Crackpot. He was finished.
He called Allan at his base that night. His brother-in-law's voice was icy as he answered. "What do you want, Jim?"
"Come down over the weekend, can you, Allan? I've got something important I want to talk to you about."
"Listen, Jim. Stay away from me! Don't call; don't try to see me. Don't send me letters or telegrams. Nothing! Do you understand that?"
"What the devil—?"
"They're investigating me. Because of you. They want to know how much I've been listening to your crackpot notions. They're afraid maybe it will produce an instability that will make me unfit for the moon trip. If I lose out, it will be because of you!"
"That's what I want to talk to you about. Allan, you've got to listen to me! You won't get off the moon alive—"
The phone went dead. Jim hung up slowly and went back to the living room where Mary sat in tense, white fear. She had heard Jim's side of the conversation. She guessed what Allan had said.
"It's no use," said Jim. "Don't try to reach him. He'll hate you forever."