With great effort the boy raised a bandaged hand to his lips and ran his tongue across the white gauze. The movement left a red streak. "You see?" he said. "You see that? I'm bleeding out my guts. I'll sleep, all right. I'll really sleep, and it'll be your fault, Hurtz." "Listen, Jones," Hurtz said, deliberately lying, "you'll be all right. Don't you see?" "No, damn you. No. And if you hadn't forced yourself onto this run, this wouldn't have happened." "Jones," Hurtz said, trying to keep his voice soft. "These things just happen, that's all. This is nobody's fault. You fly these damned runs, you take your chances. But you're going to be all right, son." "Don't call me that!" the boy said, and now his voice was higher, louder, and Hurtz could see a little of the blood showing on a corner of the boy's mouth. "Son, son! I'm as good a pilot as anybody. You or Gearing or Royce or anybody in the stinking service! I didn't need your damned help, and that's what did it. Sitting there, watching me every minute, making me tighten up until I couldn't fly a kite. It's your fault, and why the hell couldn't you have died or gone back to your stupid Martian farm...." The boy was crying. A thin trickle of blood crawled down his chin. Hurtz took a step forward. "Kid, listen. I wanted to help you, and...." "Keep the hell away from me!" the boy screamed. Hurtz froze. He hadn't realized either how badly hurt the boy had been or how much resentment had lain beneath the boy's cold exterior. He was beginning to feel some of the guilt that was placed on him by the look in the boy's staring eyes. "But why?" he asked himself. "Why? When all he had wanted to do was help someone?" "I know how you're feeling," Hurtz said, trying to be patient and calm. "I really do, but you can't blame anyone for this." The boy remained silent and condemning, and Hurtz knew that his words were ringing hollowly in the cabin. Still he tried: "Look. I've crashed before, on a dozen planets. But that's the way it works. And that's why I wanted to help you. I wanted to quit on this last one, don't you see? For twenty unholy years I've been trying to own a piece of my own land where I could say, 'This is my own world,' and what I tried to do by going with you, was make it easier for you. Because in you, I could see myself twenty years ago. Don't you see?" The boy said nothing. "I wanted to give it up and quit, but I thought if I could show you something, teach you something...." He cut the words short because he could feel himself pleading. There was no need for this. What he had done had been a sacrifice, and if the boy couldn't see that, then it was because he was hurt and in great pain. "If I had a medal," the boy said hoarsely, "I'd shove it down your rotten throat." Hurtz ran the palms of his hands down the sides of his trousers. "I'll give you another shot and then I'll get the radio set up. You'll be all right."