The closer to the star we got, the stronger field we were in, so the farther up the ions struck.
“Of course,” finished Maclaren in a tired voice, “all these quantities are just estimates, using simple algebra. Since we slanted across the magnetic field, you’d need a vectoral differential equation to describe exactly what happened. You might find occasion to change my figures by a factor of five or six. But I think I have the general idea.”
“Yes-s-s,” said Nakamura, “I think you do.”
They hung side by side in dimness and looked out at the eye-hurting bright stars.
“Do you know,” said Maclaren, “there is one sin which is punished with unfailing certainty, and must therefore be the deadliest sin in all time. Stupidity.”
“I am not so sure.” Nakamura’s reply jarred him a little, by its sober literal-mindedness. “I have known many . . . well, shall I call them unintellectual people . . . who lived happy and useful lives.”
“I wasn’t referring to that kind of stupidity.” Maclaren went through the motions of a chuckle. “I meant our own kind. Yours and mine. We bear the guilt, you know. We should have stopped and thought the situation over before rushing in. I did want to approach more slowly, measuring as we went, and you overruled me.”
“I am ashamed,” said Nakamura. He bent his face toward his hands.
“No, let me finish. I should have come here with a well-thought-out program in mind. I gave you no valid reasons not to establish a close-in orbit at once. My only grumble was that you wouldn’t allow me time to take observations as we went toward the star. You were perfectly justified, on the basis of the information available to you—Oh, the devils take it! I bring this up only so you’ll know what topics to avoid with our shipmates—who must also bear some of the blame for not thinking—because we can’t afford quarrels.” Maclaren felt his cheeks crease in a sort of grin. “I have no interest in the guilt question anyway. My problem is strictly pragmatic: I want out of here!”
Ryerson emerged from the living-quarter screen. Maclaren saw him first as a shadow. Then the young face came so near
that he could see the eyes unnaturally bright and the lips shaking.
“What have you found, Dave?” The question ripped from him before he thought.
Ryerson looked away from them both. Thickly: “We can’t do it. There aren’t enough replacement parts to make a f-f-functioning . . . a web—we can’t.”
“I knew that,” said Nakamura. “Of course. But we have instruments and machine tools. There is bar metal in the hold, which we can shape to our needs. The only problem is—”
“Is where to get four kilos of pure germanium!” Ryerson screamed it. The walls sneered at him with echoes. “Down on that star, maybe?”