 What is the irony in Ben's contempt for a single action destroying "a man's life and his dream?"
With never a moment to rest, the pursuit through space felt like a game of hounds and hares ... or was it follow the leader? Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fist thudded into its jaw. You can defeat him or submit to him or ignore him, and the matter is over and done. And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the Odyssey —the first ship, it was rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhaps beyond. You can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years in prison and a dishonorable discharge. They don't want new men over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-class jet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. Or— There were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen who operated from the Solar System's frontiers. And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, the souped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. So , Ben reflected, you can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously. After all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificant second, to destroy a man's life and his dream? So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant, and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.
 He'd just done the same to a man by striking him without thought, and is now running from his guilt.
 If he had stayed and made the decision to confess, he wouldn't have ruined his life.  He'd just deliberately ended a man's life, and his running from what he's done.  It's against the morals of what he claims to stand by.  He'd just done the same to a man by striking him without thought, and is now running from his guilt.