Hoots from the crowd. Eric frowned. He had thought they would respect the planners, the men whose vision had sent Man—here in this ship—outward bound to the stars.
Larkin's voice was honey now. "Don't judge our new king by those who sent him. Don't—"
Laughter, and shouts of "Hail, Lazarus!" The people, Eric suddenly realized, were almost primitive. Larkin and Lindquist and a handful of others ran the ship, had somehow maintained the science of another generation. But the lack of conflict, of challenge, had sent the people down a rung or two on the ladder of civilization. Handpicked, their ancestors had been—but they were a common mob.
Someone cried, "He's seen Earth. Ask him to tell us about Earth!"
"Ask him!"
Captain Larkin smiled. "Tell them, Taine. Tell your new subjects. You have so little time."
"What do you mean, so little time?"
"Tell them!" And Larkin turned away, laughing.
They were primitive, these people, and as the girl Laurie had said, they needed a scapegoat. They didn't like it here on the ship. There had been a first generation which had known Earth and could savor its flavor through the long years like a delicate wine. And there would be a last which could get out on the Centaurian planet, stretch its legs, and build civilization anew. But these in between were in limbo. They lived and they died on the ship, and it wasn't their idea. They would breed so that the ship would still have a crew when it reached Centauri. That was their function. But they didn't like it.
All this went through Eric's mind. Perhaps the girl had no psychosis, perhaps her warning had been sincere. He wondered if the long sleep had dulled his instincts, his reflexes.