Randy shook his head. He floated in the straps of his acceleration chair; not that the chair was needed, but because it held him still so that there was no possible chance of his striking against the unmuffled wall of the ship and so sending a solid-conduction sound back to Bramwell.
"I don't know," said Randy flatly. "I don't feel too bright myself."
The soundproof door of the after compartment opened. Bramwell came out. Somehow he looked pathetic and frustrated, but he essayed rage.
"I have to have silence!" he cried ferociously. "You are making noises! I cannot think! And I must think! I have to have silence!"
McCauley said numbly:
"I'm sitting here, and Randy's in his chair. There's no noise."
"There is noise, or why can't I think? You are doing something to keep me from thinking!... That canary! It has been singing! That's it! You must wring its neck so I can think!"
"No," said McCauley, "it hasn't been singing. It hasn't sung for a long time. It did, but it doesn't any more. Why?"
"Something is the matter!" insisted Bramwell desperately. "I'm stupid! I'm as stupid as you! And I must use my brains!"
"You've got everything we can give you," said McCauley without particular emphasis. "We can't seem to do our work right either."