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found himself in a control

module which was in every respect identical to the one on the other ship

-- it even smelled as bad -- and differed only in the figure occupying

the supernumary's position.
     
     
McCullough gave Hollis a long, sympathetic, clinical look and then

sighed. Unoriginally he said, "What seems to be the trouble?"
     
     
     
     
chapter five
     
     
It was a simple question but McCullough knew the answer would be a

complicated one. Hollis was a distressed and deeply troubled man.
     
     
There was, of course, no provision for taking baths on the Prometheus

expedition, but the crews had periodic alcohol rubdowns to unclog their

pores, the alcohol being filtered out and reclaimed by the air circulation

system. While their meals lacked bulk, they contained all the necessary

vitamins. Even so, as McCullough peeled the one-piece coverall from

Hollis' shoulders and arms he could not help thinking about ancient

sailing ships with water going green in their casks and the crews down

with scurvy or worse . . .
     
     
A large area of the physicist's body had obviously not known the alcohol

pad for months -- the skin was clogged and dry and scaling -- and his

arms, chest and shoulders were covered with raw patches and sores,

the condition extending up to his face and neck. Despite having no

fingernails to speak of, it was plain that Hollis had been continually

picking or rubbing at them through his coveralls until his body must

have become one great, livid itch.
     
     
"Can you remember when this trouble started?" McCullough asked quietly,

trying to ignore the pricklings of the sympathetic itch that was creeping

over his own body.
     
     
"About -- about nine weeks out," Hollis answered. His eyes would not meet

McCullough's and his hands twitched and crawled all over his body.

He went on, "I suppose it started about two weeks after Drew let slip --

after I found out what they were doing. But I can't tell you about that."
     
     
"Why not?" said McCullough, smiling. "I don't shock very easily, you know."
     
     
Hollis looked startled and for a moment he almost laughed, then he said

quickly, apologetically, "I'm sorry, I gave you the wrong impression.

It isn't shocking like that. They -- they have a secret. They do have a secret! Of course they don't know I know about it. Walters and

Berryman aren't in on it, either. Or you. But it's bad. You have no idea

how bad. But I'm sorry -- I can't tell you about it, I don't know how

you'd react. You might let something slip to Morrison. Or you might blow

the whole thing wide open and be a party to . . . I suppose it would be

mutiny. I'm sorry, it wouldn't be fair to burden you with this thing.

I -- I don't want to talk about it."
     
     
But it was quite obvious that he did want to talk about it, desperately,

and that McCullough would have very little coaxing to do to have this

deep, dark, desperate secret revealed to him in its entirety. He said,

still smiling, "I expect you know best. But it would have been nice to

take back a juicy piece of gossip to the other ship . . ."
     
     
"This is serious, damn you!"
     
     
"Very well," McCullough said, less pleasantly. "Your present condition

is something we will have to talk about. And because I prefer

the talk to be private, and Morrison and Drew have a limited supply of

air out there, we will have to cut a few corners.
     
     
"Since everyone on this expedition seems to be very well informed

on the subjects of psychiatry and psychology," he went on, smiling again,

"I'll assume that you have a fair understanding of the operation of the

subconscious mind. You will be aware of the perfectly normal pressures,

conflicts of personality and basic insecurities to which all of us are

subject, also of the fact that these are seriously aggravated by our

present environment. This being so, you must realize that your physical

trouble, this unsightly and uncomfortable skin condition, has a