"Lieutenant Jemson," a voice said close to his ear. "Lieutenant are you all right?" It was Tabor, the biophysicist.
Dirk opened his eyes. Allen and Kennedy were at the controls. The cruiser was settling on its tail for a landing. Tabor's face was a study in embarrassed concern.
Dirk nodded. He must say something. "Sure. Sure. I'm all right. Anyone else hurt?"
Tabor shook his head. "We sheared a fin off the flagship, but no one was injured. What happened to you?"
Dirk closed his eyes again. What answer could he give? "Just space dizziness," he said. "That's all. Space dizziness." He looked to catch Tabor's reaction.
The scientist nodded, but behind his eyes was a puzzlement. Space dizziness in a lieutenant of the Federation's space armada? Space dizziness in the son of Commandant Jemson?
"All clear." Allen and Kennedy were scrupulously avoiding his eyes, busying themselves with the reports and logs.
Suddenly, he wished that he could make them understand. He wished that there were words which would communicate to them the sinking feeling that had seized him as he gazed into the visi-shield. But there were no words. These were men inured to space. They could not appreciate the shattering malady that gripped him.
Tabor rose and moved over to the others. They conversed quietly, and once or twice, Dirk saw them nod in his direction. Then he closed his eyes again. It was better that way. Soon enough he would have to face his father. And what could be said? There were no excuses. He had failed. If Allen had not been quick, the ICARUS would have been lost; perhaps the entire Armada jeopardized. No. There was no excuse.