"Maybe hysterics," said Randy. "I'm almost sorry for the guy, but not quite. A man with his brains ought to face the fact that he feels timid, and either fight it or admit it. Especially, a man ought to realize that other people can tell what's the matter with him."
McCauley considered, frowning.
"For your information only," he said, "take-off will be 1400 hours Tuesday, neither plus nor minus. We'll have to stop at the Platform to refuel, and the Platform has a schedule. We'll need to swing very close to Venus for its pull to change our course, and Venus has a schedule. And we'll need to meet Earth farther along in its orbit, and Earth has a schedule. None of them can be changed to humor Bramwell's psychological idiosyncrasies. We take off at 1400 hours Tuesday!"
But Randy shook his head.
"Oh, oh! Friend Ed, we're in trouble!"
"He won't go?"
"He won't go," said Randy. "I'm just learning how to handle him. I believed I could trick him into committing himself so firmly that he'd go, no matter how much something inside of him was screaming that it didn't want to. But Tuesday's too early. I don't think there's a chance to get him either to go or admit he won't. Not by Tuesday."
"That's too bad," said McCauley grimly. "We need him for our crew—him or a reasonable facsimile. Do you know what they used to do when they needed sailors?"
"Pressed them," said Randy. "Press gangs grabbed them. But that was the law then. It isn't now."
"I wasn't thinking of a press gang," said McCauley. "Much more often, a man got shanghaied. We've got to have that souped-up Bramwell screen!"