But Matt thought he looked wonderful.
Burke pounded on the 'fresher door. "Have you died in there?" He stuck his head in. "Oh-all right, so you look sweet. Now how about getting out?"
"Coming." Matt stalled around the room for a few minutes, then overcome by impatience, tucked his regulation book in his tunic (regulation #383), and went to the refectory. He walked in feeling self-conscious, proud, and about seven feet tall. He sat down at his table, one of the first to arrive. Cadets trickled in; Cadet Sabbatello was one of the last.
The oldster looked grimly down the table. "Attention," he snapped. "All of you-stand up."
Matt jumped to his feet with the rest. Sabbatello sat down. "From now on, gentlemen, make it a rule to wait until your seniors are seated. Be seated." The oldster studied the studs in front of him, punched his order, and looked up. The youngsters had resumed eating. He rapped the table sharply. "Quiet, please. Gentlemen, you have many readjustments to make. The sooner you make them, the happier you will be. Mr. Dodson-stop dunking your toast; you are dripping it on your uniform. Which brings me," he went on, "to the subject of table manners-"
Matt returned to his quarters considerably subdued.
He stopped by Tex's room and found him thumbing through the book of regulations. "Hello, Matt. Say, tell me something-is there anything in this bible that says Mr. Dynkowski has the right to tell me not to blow on my coffee?"
"I see you've had it, too. What happened?"
Jarman's friendly face wrinkled. "Well, I'd begun to think of Ski as an all- right guy, helpful and considerate. But this morning at breakfast he starts out by asking me how I manage to carry around ~all that penalty-weight." Tex glanced at his waist line; Matt noted with surprise that Tex looked quite chubby in cadet uniform.
"All us Jarmans are portly," Tex went on defensively. "He should see my Uncle Bodie. Then he-"
"Skip it," said Matt. "I know the rest of it-now."
"Well, I guess I shouldn't have lost my temper."
"Probably not." Matt looked through the book. "Maybe this will help. It says here that, in case of doubt, you may insist that the officer giving the order put it in writing and stamp his thumb print, or use other means to provide a permanent record."
"Does it, really?" Tex grabbed the book. "That's for me!- 'cause I sure am in doubt. Boy! Just wait and see his face when I pull this one."
"I'd like to," agreed Matt. "Which way do you take the lift, Tex?" The Patrol Rocket Ship Simon Bolivar, transport, was at Santa Barbara Field, having discharged a battalion of Space Marines, but P.R.S. Bolivar could take but about half the new class. The rest were to take the public shuttle rocket from Pike's Peak, launching catapult to Terra Space Station, there to be transferred to the Randolph.
"Transport," Tex answered. "How about you?"
"Me, too. I'd like to see Terra Station, but I'm glad we're going in a Patrol ship. What are you taking with you?"
Tex hauled out his luggage and hefted it. "It's a problem. I've got about fifty pounds here. Do you suppose if I rolled it up real small I could get it down to twenty pounds?"
"An interesting theory," Matt said. "Let's have a look at it-you've got to eliminate thirty pounds of penalty-weight."
Jarman spread his stuff out on the floor. "Well," Matt said at once, "you don't need all those photographs." He pointed to a dozen large stereos, each weighing a pound or more.
Tex looked horrified. "Leave my harem behind?" He picked up one. "There is the sweetest redhead in the entire Rio Grande Valley." He picked up another. "And Smitty-I couldn't get along without Smitty. She thinks I'm wonderful."
"Wouldn't she still think so if you left her pic behind?"
"Oh, of course. But it wouldn't be gallant." He considered. "I'll compromise-I'll leave behind my club."
"Your club?" Matt asked, failing to see anything of that description.
"The one I use to beat off the little darlings when they get too persistent."
"Oh. Maybe someday you'll teach me your secret. Yes, leave your club behind; there aren't any girls in the Randolph."
"Is that good?" demanded Tex.
"I refuse to commit myself." Matt studied the pile. "You know what I'd suggest? Keep that harmonica-I like harmonica music. Have those photos copied in micro. Feed the rest to the cat."
"That's easy for you to say."
"I've got the same problem." He went to his room. The
class had the day free, for the purpose of getting ready to leave Earth. Matt spread his possessions out to look them over. His civilian clothes he would ship home, of course, and his telephone as well, since it was limited by its short range to the neighborhood of an earth-side relay office.
He made a note to telephone home before he packed the instrument. Might as well make one other call, too, he decided; even though he was resolved not to waste time on girls in his new life, it would be polite to phone and say good-by. He did so.
He put the instrument down a few minutes later, baffled to find that he had apparently promised to write regularly.
He called home, spoke with his parents and kid brother, -and then put the telephone with things to be shipped. He was scratching his head over what remained when Burke came in. He grinned. "Trying to swallow your penalty-weight?"
Till figure it out."
"You don't have to leave that junk behind, you know."
"Huh?"
"Ship it up to Terra Station, rent a locker, and store it. Then, when you go on liberty to the Station, you can bring back what you want. Sneak it aboard, if it's that sort of thing." Matt made no comment; Burke went on, "What's the matter, Galahad? Shocked at the notion of running contraband?"
"No. But I don't have a locker at Terra Station."
"Well, if you're too cheap to rent one, you can ship the stuff to mine. You scratch me and I'll scratch you."
"No, thanks." He thought about expressing some things to the Terra Station post office, then discarded the idea- the rates were too high. He went' on sorting. He would keep his camera, but his micro kit would have to go, and his chessmen. Presently he had cut the list to what he hoped was twenty pounds; he took the stuff away to weigh it.
Reveille and breakfast were an hour early the next day. Shortly after breakfast the call-to-muster ran through Hay-worth Hall, to be followed by heart-quickening strains of "Raise Ship!" Matt slung his jump bag over his shoulder and hurried down to the lower corridors. He pushed his way through a throng of excited youngster cadets and found his assigned area.
Muster was by squads and Matt was a temporary squad leader, as his name came first, alphabetically, in his squad. He had been, given a list; he reached into his pouch and had an agonizing moment of thinking he had left it up in his room before his fingers closed on it. "Dodsworth!"
"Here."
"Dunstan,"
"Here."
He was still working through Frankel, Freund, and Funston when the oldster mustering the entire corridor shouted for him to report. He hurried to a conclusion, faced around, and saluted. "Squad nineteen-all present!"
Someone tittered and Matt realized suddenly that he had used the scout salute, rather than the relaxed, open-palmed gesture of the Patrol. His cheeks burned.
A brassy amplified voice called out, "AH deck parties report." In turn, the oldster in Mart's corridor called out, "Third deck party, all present." When all reports were in there was a momentary silence, long enough for Matt to have a spine-tingling anticipation of what was to come. Would they? But they were doing so; the voice over the speaker called out: "Dahlquist?"
Another voice-heard only through the speaker-replied, "I answer for him."
It went on, until the Four were mustered, whereupon the first voice stated, "All present, sir."
"Man the ship."
They mounted a slidewalk, to step off in a large underground room, far out under Santa Barbara Field. There were eight large elevators arranged in a wide circle around the room. Matt and his squad were crowded into one of them and mounted to the surface. Up it went, much higher than had been necessary to enter the test-flight rocket, up and up, close by the huge bulk of the Bolivar.