Paul swallowed the last of his ice. For a moment he sat without speaking, the reflected sunlight softening his sharp features. Then he said, "I hate to think anybody understands anything I don't. And I strongly suspect you do."
"I strongly know I damned well do."
There was another pause. Paul pulled his nose. He drew a breath to speak—and gave up the impulse. His eyes turned inward. Little by little, his limbs sagged. An expression of the utmost melancholy passed like a shadow over his face and was followed by lines of resolution—lines I did not like because, visible in them, was conflict—unacknowledged discontent mixed with unknown resolve.
"I'm in a terrible mess, Phil."
"Aren't we—and so forth?"
"I want to quit."
"The Lab?"
He nodded. "There is something positively bestial—in the worst sense—about going any further with schemes to turn physical theory into mere implements of death."
"Instinct coming to your rescue. I thought you liked the work?"
"I did. As long as it was a series of problems. Now—it's getting to be a cold choice of means for engineering murder. That's no fun. It's like spending all your time figuring out how to destroy your own home—after you've already hit on half a dozen nifty ways."