m grinding to death.... And it’s so DAMNED important I SHOULDN’T break down. It’s VITALLY important.”
He stressed his words and reinforced them with a quivering gesture of his upraised clenched hand. “My temper’s in rags. I explode at any little thing. I’m RAW. I can’t work steadily for ten minutes and I can’t leave off working.”
“Your name,” said the doctor, “is familiar. Sir Richmond Hardy? In the papers. What is it?”
“Fuel.”
“Of course! The Fuel Commission. Stupid of me! We certainly can’t afford to have you ill.”
“I AM ill. But you can’t afford to have me absent from that Commission.”
“Your technical knowledge—”