There was a surge of fear, then self-pity, then shame as he realized that the level of terror he felt of being without tobacco was easily equal to his concerns about food stores in the future.
The five hours of sleep that Lamont had managed to get felt woefully inadequate to prepare him for the task ahead. After a mumbled acknowledgement to Lazarus, he had returned to the darkness of his cabin and stumbled over his discarded expedition jacket. The only light came from the small lamp over his bunk, which shown through the decorative screen partition to cast thick geometric shadows over the small, sparse room. Lamont fell into his swiveling desk chair and scooped up the jacket in one awkward movement before spreading the canvas garment over his lap to fish through its many pockets. After a few moments, his fingers found the cold, smooth surface of his cigarette case. The metal box was heavy in his hand as he turned it over in his fingers twice before flipping it open. The case was nearly empty, his thumb sliding over an expanse of textured metal before it found the yielding surface of one of the thin paper cylinders. He pulled the cigarette from beneath the holding clip and placed it in his mouth, setting the case, still open, on the top of his desk beside his typewriter. He let the jacket slide to the floor again and reached across his desk for a box of matches. In the thin air, the matches were hesitant to ignite, and he discarded two of them before finally succeeding in setting the cigarette alight. He took a deep pull of the smoke, leaning back in his chair. It felt raw in his throat, simultaneously uncomfortable and deeply comforting.
Nobody told you that you have to go, mate. The thought seemed to be carried into his brain by the ghostly tendrils of smoke. You could stay here, catch up on sleep. No one is asking anything of you right now.
Lamont pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk, which was filled with stacked boxes of cigarettes. He had arrived on Westward with a two year supply, which could be augmented if necessary by hand-rolled cigarettes rationed from the ship's supply of hydroponic tobacco. His hand hesitated briefly as he recalled the image of Westward drifting listlessly in space, a cloud of ice particles encircling one of its two hydroponic bays. There was a surge of fear, then self-pity, then shame as he realized that the level of terror he felt of being without tobacco was easily equal to his concerns about food stores in the future. He remembered the utter revulsion with which Francis had responded to the suggestion of returning home. What have you gotten yourself into, Monty?
He drew a box from his desk and began mechanically restocking his cigarette case as the hot smoke circulated through him. A few moments later, he snapped the small metal case closed again, gripping it tightly in his fingers. His eyes darted from one object to the next in the stifling shadows of his cabin: The chrome and faux leather of his boxy recorder, the streamlined bulk of his electronic typewriter, the collection of framed newspaper clippings above his desk. His gaze rested on the familiar symmetry of a particular clipping with a photograph of two figures, accompanied by a headline that was burned into his memory: A NEW AGE OF EXPANSION FOR MANKIND. Behind this clipping, burning with its own dangerous levels of radiation, was the token he had obtained from the pygmy inhabitant of Epiphany Rex weeks earlier.
Feeling a surge of anger toward himself, Lamont stood and mashed the butt of his cigarette into the glass ashtray on his desk. He found himself repeating aloud what he had told Harry, his editor at the Atlantic Free Press, nearly two years before.
"I'm a newspaperman."