Meyverik unhinged to his full height.
"It was proof," he said. "A test."
"A man can't test himself."
"A lot you know," the big blond snorted.
"I know," I told him drily. "A man who isn't a hopeless maniac depressive can't consciously create a test for himself that he knows he will fail. You proved you could stay alone on an island, buster. You didn't prove you could stay alone in a spaceship out in the middle of infinity for three years. Why didn't you rent a conventional rocket and try looking at some of our local space? It all looks much the same."
Meyverik sat down.
"I don't know why I didn't do that," he whispered.
Probably for the first time since he had got clever enough to beat up his big brother Meyverik was doubting himself, just a little, for just a time.
I don't know whether it was good or bad for him—contemporary psychology isn't in my line—but I knew I couldn't trust a cocky kid.