It was an attitude which the best specialists in the functioning of the emotions had been unable to control. Roy Larkin seemed to have been born with the grim intention of grabbing everything that was handy, and to hell with everybody else. When his father, knowing the inevitable outcome of such an attitude, had been driven finally to interfere, the explosion had been catastrophic.
Larkin's ears still burned with the memory of what he had been called. "A stupid fool. An incompetent jackass. An idiot without enough sense to come in out of the rain!" There had been other words too. At the end of the argument, the youth had slugged his father. This had happened when he was twenty.
Boyd Larkin had come to Mars then, a grim, bitter, disappointed and frustrated man fleeing from all memories. He had hoped never to hear of his son again.
But his son had come to him here on Mars.
"I'm taking over," Roy Larkin said. "The fact that you're my old man won't get you anything."
"You're taking over? I thought Docker—"
"Docker works for me."
"What?"
"You heard me." The voice was blunt. It stated a fact. "I listened while he talked to you last night. I wanted to get an estimate of the situation. Of course, we'll take care of you. We'll leave you in charge of the station here."
"But—"