"You're all right," I said. And I meant it; but I didn't waste any time all the same. The automatic first; then the tape. In that order, the sequence couldn't be reversed afterwards.
But the sound of the programmer's journal clicking to "Off" was as loud in that cabin as any gunshot.
"He'll be all right," I told Joan afterwards. "He pulled himself through. I wouldn't have dared to throw it at any other man that fast—but he's got guts."
"Just the same," Joan said, "they'd better start rotating the station captains faster. The next man may not be so tough—and what if he's a sleepwalker?"
I didn't say anything. I'd had my share of worries for that week.
"You did a whale of a job yourself, Peter," Joan said. "I just wish we could bank it in the machine. We might need the data later."
"Well, why can't we?"
"The Joint Chiefs of Staff say no. They don't say why. But they don't want any part of it recorded in ULTIMAC—or anywhere else."
I stared at her. At first it didn't seem to make sense. And then it did—and that was worse.