Caffrey and Dillman moved through the endless rows of bunks. Farther down, Caffrey could see Doc crouching over a low bunk, his cigarette lighter aflame. He knelt there, a small bulbous gnome of a man, with weary defeated eyes and thin hair lying over his skull. An android boy of about seven years lay on the bunk.
Doc looked up as they stepped up to him.
His face was filled with the weariness of his eyes, with too many years and too much that was wrong.
"Well," said Caffrey, watching him. Doc's lighter jumped and flared bright when he spoke.
"The boy is sick," Doc said. "Very sick."
Caffrey clicked his fingernails together. "Did you call me down here for that?" There was a restless stirring from the bunks.
"Certainly," Doc replied. "It might be dangerous."
"What the hell's the matter with him?"
Doc shrugged. "I don't know. How do I know what kind of diseases androids get. Don't you understand what this could mean?"
"No," said Caffrey, "I don't." His voice hardened. "I'm going back up to the chart room. We dock on Mars in a few hours."