And he could expect no forgiveness. If it was difficult for these men now with him to understand his weakness, it would be impossible for his father. Why couldn't Ken have lived, he wondered. He was the son the Commandant wanted. He had the dash and the spirit. He was never troubled by consequences. He acted on impulse ... bravely, daringly.
The trio was donning space suits, preparing to venture out onto Caliban. He half-raised himself.
"Going with us, lieutenant?" Allen asked the question for the others.
Dirk hesitated and Kennedy interposed: "Maybe you'd rather have us send a Med over to take care of you."
The lieutenant shook his head tiredly. "I'll be all right. Thanks."
They turned away in relief and zipped on the space uniforms. Just as they were preparing to enter the compression chamber, the audio-visor hummed. They paused and looked back expectantly.
The sleek face of the commandant's orderly blurred into focus. "Lieutenant Jemson will report to the commandant aboard the flagship." That was all. The picture faded.
Instinctively, the trio in the doorway looked toward Dirk. He managed a smile and waved them on. After a moment's hesitation, they stepped into the compression chamber and out of sight.
With fumbling hands, he put on his own space suit. What would his father say? What could he say? Words would only make it worse. And Commandant Jemson was not a man to seek out the kind word, the gentle phrase. His speech resembled his tactics—raw, direct, uncompromising.
Slowly, Dirk moved into the compression chamber and from it into the murk of the world known as Caliban. Even protected as he was by his space suit, Dirk could sense the slimy chill in the atmosphere. It was as if wet, fibrous hands pushed at his suit; as if oozing tendrils slithered across his visor plate. The footing was insecure as well, and he had the unpleasant sensation that he was walking on raw eggs.