Minor Ingredient
Astounding – March 1956
(1956)*
Eric Frank Russell

	He dragged his bags and cases out of the car, dumped them on the concrete, paid off the driver. Then he turned and looked at the doors that were going to swallow him for four long years.

	Big doors, huge ones of solid oak. They could have been the doors of a penitentiary save for what was hand-carved in the center of a great panel. Just a circle containing a four-pointed star. And underneath in small, neat letters the words: "God bless you."

	Such a motto in such a place looked incongruous, in fact somewhat silly. A star was all right for a badge, yes. Or an engraved, stylized rocketship, yes. But underneath should have been "Onward, Ever Onward" or "Excelsior" or something like that.

	He rang the doorbell. A porter appeared, took the bags and cases into a huge ornate hall, asked him to wait a moment. Dwarfed by the immensity of the place he fidgeted around uneasily, refrained from reading the long roll of names embossed upon one wall. Four men in uniform came out of a corridor, marched across the hall in dead-straight line with even step, glanced at him wordlessly and expressionlessly, went out the front. He wondered whether they despised his civilian clothes.

	The porter reappeared, conducted him to a small room in which a wizened, bald-headed man sat behind a desk. Baldhead gazed at him myopically through old-fashioned and slightly lopsided spectacles.

	"May I have your entry papers, please." He took them, sought through them, muttering to himself in an undertone. "Umph, umph! Warner McShane for pilot-navigator course and leader commission." He stood up, offered a thin, soft hand. "Glad to meet you, Mr. McShane. Welcome to Space Training College."

	"Thank you," said McShane, blank-faced.

	"God bless you," said Baldhead. He turned to the waiting porter. "Mr. McShane has been assigned Room Twenty, Mercer's House."

	They traipsed across a five-acre square of neatly trimmed grass around which stood a dozen blocks of apartments. Behind them, low and far, could be seen an array of laboratories, engineering shops, testpits, lecture halls, classrooms and places of yet unknown purpose. Farther still, a mile or more behind those, a model spaceport holding four Earthbound ships cemented down for keeps.

	Entering a building whose big lintel was inscribed "Mercer's," they took an elevator to the first floor, reached Room 20. It was compact, modestly furnished but comfortable. A small bedroom led off it to one side, a bathroom on the other.

	Stacking the luggage against a wall, the porter informed, "Commodore Mercer commands this house, sir, and Mr. Billings is your man. Mr. Billings will be along shortly."

	"Thank you," said McShane.

	When the porter had gone he sat on the arm of a chair and pondered his arrival. This wasn't quite as he'd expected. The place had a reputation equaled by no other in a hundred solar systems. Its fame rang far among the stars, all the way from here to the steadily expanding frontiers. The man fully trained by S. T. C. was somebody, really somebody. The man accepted for training was lucky, the one who got through it was much to be envied.

	Grand Admiral Kennedy, supreme commander of all space forces, was a graduate of S. T. C. So were a hundred more now of formidable rank and importance. Things must have changed a lot since their day. The system must have been plenty tough long, long ago but had softened up considerably since. Perhaps the entire staff had been here too long and were suffering from senile decay.

	A discreet knock sounded on the door and he snapped, "Come in."

	The one who entered looked like visible confirmation of his theory. A bent-backed oldster with a thousand wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and white muttonchop whiskers sticking grotesquely from his cheeks.

	"I am Billings, sir. I shall be attending to your needs while you are here." His aged eyes turned toward the luggage. "Do you mind if I unpack now, sir?"

	"I can manage quite well for myself, thank you." McShane stifled a grim smile. By the looks of it the other stood in more need of helpful service.

	"If you will permit me to assist—"

	"The day I can't do my own unpacking will be the day I'm paralyzed or dead," said McShane. "Don't trouble yourself for me."

	"As you wish, sir, but—"

	"Beat it, Billings."

	"Permit me to point out, sir, that—"

	"No, Billings, you may not point out," declared McShane, very firmly. 

	"Very well." Billings withdrew quietly and with dignity. 

	Old fusspot, thought McShane. Heaving a case toward the window, he unlocked it, commenced rummaging among its contents. Another knock sounded. 

	"Come in."

	The newcomer was tall, stern-featured, wore the full uniform of a commodore. McShane instinctively came erect, feet together, hands stiffly at sides.

