Duane reached behind him into the shadows and brought out a roll of bedding. He produced four plates and four tin spoons and began to ladle out the mulligan. When he served, Shafer and Belton were profuse with their thanks. Captain was contemptuous.
"Mulligan," he swore. "Damn, I've sat at tables with war lords. Twenty courses on silver dishes and wine and liquor enough for all. And everybody dressed like hell."
Duane grinned. "Sorry I ain't a war lord. Maybe you'd like a punch in the nose."
Captain took the proffered plate sullenly. "I'm sorry. I keep forgettin'. Geez, I hope they dig up some more uranium soon. It's hard to take this when you've been used to a monthly salary that runs into four figures."
Duane looked up at the dark sky that was vacant save where a trailing mist tangled with the smoke from the fire.
"They won't find any more uranium. Not soon, anyway. I've thought a lot about it. We weren't ready to conquer space. We made a mess of it. Oh, we had the ships and the guns. Mechanically we were perfect. It was us who was wrong. We conquered space but we hadn't conquered ourselves. That will come some day."
"You sound like a parson," Captain jeered.
Little Shafer mouthed his food wolfishly, now and then drawing the back of his hand across his mouth and the tip of his long pointed nose. "What makes you think we won't find any more uranium?" he asked slyly.
Duane looked at him. The little man's fingers were trembling.