Lee Hayden had sent eleven men to their death in deep space. Now he wanted only to die himself. It was at this crucial point that he met-- He lay in the gutter. In his mouth was the taste of whiskey and defeat. There was mud and filth on his face, on his two-week shirt, on his rag-tag suit; and as the street and the buildings rippled and wavered before his eyes, a tape recorder in his mind played over and over:…
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