	"Ah, Mr. McShane. Very glad to know you. I am Mercer, your housemaster." His sharp eyes went over the other from head to feet. "I am sure that we shall get along together very well."

	"I hope so, sir," said McShane respectfully.

	"All that is required of you is to pay full attention to your tutors, work hard, study hard, be obedient to the house rules and loyal to the college."

	"Yes, sir."

	"Billings is your man, is he not?"

	"Yes, sir."

	"He should be unpacking for you."

	"I told him not to bother, sir."

	"Ah, so he has been here already." The eyes studied McShane again, hardening slightly. "And you told him not to bother. Did he accept that?"

	"Well, sir, he tried to argue but I chased him out."

	"I see." Commodore Mercer firmed his lips, crossed the room, jerked open a top drawer. "You have brought your full kit, I presume. It includes three uniforms as well as working dress. The ceremonial uniforms first and second will be suspended on the right and left-hand sides of the wardrobe, jackets over pants, buttons outward."

	He glanced at McShane who said nothing.

	"The drill uniform will be placed in this drawer and no other, pants at bottom folded twice only, jacket on top with sleeves doubled across breast, buttons uppermost, collar to the left." He slammed the drawer shut. "Did you know all that? And where everything else goes?"

	"No, sir," admitted McShane, flushing.

	"Then why did you dismiss your man?"

	"I thought—"

	"Mr. McShane, I would advise you to postpone thinking until you have accumulated sufficient facts to form a useful basis. That is the intelligent thing to do, is it not?"

	"Yes, sir."

-

	Commodore Mercer went out, closing the door gently. McShane aimed a hearty kick at the wall, muttered something under his breath. Another knock sounded on the door.

	"Come in."

	"May I help you now, sir?"

	"Yes, Billings, I'd appreciate it if you'd unpack for me."

	"With pleasure, sir."

	He started on the job, putting things away with trained precision. His motions were slow but careful and exact. Two pairs of boots, one of sliders, one of gym shoes aligned on the small shoe rack in the officially approved order. One crimson lined uniform cloak placed on a hanger, buttons to the front, in center of the wardrobe.

	"Billings," said McShane, after a while, "just what would happen to me if I dumped my boots on the window ledge and chucked my cloak across the bed?"

	"Nothing, sir."

	"Nothing?" He raised his eyebrows.

	"No, sir. But I would receive a severe reprimand."

	"I see."

	He flopped into a chair, watched Billings and stewed the matter in his mind. They were a cunning bunch in this place. They had things nicely worked out. A tough customer feeling his oats could run wild and take his punishment like a man. But only a louse would do it at the expense of an aged servant.

	They don't make officers of lice if they can help it. So they'd got things nicely organized in such a manner that bad material would reveal itself as bad, the good would show up as good. That meant he'd have to walk warily and watch his step. For four years. Four years at the time of life when blood runs hot and surplus energies need an aggressive outlet.

	"Billings, when does one eat here?"

	"Lunch is at twelve-thirty, sir. You will be able to hear the gong sound from the dining hall. If I may say so, sir, you would do well to attend with the minimum of delay."

	"Why? Will the rats get at the food if it has to wait a while?"

	"It is considered courteous to be prompt, sir. An officer and a gentleman is always courteous."

	"Thank you, Billings." He lifted a quizzical eyebrow. "And just how long have you been an officer?''

	"It has never been my good fortune, sir."

	McShane studied him carefully, said, "If that isn't a rebuke it ought to be."

	"Indeed, sir, I would not dream of—"

	"When I am rude," interrupted McShane, still watching him, "it is because I am raw. Newcomers usually are more than somewhat raw. At such moments, Billings, I would like you to ignore me."

	"I cannot do that, sir. It is my job to look after you. Besides, I am accustomed to jocularity from young gentlemen." He dipped into a case, took out a twelve by eight pin-up of Sylvia Lafontaine attired in one small ostrich feather. Holding it at arm's length, he surveyed it expressionlessly, without twitching a facial muscle.

	"Like it?" asked McShane.

	"Most charming, sir. However, it would be unwise to display this picture upon the wall."

	"Why not? This is my room, isn't it?"

	"Definitely, sir. I fear me the commodore would not approve."

