The Sentinel - Arthur C. Clarke [51]
“Well, what do you intend to do now?” Grant asked, anxious to get it over.
“I would like,” said McNeil calmly, “to carry on our discussion where it was interrupted by the coffee.”
“You don’t mean—”
“But I do. Just as if nothing had happened.”
“That doesn’t make sense. You’ve got something up your sleeve!” cried Grant.
McNeil sighed. He put down the poison bottle and looked firmly at Grant.
“You’re in no position to accuse me of plotting anything. To repeat my earlier remarks, I am suggesting that we decide which one of us shall take poison—only we don’t want any more unilateral decisions. Also”—he picked up the bottle again—“it will be the real thing this time. the stuff in here merely leaves a bad taste in the mouth.”
A light was beginning to dawn in Grant’s mind. “You changed the poison!”
“Naturally. You may think you’re a good actor, Grant, but frankly—from the balcony—I thought the performance stank. I could tell you were plotting something, probably before you knew it yourself. In the last few days, I’ve deloused the ship pretty thoroughly. Thinking of all the ways you might have done me in was quite amusing and helped to pass the time. The poison was so obvious that it was the first thing I fixed. But I rather overdid the danger signals and nearly gave myself away when I took the first sip. Salt doesn’t go at all well with coffee.”
He gave that wry grin again. “Also, I’d hoped for something more subtle. So far I’ve found fifteen infallible ways of murdering anyone aboard a spaceship. But I don’t propose to describe them now.”
This was fantastic, Grant thought. He was being treated, not like a criminal, but like a rather stupid schoolboy who hadn’t done his homework properly.
“Yet you’re still willing,” said Grant unbelievingly, “to start all over again? And you’d still take the position yourself if you lost?”
McNeil was silent for a long time. Then he began, slowly, “I can see that you still don’t believe me. It doesn’t fit at all nicely into your tidy little picture does it? But perhaps I can make you understand. It’s really quite simple.
“I’ve enjoyed life, Grant, without many scruples or regrets—but the better part of it’s over now and I don’t cling to what’s left as desperately as you might imagine. Yet while I am alive I’m rather particular about some things.
“It may surprise you to know that I’ve got any ideals at all. But I have, Grant—I’ve always tried to act like a civilized, rational being. I’ve not always succeeded. When I’ve failed I’ve tried to redeem myself.”
He paused, and when he resume it was as though he, and not Grant, was on the defensive. “I’ve never exactly liked you, Grant, but I’ve often admired you and that’s why I’m sorry it’s come to this. I admired you most of all the day the ship was holed.”
For the first time, McNeil seemed to have some difficulty in choosing his words. When he spoke again, he avoided Grant’s eyes.
“I didn’t behave well then. Something happened that I thought was impossible. I’ve always been quite sure that I’d never lose my nerve but—well—it was so sudden it knocked me over.”
He attempted to hide his embarrassment by humor. “The same sort of thing happened on my very first trip. I was sure I’d never be spacesick—and as a result I was much worse than if I had not been over-confident. But I got over it then—and again this time. It was one of the biggest surprises of my life, Grant, when I saw that all of you people were beginning to crack.
“Oh, yes—the business of the wines! I can see you’re thinking about that. Well, that's one thing I don’t regret. I said I’d always tried to act like a civilized man—and a civilized man should always know when to get drunk. But perhaps you wouldn’t understand.”
Oddly enough, that was just what Grant was beginning to do. He had caught his first real glimpse of McNeil’s intricate and tortuous personality and realized how utterly