That official looked up. "No questions, please."
"I don't have a question," Matt said. "I want to report something. There's something wrong with that test. Maybe the wrong instructions sheet was put in there. In any case, there is no possible way to make a score under the instructions that are in there."
"Oh, come, now!" the examiner answered. "Are you sure of that?"
Matt hesitated, then answered firmly, "I'm sure of it, Want to see my proof?"
"No. Your name is Dodson?" The examiner glanced at a timer, then wrote on a chart. "That's all."
"But- Don't I get a chance to make a score?"
"No questions, please! I've recorded your score. Get along -it's dinner time."
There were a large number of vacant places at dinner. Cadet Sabbatello looked down the long table. "I see there have been some casualties," he remarked. "Congratulations, gentlemen, for having survived thus far."
"Sir-does that mean we've passed all the tests we took today?" one of the candidates asked.
"Or at least won a retest. You haven't flunked." Matt sighed with relief. "Don't get your hopes up. There will be still fewer of you here tomorrow."
"Does it get worse?" the candidate went on.
Sabbatello grinned wickedly. "Much worse. I advise you all to eat little at breakfast. However," he went on, "I have good news, too. It is rumored that the Commandant himself is coming down to Terra to honor you "with his presence when you are sworn in-if you are sworn in."
Most of those present looked blank. The cadet glanced around. "Come, come, gentlemen!" he said sharply. "Surely not all of you are that ignorant. You!" He addressed Matt. "Mister, uh-Dodson. You seem to have some glimmering of what I am talking about. Why should you feel honored at the presence of the Commandant?"
Matt gulped. "Do you mean the Commandant of the Academy, sir?"
"Naturally. What do you know about him?"
"Well, sir, he's Commodore Arkwright." Matt stopped, as if the name were explanation.
"And what distinguishes Commodore Arkwright?"
"Uh, he's blind, sir."
"Not blind, Mr. Dodson, not blind! It simply happens that he had his eyes burned out. How did he lose his eyesight?" The cadet stopped him. "No-don't tell them. Let them find out for themselves."
The cadet resumed eating and Matt did likewise, while thinking about Commodore Arkwright. He himself had been too young to pay attention to the news, but his father had read an account of the event to him-a spectacular, single-handed rescue of a private yacht in distress, inside the orbit of
Mercury. He had forgotten just how the Patrol officer had exposed his eyes to the Sun-something to do with transferring the yacht's personnel-but he could still hear his father reading the end of the report: "-these actions are deemed to be in accordance with the tradition of the Patrol."
He wondered if any action of his would ever receive that superlative distinction. Unlikely, he decided; "duty satisfactorily performed" was about the best an ordinary man could hope for.
Matt ran into Tex Jarman as he left the mess hall. Tex pounded him on the back. "Glad to see you, kid. Where are you rooming?"
"I haven't had time to look up my room yet."
"Let's see your sheet." Jarman took it. "We're in the same corridor-swell. Let's go up."
They found the room and walked in. Sprawled on the lower of two bunks, reading and smoking a cigarette, was another candidate. He looked up.
"Enter, comrades," he said, "Don't bother to knock."
"We didn't," said Tex.
"So I see." The boy sat up. Matt recognized the boy who had made the crack about Tex's boots. He decided to say nothing-perhaps they would not recognize each other. The lad continued, "Looking for someone?"
"No," Matt answered, "this is the room I'm assigned to."
"My roommate, eh? Welcome to the palace. Don't trip over the dancing girls. I put your stuff on your bed."
The sack containing Matt's bag and civilian clothes rested on the upper bunk. He dragged it down.
"What do you mean, his bed?" demanded Tex. "You ought to match for the lower bunk."
Matt's roommate shrugged. "First come, first served."
Tex clouded up. "Forget it, Tex," Matt told him. "I prefer the upper. By the way," he went on, to the other boy, "I'm Matt Dodson."
"Girard Burke, at your service."
The room was adequate but austere. Matt slept in a hydraulic bed at home, but he had used mattress beds in summer camp. The adjoining refresher was severely functional but very modern. Matt noted with pleasure that the shower was installed with robot massage. There was no shave mask, but shaving was not yet much of a chore.
In his wardrobe he found a package, marked with his serial number, containing two sets of clothing and a second pair of space boots. He stowed them and his other belongings; then turned to Tex. "Well, what’ll we do now?"
"Let's look around the joint."
"Fine. Maybe we can go through the Kilroy."
Burke chucked his cigarette toward the oubliette. "Wait a sec. I'll go with you." He disappeared into the 'fresher.
Tex said in a low voice. "Tell him to go fly a kite, Matt."
"It'ud be a pleasure. But I'd rather get along with him, Tex."
"Well, maybe they'll eliminate him tomorrow."
"Or me." Matt smiled wryly.
"Or me. Shucks, no, Matt-we'll get by. Have you thought about a permanent roomie? Want to team up?"
"It's a deal." They shook hands.
"I'm glad that's settled," Tex went on. "My cellmate is a nice little guy, but he's got a blood brother, or some such, he wants to room with. Came to see him before dinner. They chattered away in Hindustani, I guess it was. Made me nervous. Then they shifted to Basic out of politeness, and that made me more nervous."
"You don’t look like the nervous type."
"Oh, all us Jarmans are high strung. Take my Uncle Bodie. Got so excited at the county fair he -jumped between the shafts of a sulky and won two heats before they could catch him and throw him."
"Is that so?"
"My solemn word. Didn't pay off, though. They disqualified him because he wasn't a two-year-old."
Burke joined them and they sauntered down to the rotunda. Several hundred other candidates had had the same idea but the administration had anticipated the rush. A cadet stationed at the stairway into the pit was permitting visitors in parties of ten only, each party supervised by a cadet. Burke eyed the queue. "Simple arithmetic tells me there's no point in waiting."
Matt hesitated. Tex said, "Come on, Matt. Some will get tired and drop out."
Burke shrugged, said, "So long, suckers," and wandered away.
Matt said doubtfully, "I think he's right, Tex."
"Sure-but I got rid of him, didn't I?"
The entire rotunda was a museum and memorial hall of the Patrol. The boys found display after display arranged around the walls-the original log of the first ship to visit Mars, a photo of the take-off of the disastrous first Venus expedition, a model of the German rockets used in the Second Global War, a hand-sketched map of the far side of the Moon, found in the wrecked Kilroy.
They came to an alcove the back wall of which was filled by a stereo picture of an outdoor scene. They entered and found themselves gazing, in convincing illusion, out across a hot and dazzling lunar plain, with black sky, stars, and Mother Terra herself in the background.
In the foreground, life size, was a young man dressed in an old-fashioned pressure suit. His features could be seen clearly through his helmet, big mouth, merry eyes, and ; thick sandy hair cut in the style of the previous century.
Under the picture was a line of lettering: Lieutenant Ezra. . Dahlquist, Who Helped Create the Tradition of the Pa- , trol-1969-1996. '\
Matt whispered, "There ought to be a notice posted somewhere to tell us what he did."
"I don't see any," Tex whispered back. "Why are you whispering?"
"I'm not-yes, I guess I was. After all, lie can't hear us, can he? Oh-there's a vocal!"