'Odd picture you showed there at the beginning,' he said casually.
'Yeah.' The cans were being shoved into their protective cases. 'Kind of surprised me when your dad phoned up and asked me to show it. Very old, you know. From the early days of interplanetary travel.'
Lesbee did not trust himself to speak. He nodded, pretended to inspect the room, and then went out – scarcely looking where he was going.
For an hour he wandered around the ship and, gradually, a coherent purpose formed in his mind. He must see his father.
That was unique because he had not spoken to his father except in monosyllables since his mother's death.
3
He found the old man in the spacious living room of the apartment the two of them shared. At seventy-odd, John Lesbee had learned to keep his counsel, so he merely glanced up when his son entered, greeted him courteously, and resumed reading.
A minute went by before the father grew aware that his son had not gone on to his own bedroom. He glanced up again, surprised now. 'Yes?' he said. 'Anything I can do for you?'
Young Lesbee hesitated. A formless emotion was upon him, a desire to be at peace with the other. He had never forgiven his father for the death of his mother.
He said abruptly, 'Dad, why did Mother kill herself?'
Captain Lesbee put down his book. He seemed suddenly paler, though the color was hard to judge on a face that was naturally gray-white. He drew a slow, deep breath. 'We-e-l-ll,' he said, 'what a question!' His voice sounded breathless, and his eyes were bright.
'I think I should know,' Lesbee persisted.
There was silence – that lengthened. The lined face of the old man continued to be colorless; his eyes remained unnaturally bright.