Carl ignored the question. "Why ask me about Ferguson's mind anyhow?" he asked suddenly. "You're the psychologist of this expedition." He watched her nibble on her lower lip for a moment, then went on: "You don't have to admit it. I just want you to know you've been doing a good job. I don't know how long you can keep it up or what happens after we get to Venus, but up till now you've been doing all right. There's only one thing wrong with the setup as far as I can see, and that's that this arm's-length policy apparently applies to me as well as it does to everyone else. I know it's necessary to the plan, and I know it's a selfish argument, but it bothers me!"
She turned and faced him. For a moment it occurred to him she was angry, but when she spoke, her voice was soft, and deep, and lingering. "I'm sorry, Carl, but you can see why it has to be this way.... I mean—"
Carl leaned over suddenly and kissed her full on the lips. She didn't pull away. Neither did she respond the way he'd have liked her to. After a brief interval he felt the pressure of her hand against his shoulder.
"Please Carl, not now."
"When?"
She turned away. On the starboard port he could see the reflection of her finely-moulded face. She looked wistful, almost on the verge of tears.
"I don't know, Carl," she said wearily. "Maybe after we're settled on Venus. Maybe after the migration starts."
Keating hacked up a laugh. "Just what makes you so sure there's going to be a migration, or for that matter any little men who never grow old as long as they have their daily diet of ammonia and chlorine?"
He watched her turn, felt her eyes bore into him. "You don't believe it, do you?"
"I'm not sure," Carl said carefully, "I want to believe it, only I've listened to so many bug yarns in my time it's probably warped my sense of values. The whole thing just sounds too fantastic."