A year of living in the station on Jupiter V without any functionas a man whose drain on the station’s supplies no longer could be justified in terms of what he did. A year of living under the eyes of Eva Chavez and Charity Dillon and the other men and women who still remained Bridge operators, men and women who would not hesitate to let him know what they thought of his quitting.
A year of living as a bystander in the feverish excitement of direct, personal exploration of Jupiter. A year of watching and hearing the inevitable deathswhile he alone stood aloof, privileged and useless. A year during which Robert Helmuth would become the most hated living entity in the Jovian system.
And, when he got back to Chicago and went looking for a jobfor his resignation from the Bridge gang would automatically take him out of government servicehe would be asked why he left the Bridge at the moment when work on the Bridge was just reaching its culmination.
He began to understand why the man in the dream had volunteered.
When the trick-change bell rang, he was still determined to resign, but he had already concluded bitterly that there were, after all, other kinds of hells besides the one on Jupiter.
He was returning the board to neutral as Charity came up the cleats. Charity’s eyes were snapping like a skyful of com-ets. Helmuth had known that they would be.
“Senator Wagoner wants to speak to you, if you’re not too tired, Bob,” he said. “Go ahead; I’ll finish up there.”
“He does?” Helmuth frowned. The dream surged back upon him. NO. “They would not rush him any faster than he wanted to go. “What about, Charity? Am I suspected of un-Westem activities? I suppose you’ve told them how I feel.”