"... What's your own dream?"
He broke some bread, automatically doing it with his left hand, as prescribed in the Koran. They both noticed it, and both laughed.
"I'm conditioned," he said.
"Me, too," Isobel admitted. "It's all I can do to use a knife and fork."
He went back to her question, scowling. "My dream? I don't know. Right now I feel a little depressed about it all. When Elmer Allen spoke about spending the rest of our lives on this job, I suddenly realized that was about it. And, you know"—he looked up at her—"I don't particularly like Africa. I'm an American."
She looked at him oddly. "Then why stay here?"
"Because there's so much that needs to be done."
"Yes, you're right and what Cliff Jackson said to the doctor was correct, too. We all do what we must do and what we can do."
"Well, that brings us back to your question. What is my own dream? I'm afraid I'm too far along in life to acquire new ones, and my basic dream is an American one."
"And that is—?" Isobel prompted.