	"What has it got to do with him? My taste in females is my own business."

	"Without a doubt, sir. But this is an officer's room. An officer must be a gentleman. A gentleman consorts only with ladies."

	"Are you asserting that Sylvia is no lady?"

	"A lady," declared Billings, very, very firmly, "would never expose her bosom to public exhibition."

	"Oh, hell!" said McShane, holding his head.

	"If I replace it in your case, sir, I would advise you to keep it locked. Or would you prefer me to dispose of it in the furnace room?"

	"Take it home and gloat over it yourself."

	"That would be most indecent, sir. I am more than old enough to be this person's father."

	"Sorry, Billings." He mooched self-consciously around the room, stopped by the window, gazed down upon the campus. "I've a heck of a lot to learn."

	"You'll get through all right, sir. All the best ones get through. I know. I have been here many years. 1 have seen them come and watched them go and once in a while I've seen them come back."

	"Come back?"

	"Yes, sir. Occasionally one of them is kind enough to visit us. We had such a one about two months ago. He used to be in this very house, Room 32 on the floor above. A real young scamp but we kept his nose to the grindstone and got him through very successful." The muttonchop whiskers bristled as his face became suffused with pride. "Today, sir, he is Grand Admiral Kennedy."

	The first lectures commenced the following morning and were not listed in the printed curriculum. They were given in the guise of introductory talks. Commodore Mercer made the start in person. Impeccably attired, he stood on a small platform with his authoritative gaze stabbing the forty members of the new intake with such expertness that each one felt himself the subject of individual attention.

	"You've come here for a purpose—see that it is achieved ... The trier who fails is a far better man than the failure who has not tried ... We hate to send a man down, but will not hesitate if he lets the college down ... Get it fixed firmly in your minds that space-navy leadership is not a pleasant game; it is a tough, responsible job and you're here to learn it."

	In that strain he carried on, a speech evidently made many times before to many previous intakes. It included plenty of gunk about keep right on to the end of the road, what shall we do with a drunken sailor, the honor of the Space Service, the prestige of the College, the lights in the sky are stars, glory, glory, hallelujah, and so forth.

	After an hour of this he finished with, "Technical knowledge is essential. Don't make the mistake of thinking it enough to get top marks in technical examinations. Officers are required to handle men as well as instruments and machines. We have our own ways of checking on your fitness in that respect." He paused, said, "That is all from me, gentlemen. You will now proceed in orderly manner to the main lecture room where Captain Saunders will deal with you."

	Captain Saunders proved to be a powerfully built individual with a leathery face, a flattened nose, and an artificial left hand permanently hidden in a glove. He studied the forty newcomers as though weighing them against their predecessors, emitted a non-committal grunt.

	He devoted half an hour to saying most of the things Mercer had said, but in blunter manner. Then, "I'll take you on a tour to familiarize you with the layout. You'll be given a book of rules, regulations and conventions; if you don't read them and observe them, you've only yourselves to blame. Tuition proper will commence at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Parade in working dress immediately outside your house. Any questions?"

	Nobody ventured to put any questions. Saunders led them forth on the tour which occupied the rest of the day. Conscious of their newness and junior status, they absorbed various items of information in complete silence, grinned apologetically at some six hundred second-, third- and fourth-year men hard at work in laboratories and lecture rooms.

	Receiving their books of rules and regulations, they attended the evening meal, returned to Mercer's House. By this time McShane had formed a tentative friendship with two fellow sufferers named Simcox and Fane.

	"It says here," announced Simcox, mooching along the corridor with his book open in his hands, "that we are confined to college for the first month, after which we are permitted to go to town three evenings per week."

	"That means we start off with one month's imprisonment," growled Fane. "Just at the very time when we need a splurge to break the ice."

	McShane lowered his voice to a whisper. "You two come to my room. At least we can have a good gab and a few gripes. I've a full bottle of whiskey in the cupboard."

	"It's a deal," enthused Fane, his face brightening.

-

	They slipped into Room 20, unobserved by other students. Simcox rubbed his hands together and Fane licked anticipatory lips while McShane went to the cupboard.

	"What're we going to use for glasses?" asked Fane, staring around.

	"What're we going to use for whiskey?" retorted McShane, straightening up and backing away from the cupboard. He looked at them, his face thunderous. "It's not here."

