The tall man stepped down into the corridor, and the light flashed in his deep-set eyes, almost hidden behind thrusting ledges of bone. The man's face was hard and square-featured.
"My name is Robert Murdock," said the tall figure in the neat patrol uniform. "I am 41 years of age, a rocket pilot going home to Earth." He paused. "And I am sound of mind and body."
Murdock nodded slowly. "Indeed you are," he said.
"How much longer do you have, sir?"
"Another ten minutes. Perhaps a few seconds beyond that," replied Murdock.
"I—I'm sorry," said the tall figure.
Murdock smiled. He knew that a machine, however perfect, could not experience the emotion of sorrow, but it eased him to hear the words.
You will be fine, he thought. You will serve well in my place and my parents will never suspect that their son has not come home to them.
"It must all be perfect," said Murdock.
"Of course," said the machine. "When the month I am to spend with them is over they'll see me board a rocket for space—and they'll understand that I cannot return to them for another twenty years. They will accept the fact that a spaceman must return to the stars, that he cannot leave the service before he is 60. Let me assure you, sir, it will all go well."