Nobody said anything, at first.
Braun watched them, a humorous half-defiant glint in his eye. But there was pain in him, in his voice as he spoke.
"What's the matter? Am I poison, or something?"
Somebody said it, then. In a stage whisper. "I had friends on the Venture IV."
"So did I," Braun answered quickly. "A lot of friends. So before somebody works up nerve to ask, I don't know."
"Don't know?" a man named Cutter pursued the point coldly. "You were there!..."
"I was there," admitted Braun. "I still say it. I don't know what happened to anybody. I've told the authorities that over and over. I've told anybody who'd listen. You don't have to believe me. I don't give a—"
"Nobody's told us anything," Cutter insisted. "We haven't heard a whisper about it. And, speaking for all of us, we'd like to be sure about you ... before we go on drinking at the same bar...."
It was going to be like that as long as Braun lived. People will talk, and if there's a choice, they'll guess the ugly thing, every time. Wherever he went, there would be people to ask that question, and somebody to smirk if he answered it.
You could see trouble coming. Whatever Braun answered....