The group-mind struggled, frantically beaming, in hopelessness trying to get through to the Earthmen who rode above them.
The men who rode above them—waiting for a signal from the Diamoraii.
Shreve turned away from the plates, flicking them off. "I can't stand it, Karl! How senseless! Because one race dealt them unfairly, they closed their eyes to help from anyone else."
Teller crossed his legs as he sat on the couch. He did not appear to be disturbed by the sight from below.
"Luther, you can't go on destroying yourself. You did everything you could. You were as resourceful as any man could have been.
"Now you'd better get back to the schedule. We're over four and a half months due at our next landfall." He saw his words were having no effect. "Look, Luther, I've been in this business almost as long as you. I've seen this time and again. When you come up against an adolescent race, that doesn't know when it's got something too big to handle, there's nothing you can do but back off and let them handle it themselves. If they don't get smart enough to know when to call the fireman—that's their agony. Not yours!"
"What's the next stop on our itinerary?" he asked the last almost jauntily, consciously trying to take Shreve's mind off the cinder that spun below the Wallower. He rose and stretched, as though from a profound sleep.
For a moment he stared in wonder. Then he stepped into the shaft and quietly left the control room.
He had never thought he'd see the day when Luther Shreve cried like a child.