	"Maybe you moved it and forgot," suggested Simcox. "Or perhaps your man has stashed it some place where Mercer can't see it."

	"Why should he?" demanded Fane, waving his book of rules. "It says nothing about bottles being forbidden."

	"I'd better search the place before I blow my top," said McShane, still grim. He did just that and did it thoroughly. "It's gone. Some dirty scut swiped it."

	"That means we've a thief in the house," commented Simcox unhappily. "The staff ought to be told."

	Fane consulted his book again. "According to this, complaints and requests must be taken to the House Proctor, a fourth-year man residing in Room 1."

	"All right, watch me dump this in his lap." McShane bolted out, down the stairs, hammered on the door of Room 1.

	"Come in."

	He entered. The proctor, a tall, dark-haired fellow in the mid-twenties, was reclining in a chair, legs crossed, a heavy book before him. His dark eyes coldly viewed the visitor.

	"Your name?"

	"Warner McShane."

	"Mr. McShane, you will go outside, close the door, knock in a way that credits me with normal hearing, and re-enter in proper manner."

	McShane went red. "I regret to say I am not aware of what you consider the proper manner.''

	"You will march in at regulation pace, halt smartly, and stand at attention while addressing me."

	Going out, McShane did exactly as instructed, blank-faced but inwardly seething. He halted, hands stiffly at sides, shoulders squared.

	"That's better," said the proctor. His gaze was shrewd as he surveyed the other. "Possibly you think I got malicious satisfaction out of that?"

	No reply.

	"If so, you're wrong. You're learning exactly as I learned—the hard way. An officer must command obedience by example as well as by authority. He must be willing to give to have the right to receive." Another pause inviting comment that did not come. "Well, what's your trouble?"

	"A bottle of whiskey has been stolen from my room."

	"How do you know that it was stolen?"

	"It was there this morning. It isn't there now. Whoever took it did so without my knowledge and permission. That is theft."

	"Not necessarily. Your man may have removed it."

	"It's still theft."

	"Very well. It will be treated as such if you insist." His bearing lent peculiar significance to his final question. "Do you insist?"

	McShane's mind whirled around at superfast pace. The darned place was a trap. The entire college was carpeted with traps. This very question was a trap. Evade it! Get out of it while the going is good!

	"If you don't mind, I'll first ask my man whether he took it and why."

	The change in the proctor was remarkable. He beamed at the other as he said, "I am very glad to hear you say that."

-

	McShane departed with the weird but gratifying feeling that in some inexplicable way he had gained a small victory, a positive mark on his record-sheet that might cancel out an unwittingly-earned negative mark. Going upstairs, he reached his door, bawled down the corridor, "Billings! Billings!" then went into his room.

	Two minutes passed before Billings appeared. "You called me, sir?"

	"Yes, I did. I had a bottle of whiskey in the cupboard. It has disappeared. Do you know anything about it?"

	"Yes, sir. I removed it myself."

	"Removed it?" McShane threw Simcox and Fane a look of half-suppressed exasperation. "What on earth for?"

	"I have obtained your first issue of technical books and placed them on the rack in readiness, sir. It would be advisable to commence your studies at once, if I may say so."

	"Why the rush?"

	"The examination at the end of the first month is designed to check on the qualifications that new entrants are alleged to possess. Occasionally they prove not to the complete satisfaction of the college. In such a case, the person concerned is sent home as unsuitable." The old eye acquired a touch of desperation. "You will have to pass, sir. It is extremely important. You will pardon me for saying that an officer can manage without drink when it is expedient to do so."

	Taking a deep breath, McShane asked, "Exactly what have you done with the bottle?"

	"I have concealed it, sir, in a place reserved by the staff for that purpose."

	"And don't I ever get it back?"

	Billings was shocked. "Please understand, sir, that the whiskey has been removed and not confiscated. I will be most happy to return it in time for you to celebrate your success in the examination."

	"Get out of my sight," said McShane.

	"Very well, sir."

	When he had gone, McShane told the others, "See what I've got? It's worse than living with a maiden aunt."

	"Mine's no better," said Fane gloomily. 

	"Mine neither," endorsed Simcox.

	"Well, what are we going to do about it, if anything?" McShane invited.

