And he, Anton Perceveral, had scouted the minimum-survival requirements on Theta for these people; and had, in some measure, given hope and promise to the least capable among them—the incompetents who also wanted to live.
He turned away from the stream of pioneers and entered the ship by a rear ladder. He walked down a corridor and entered Haskell’s cabin.
“Well, Anton,” Haskell said, “how do they look to you?”
“They seem like a nice group,” Perceveral said.
“They are. Those people consider you their founding father, Anton. They want you here. Will you stay?”
Perceveral said, “I consider Theta my home.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll just—”
“Wait,” Perceveral said. “I’m not finished. I consider Theta my home. I want to settle here, marry, raise kids. But not yet.”
“Eh?”
“I’ve grown pretty fond of exploring,” Perceveral said. “I’d like to do some more of it. Maybe one or two more planets. Then I’ll settle down on Theta.”
“I was afraid you might want that,” Haskell said unhappily.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. But I’m afraid we can’t use you again as an explorer, Anton.”
“Why not?”
“You know what we need. Minimum-survival personalities for staking out future colonies. You cannot by any stretch of the imagination be considered a minimum-survival personality any longer.”
“But I’m the same man I always was!” Perceveral said. “Oh, sure, I improved on the planet. But you expected that and had the robot to compensate for it. And at the end—”
“Yes, what about that?”
“Well, at the end I just got carried away. I think I was drunk or something. I can’t imagine how I acted that way.”
“Still, that’s how you did act.”
“Yes. But look! Even with that, I barely survived the experience—the total experience on Theta! Barely! Doesn’t that prove I’m still a minimum-survival personality?”
Haskell pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. “Anton, you almost convince me. But I’m afraid you’re indulging in a bit of word juggling. In all honesty, I can’t view you as minimum any longer. I’m afraid you’ll just have to put up with your lot on Theta.”
Perceveral’s shoulders slumped. He nodded wearily, shook hands with Haskell and turned to go.
As he turned, the edge of his sleeve caught Haskell’s inkstand, brushing it off the table. Perceveral lunged to catch it and banged his hand against the desk. Ink splattered over him. He fumbled again, tripped over a chair, fell.
“Anton,” Haskell asked, “was that an act?”
“No,” Perceveral said. “It wasn’t, damn it.”
“Hmm. Interesting. Now, Anton, don’t raise your hopes too high, but maybe—I say just maybe—”
Haskell stared hard at Perceveral’s flushed face, then burst into laughter.
“What a devil you are, Anton! You almost had me fooled. Now will you kindly get the hell out of here and join the colonists? They’re dedicating a statue to you and I think they’d like to have you present.”
Shamefaced, but grinning in spite of it, Anton Perceveral walked out to meet his new destiny.