But after a few
bites, it was queerly unsatisfactory. The seemingly unappealing
Mars-normal ragout suited his current tastes better, after all.
Once the steward had cleared away the dishes, Doc went to work. It was
better than wasting his time in dread. He might even be able to leave
some notes behind.
A gong sounded, and a red light warned him that acceleration was due. He
finished with his bottles, put them into the incubator, and piled into
his bunk, swallowing one of the tablets of morphetal the ship furnished.
Acceleration had ended, and a simple breakfast was waiting when he
awoke. There was also a red flashing light over the call board. He
flipped the switch while reaching for the coffee.
"Captain Everts," the speaker said. "May I join you in your cabin?"
"Come ahead," Feldman invited. He cut off the switch and glanced at the
clock on the wall. There were less than eleven hours left to him.
Everts was a trim man of forty, erect but not rigid. There was neither
friendliness nor hostility in his glance. His words were courteous as
Doc motioned toward the tray of breakfast. "I've already eaten, thank
you."
He accepted a chair. His voice was apologetic when he began. "This is a
personal matter which I perhaps have no right to bring up. But my wife
is greatly worried about this plague. I violate no confidence in telling
you there is considerable unease, even on Earth, according to messages I
have received.
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