	They thought it over and after a while Simcox said, "I'm taking the line of least resistance." He raised his tone to passable imitation of a childish treble. "I am going to go home and do my sums because my Nanny will think I'm naughty if I don't."

	"Me, too," Fane decided. "An officer and a gentleman, sir, never blows his nose with a ferocious blast. Sometimes the specimen I've got scares hell out of me. One spit on the floor and you're expelled with ignominy."

	They ambled out, moody-faced. McShane flung himself into a chair, spent twenty minutes scowling at the wall. Then, becoming bored with that, he reached for the top book in the stack. It was thrillingly titled "Astromathematical Foundations of Space Navigation." It looked ten times drier than a bone. For lack of anything else to do, he stayed with it. He became engrossed despite himself. He was still with it at midnight, mentally bulleting through the starwhorls and faraway mists of light.

	Billings tapped on the door-panels, looked in, murmured apologetically, "I realized that you are not yet in bed, sir, and wondered whether you had failed to notice the time. It is twelve o'clock. If I may make so bold—"

	He ducked out fast as McShane hurled the book at him.

-

	Question Eleven: The motto of the Space Training College is "God Bless You." As briefly as possible explain its origin and purpose.

	McShane scribbled rapidly. "The motto is based upon three incontrovertible points. Firstly, a theory need not be correct or even visibly sensible; it is sufficient for it to be workable. Secondly, any life form definable as intelligent must have imagination and curiosity. Thirdly, any life form possessed of imagination and curiosity cannot help but speculate about prime causes."

	He sharpened his thoughts a bit, went on, "Four hundred years ago a certain Captain Anderson, taking a brief vacation on Earth, stopped to listen to a religious orator who was being heckled by several members of the audience. He noticed that the orator answered every witticism and insult with the words, 'God bless you, brother!' and that the critics lacked an effective reply. He also noted that in a short time the interrupters gave up their efforts one by one, eventually leaving the orator to continue unhampered."

	What next? He chewed his pen, then, "Captain Anderson, an eccentric but shrewd character, was sufficiently impressed to try the same tactic on alien races encountered in the cosmos. He found that it worked nine times out of ten. Since then it has been generally adopted as a condensed, easily employed and easily understood form of space-diplomacy."

	He looked it over. Seemed all right but not quite enough. The question insisted upon brevity but it had to be answered in full, if at all.

	"The tactic has not resolved all differences or averted all space wars but it is workable in that it has reduced both to about ten per cent of the potential number. The words 'God bless you' are neither voiced nor interpreted in conventional Earth-terms. From the cosmic viewpoint they may be said to mean, 'May the prime cause of everything be beneficial to you!' "

	Yes, that looked all right. He read it right through, felt satisfied, was about to pass on to the next question when a tiny bubble of suspicion lurking deep in his subconscious suddenly rose to the surface and burst with a mentally hearable pop.

	The preceding ten questions and the following ones all inquired about subjects on which he was supposed to be informed. Question Eleven did not. Nobody at any time had seen fit to explain the college motto. The examiners had no right to assume that any examinee could answer it.

	So why had they asked? It now became obvious—they were still trapping.

	Impelled by curiosity he, McShane, had looked up the answer in the college library, this Holy Joe aspect of space travel being too much to let pass unsolved. But for that he'd have been stuck.

	The implication was that anyone unable to deal with Question Eleven would be recognized as lacking in curiosity and disinterested. Or, if interested, too lazy and devoid of initiative to do anything about it.

	He glanced surreptitiously around the room in which forty bothered figures were seated at forty widely separated desks. About a dozen examinees were writing or pretending to do so. One was busily training his left ear to droop to shoulder level. Four were masticating their digits. Most of the others were feeling around their own skulls as if seeking confirmation of the presence or absence of brains.

	The discovery of one trap slowed him up considerably. He reconsidered all the questions already answered, treating each one as a potential pitfall. The unanswered questions got the same treatment.

	Number Thirty-four looked mighty suspicious. It was planted amid a series of technical queries from which it stuck out like a Sirian's prehensile nose. It was much too artless for comfort. All it said was: In not more than six words define courage.

	Well, for better or for worse, here goes. "Courage is fear faced with resolution."

	He wiped off the fiftieth question with vast relief, handed in his papers, left the room, wandered thoughtfully around the campus.

