"Who's getting hit?"
"Washington," Gascoigne said, and passed his hand over his face. He appeared to have forgotten the imaginary spectacles.
"That's where your home is, isn't it?"
"It sure is," Gascoigne said. "It sure as hell is, Mister. Cute, isn't it?"
It was cute, all right. The Air Force boys at the Pentagon were going to be given about ten milliseconds to be sorry they'd refused to send a replacement for Gascoigne along with me. Replace him with who? We can't send his second alternate in anything short of a week. The man has to have retraining, and the first alternate's in the hospital with a ruptured spleen. Besides, Gascoigne's the best man for the job; he's got to be bailed out somehow.
Sure. With a psychological centrifugal pump, no doubt. In the meantime the tape kept right on running.
"You might as well stop wiping your face, and turn down the humidity instead," I said. "You've already smudged your glasses again."
"Glasses?" Gascoigne muttered. He moved slowly across the cabin, sailing upright like a sea-horse, to the blank glass of a closed port. I seriously doubted that he could see his reflection in it, but maybe he didn't really want to see it. "I messed them up, all right. Thanks." He went through the polishing routine again.
A man who thinks he is wearing glasses also thinks he can't see without them. I slid to the programmer and turned off the tape. I was between the spools and Gascoigne now—but I couldn't stay there forever.