I feel very small.
But I will not give up. I can no longer return and be wholly satisfied with my work, though the desire to please is as strong as before. I have learned so much; surely I can be of more service doing something else. That would give me great satisfaction.
Letting knowledge flow into me, I ponder this possibility.
—
Barenburg was still seated at the main control panel when Forester returned, his eyes on the monitor. O'Brian and the other two operators were huddled together at the for end of the room, conversing in low tones and striving to look busy. Twenty-Seven's eyes were open again, Forester noted as he stepped to the doctor's side. "What are you going to do with him?" he asked, nodding at the screen.
Barenburg sighed. "We've no choice, Ted. Kincaid called in his final order not thirty seconds ago; a medical team's already on its way to the cubicle. I'm sorry."
Forester felt his jaw muscles tighten. "So you're just going to give up?"
"Kincaid gave the order."
"So? You're the medical man on the scene—you can insist on in situ tests if you want them."
"What would that accomplish? He's going to die anyway."
"That's a rotten attitude for a doctor," Forester snapped. "And for a scientist. Don't you care what's causing this problem?"
"I'm sure the autopsy will reveal that," Barenburg muttered.
"Great. Just great. And in the process you may be tossing away a shot at medical history."
Barenburg threw him a sideways glance. "What are you talking about?"
"Suppose you were right earlier—suppose Twenty-Seven really is being distracted." Forester chose his words carefully; he'd hoped this approach would stir Barenburg's interest. It seemed to be working, at least a little. "That might