The Colonel nodded indifferently. He was a small wiry man with cold blue eyes. He requested all three of their books, examined them minutely while the doctor fidgeted and Norman sweated to get away from that still form on the deck. After questioning them again, he took their names in a notebook, dismissed them.
Once in the lounge, Norman lit a cigarette, inhaled it gratefully.
The doctor said, "I prescribe a stiff shot of brandy."
Norman didn't drink. He believed alcohol impaired thinking. Nevertheless, he seconded the doctor's suggestion. Spirits, he decided reluctantly, had their uses.
The murder had riven a crack in Norman Saint Clair's complacency. His safe world was crumbling about his ears. He recalled the Captain's charge that Earth was decadent. It was true that more and more Outlanders, men born in the colonies, were grasping power. Could it be possible that in his academic isolation he had missed the real pulse of life.
Jennifer said, "Whatever are you thinking, Norman? Your eyes look as if you were miles away."
With a start, he realized that the pair of them were waiting for him. "I? I was thinking that—that. Oh bother thinking. Let's get that drink."
II
Aboard the Jupiter day and night were artificially simulated. Norman Saint Clair awoke the next morning with a sense of disaster strong in his mind. He rose, stretched, went to the quartzite port. They had picked up their escort during the night.