	Simcox joined him in short time, asked, "How did it go with you?"

	"Could have been worse."

	"Yes, that's how I felt about it. If you don't hit the minimum of seventy-five per cent, you're out on your neck. I think I've made it all right."

	They waited until Fane arrived. He came half an hour later and wore the sad expression of a frustrated spaniel.

	"I got jammed on four stinkers. Every time there's an exam I go loaded with knowledge that evaporates the moment I sit down."

-

	Two days afterward the results went up on the board. McShane muscled through the crowd and took a look. McShane, Warner. 91%. Pass with credit.

	He sprinted headlong for Mercer's House, reached his room with Simcox and Fane panting at his heels. "Billings! Hey, Billings!"

	"You want me, sir?"

	'' We got through. All three of us." He performed a brief fandango. ''Now' s the time. The bottle, man. Come on, give with that bottle."

	"I am most pleased to learn of your success, sir," said Billings, openly tickled pink.

	"Thank you, Billings. And now's the time to celebrate. Get us the bottle and some glasses."

	"At eight-thirty, sir."

	McShane glanced at his watch. "Hey, that's in one hour's time. What's the idea?"

	"I have readied paper and envelopes on your desk, sir. Naturally, you will wish to inform your parents of the result. Your mother especially will be happy to learn of your progress."

	"My mother especially?" McShane stared at him. "Why not my father?"

	"Your father will be most pleased also," assured Billings. "But generally speaking, sir, mothers tend to be less confident and more anxious."

	"That comes straight from one who knows,'' commented McShane for the benefit of the others. He returned attention to Billings. "How long have you been a mother?"

	"For forty years, sir."

	The three went silent. McShane's features softened and his voice became unusually gentle.

	"I know what you mean, Billings. We'll have our little party just when you say."

	"At eight-thirty to the minute, sir," said Billings. "I will bring glasses and soda."

	He departed, Simcox and Fane following. McShane brooded out the window for a while, then went to his desk, reached for pen and paper. 

	"Dear Mother—"

-

	The long, vast, incredibly complicated whirl of four years sufficiently jam-packed to simulate a lifetime. Lectures, advice, the din of machine-shops, the deafening roar of testpits, banks of instruments with winking lights and flickering needles, starfields on the cinema screen, equations six pages long, ball games, ceremonial parades with bands playing and banners flying, medical check-ups, blood counts, blackouts in the centrifuge, snap questions, examinations.

	More examinations, more stinkers, more traps. More lectures each deeper than its predecessor. More advice from all quarters high and low.

	"You've got to be saturated with a powerful and potent education to handle space and all its problems. We're giving you a long, strong dose of it here. It's a very complex medicine of which every number of the staff is a part. Even your personal servant is a minor ingredient."

	"The moment you take up active service as an officer every virtue and every fault is enlarged ten diameters by those under you. A little conceit then gets magnified into insufferable arrogance."

	"The latter half of the fourth year is always extremely wearing, sir. May I venture to suggest that a little less relaxation in the noisiest quarter of town and a little more in bed—"

	"You fellows must get it into your heads that it doesn't matter a hoot whether you've practiced it fifty or five hundred times. You aren't good enough until you've reduced it to an instinctive reaction. A ship and a couple of hundred men can go to hell while you're seeking time for thought."

	"Even your personal servant is a minor ingredient."

	"If I may be permitted the remark, sir, an officer is only as strong as the men who support him."

	For the last six months McShane functioned as House Proctor of Mercer's, a dignified and learned figure to be viewed with becoming reverence by young and brash first-year men. Simcox and Fane were still with him but the original forty were down to twenty-six.

	The final examination was an iron-cased, red-hot heller. It took eight days.

	McShane, Warner. 82%. Pass with credit.

	After that, a week of wild confusion dominated by a sense of an impending break, of something about to snap loose. Documents, speeches, the last parade with thudding feet and oompah-oompah, relatives crowding around, mothers, brothers, sisters in their Sunday best, bags, cases and boxes packed, cheers, handshakes, a blur of faces saying things not heard. And then an aching silence broken only by the purr of the departing car.

	He spent a nervy, restless fortnight at home, kissed farewells with a hidden mixture of sadness and relief, reported on the assigned date to the survey-frigate Manasca. Lieutenant McShane, fourth officer, with three men above him, thirty below.

