He couldn't go on by himself. There had to be two men, to gauge distances, spot the best target, control the sub in the resultant blast. Why couldn't he forget the volcano? There were lots of islands in the Pacific, beyond the affected sphere.
He could stay drunk on palm wine as well as Scotch.
He'd never see Joan again, of course. Joan, accusing, hard-eyed, contemptuous. Joan, condemning him for murder....
Fallon laughed, a sharp, harsh bark. "Joan, hell! That was my own mind, condemning me!"
His gaze went back to Bjarnsson's body, rolling slightly with the motion of the ship. It boiled down to that. Murder. His careless, selfish murder of Bjarnsson. The murder of countless civilians. War, bitter, brutal, desperate.
Fallon drew a long, shuddering breath. His head dropped forward in his helmet, and his slanting wolf's eyes were closed. Then he turned and sat down at the controls.
The single forward 'scope field gave him vision enough to steer. Anything might attack from the sides or the stern—another beast grown incredibly huge, but not yet a lung breather.
Alone, he probably wouldn't succeed. He wouldn't live to know whether he had or not. His gloved hands clenched over the levers that would change the course, send him away to safety.
Savagely he forced his hands away. He gripped the wheel. Time slid by him, black and silent as the water outside. And then....