"Thanks," Baxter said, accepting the plate. He looked down at the white paste, black gum and cup of yellowish liquid fitted in the proper holes and slots, then up at me. "What is this stuff?"
"You don't have to look right at me!" I snapped. "It is standard spaceman's fare—re-reconstituted carbohydrates, protein and hot ground roasted soya. This is stuff we had left over on our plates from lunch, all set to go into the converter, but Tan Eck reprocessed it for you. It's what regulations specify for an APD, j.g."
Baxter opened his mouth and closed it hard. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
He turned smartly to leave and I halted him with a palm up. "Baxter."
He turned. "Yes, sir?"
"We are moving to the other side of the continent to continue with the re-survey. I want to make it clear to you that you are absolutely forbidden to leave the ship. We can't spare the guards for your liabilities, now that you have thrown away your value."
"Yes, sir."
Even at the time, I was gratified by the sudden thoughtful narrowing of his eyes.
I wasn't surprised the next day when Bronoski reported that Charlie Baxter had taken a bacpac—food, soap, blankets and so forth—and left the Hilliard. He was determined to prove that he wasn't merely Accident Prone and could get things done on his own.