"Wait a minute, Sparks! Tommy, wait! 'Tina!" And he faced Breadon firmly. "We are not going to do that, Mr. Breadon," he said. "It would not be wise. We are not going to do it."
Breadon's brown features darkened with swift anger.
"What? What's this?"
And J. Foster Andrews waddled forward, puffing irate astonishment. "Here, here, Malcolm! What do you mean? This is—hrrumph!—blasted impertinence, sir! Insubordination!"
Malcolm held his ground, his pale cheeks oddly flushed.
"We are not going to do these things," he repeated slowly, definitely. "Breadon—" It did not occur to him that unconsciously he had abandoned the respectful, formal "Mr." which heretofore he had never ommitted. "Breadon, your orders clearly indicate that you have not in any way grasped the full implications of our plight.
"I have already warned that we should not make needless use of our limited fuel and power reserves. Yet you've told Tommy to bring the electro-stove. I have hinted that there are dangerous antagonists on Titan, yet you wish boldly to tempt attack by cooking and eating here on this exposed plain in broad daylight. Common sense should advise you of the folly of eating what few food stores we hold in reserve, yet you calmly command the preparation of a full and wasteful meal."
He did not make mention of the other, perhaps irrelevant but nonetheless rankling detail. That never once had Breadon offered to help in these doings, nor had any member of the Andrews clan volunteered to assist; that the physical labor had arbitrarily been assigned to those of lesser caste—himself, Hannigan, young Tommy, 'Tina.
"Therefore," he continued doggedly, "I, for one, am refusing to obey your orders. I do so because I must. Call it 'insubordination' if you wish, Andrews—" The older man spluttered incoherently, mauve-jowled. "—but I would call it the 'will-to-exist.' The law of survival. I mean to survive on this unknown, hostile planet. That can't be done if we squander resources as Breadon apparently means to."