	The Manasca soared skyward, became an unseeable dot amid the mighty concourse of stars. Compared with the great battleships and heavy cruisers roaming the far reaches she was a tiny vessel—but well capable of putting Earth beyond communicative distance and almost beyond memory.

-

	It was a long, imposing, official-looking car with two men sitting erect in the front, its sole passenger in the back. With a low hum it came up the drive and stopped. One of the men in front got out, opened the rear door, posed stiffly at attention.

	Dismounting, the passenger walked toward the great doors which bore a circled star on one panel. He was a big man, wise-eyed, gray-haired. The silver joint under his right kneecap made him move with a slight limp.

	Finding the doors ajar, he pushed one open, entered a big hall. Momentarily it was empty. For some minutes he studied the long roster of names embossed upon one wall.

	Six uniformed men entered from a corridor, marching with even step in two ranks of three. They registered a touch of awe and their arms snapped up in a sixfold salute to which he responded automatically.

	Limping through the hall, he found his way out back, across the campus to what once had been Mercer's House. A different name, Lysaght's, was engraved upon its lintel now. Going inside, he reached the first floor, stopped undecided in the corridor.

	A middle-aged civilian came into the corridor from the other end, observed him with surprise, hastened up.

	"I am Jackson, sir. May I help you?"

	The other hesitated, said, "I have a sentimental desire to look out the window of Room Twenty."

	Jackson's features showed immediate understanding as he felt in his pocket and produced a master key. "Room Twenty is Mr. Cain's, sir. I know he would be only too glad to have you look around. I take it that it was once your own room, sir?"

	"Yes, Jackson, about thirty years ago."

	The door clicked open and he walked in. For five minutes he absorbed the old, familiar scene.

	"Thirty years ago," said Jackson, standing in the doorway. "That would be in Commodore Mercer's time."

	"That's right. Did you know him?"

	"Oh yes, sir." He smiled deprecatingly. "I was just a boy message-runner then. It's unlikely that you ever encountered me."

	"Probably you remember Billings, too?"

	"Yes, indeed." Jackson's face lit up. "A most estimable person, sir. He has been dead these many years." He saw the other's expression, added, "I am very sorry, sir."

	"So am I." A pause. "I never said good-by to him."

	"Really, sir, you need have no regrets about that. When a young gentleman passes his final and leaves us we expect great excitement and a little forgetfulness. It is quite natural and we are accustomed to it." He smiled reassurance. "Besides, sir, soon after one goes another one comes. We have plenty to keep us busy."

	"I'm sure you have."

	"If you've sufficient time to spare, sir," continued Jackson, "would you care to visit the staff quarters?"

	"Aren't they out of bounds?"

	"Not to you, sir. We have a modest collection of photographs going back many years. Some of them are certain to interest you."

	"I would much like to see them."

	They walked downstairs, across to staff quarters, entered a lounge. Carefully Jackson positioned a chair, placed a large album on a table.

	"While you are looking through this, sir, may I prepare you some coffee?"

	"Thank you, Jackson. It is very kind of you."

	He opened the album as the other went to the kitchen. First page: a big photo of six hundred men marching in column of platoons. The saluting-base in the mid-background, the band playing on the left.

	The next twenty pages depicted nobody he had known. Then came one of a group of house-masters among whom was Commodore Mercer. Then several clusters of staff members, service and tutorial, among which were a few familiar faces.

	Then came a campus shot. One of the figures strolling across the grass was Fane. The last he'd seen of Fane had been twelve years back, out beyond Aldebaran. Fane had been lying in hospital, his skin pale green, his body bloated, but cheerful and on the road to recovery. He'd seen nothing of Fane since that day. He'd seen nothing of Simcox for thirty years and had heard of him only twice.

	The middle of the book held an old face with a thousand wrinkles at the corners of its steady, understanding eyes, with muttonchop whiskers on its cheeks. He looked at that one a long time while it seemed to come at him out of the mists of the past.

	"If I may say so, sir, an officer and a gentleman is never willfully unkind."

	He was still meditating over the face when the sounds of distant footsteps and a rattling coffee tray brought him back to the present.

	Squaring his gold-braided shoulders, Fleet Commander McShane said in soft, low tones, "God bless you!"

	And turned the page.

The End