That the Earth was visible from here was already good and sufficient proof that no more time had elapsed than had been calculated for from the beginning.
This was hardly new to Garrard; it had simply been retired to the back of his mind. Actually he had been doing all this figuring for one reason, and one reason only: because deep in his brain, set to work by himself, there was a mechanism that demanded counting. Long ago, while he was still trying to time the ship’s calendar, he had initiated compulsive countingand it appeared that he had been counting ever since. That had been one of the known dangers of deliberately starting such a mental mechanism; and now it was bearing fruit in these perfectly useless as-tronomical exercises.
The insight was healing. He finished the figures roughly, and that unheard moron deep inside his brain stopped counting at last. It had been pawing its abacus for twenty months now, and Garrard imagined that it was as glad to be retired as he was to feel it go.
His radio squawked, and said anxiously, “DFC-3, DFC-3.
Garrard, do you hear me? Are you still alive? Everybody’s going wild down here. Garrard, if you hear me, call us!”
It was Haertel’s voice. Garrard closed the dividers so convulsively that one of the points nipped into the heel of his hand. “Haertel, I’m here. DF,C-3 to the Project. This is Garrard.” And then, without knowing quite why, he added: “With all of love.”
Haertel, after all the hoopla was over, was more than interested in the time effects. “It certainly enlarges the mani-fold in which I was working,” he said. “But I think we can account for it in the transformation. Perhaps even factor it out, which would eliminate it as far as the pilot is concerned. We’ll see, anyhow.”