This isn't a fight to be won, not really. He doesn't have a damn leg to stand on- so he doesn't yell back. Doesn't holler or bluster or scowl. He just-

Sips his whiskey and leans back in his chair, staring up at Jim with all the weary resignation he's got left in his heart. He hasn't had his moment of raging at the stars just yet- that'll come. He was hoping to be alone for it. Spare anyone the poison of hope that him being angry would mean he'd try to find a cure.

There isn't one. There's never been one. "You were supposed to stay with the ship. I got a backlog of holos for you. Got a lotta writing to do for you. Figure I got enough time and energy in me to give you three, four decades worth of the recorded stuff, more of the handwritten. Shouldn't lose my dexterity till month nine, at least."

He's read the studies. Done the math. It's-

Inevitable. There's no winning this.