V INTO SPACE
The PATROL ACADEMY may lack ivy-covered buildings and tree-shaded walks; it does not lack room. There are cadets in every reach of the Federation, from ships circling Venus, or mapping the scorched earth of Mercury, to ships patrolling the Jovian moons.
Even on years-long exploration flights to the frozen fringes of the Solar System cadets go along-and are brevetted as officers when their captains think them ready, without waiting to return.
The public thinks of the Academy as the school ship P.R.S. James Randolph, but every cadet mess in every ship of the Patrol is part of the Academy. A youngster cadet is ordered to the Randolph as soon as he is sworn in and he remains attached to that ship until he is ready to go to a regular Patrol vessel as a passed cadet. His schooling continues; in time he is ordered back to where he started, Hayworth Hall, to receive Ms final polish.
An oldster, attached to Hayworth Hall, will not necessarily be there. He may be at the radiation laboratories of Oxford University, or studying interplanetary law at the Sorbonne, or he may even be as far away as Venus, at the Institute for System Studies. Whatever his route-and no two cadets pursue exactly the same course of training-the Academy is still in charge of him, until, and if, he is commissioned.
How long it takes depends on the cadet. Brilliant young Hartstone, who died on the first expedition to Pluto, was brevetted less than a year after he reported to Hayworth Hall as a groundhog candidate. But it is not unusual to find oldsters at Terra Base who have been cadets for five years or more.
Cadet Matthew Dodson admired himself in the mirror of the 'fresher. The oyster-white uniform he had found waiting when he returned from First Muster the evening before, and with it a small book of regulations embossed with his name and clipped to a new assignment schedule. The schedule had started out: '1.. Your first duty as a cadet is to read the regulation book herewith, at once. Hereafter you are responsible for the contents.'
He had read it before taps, until his mind was a jumble of undigested rules: 'A cadet is an officer in a limited sense-' '-behave with decorum and sobriety appropriate to the occasion-' '-in accordance with local custom rather than Patrol custom unless in conflict with an invariant law of the Federation or regulation of the Patrol.' '-but the responsibility of determining the legality of the order rests on the person ordered as well as on the person giving the order.' '-circumstances not covered by law or regulation must be decided by the individual in the light of the living tradition of the Patrol.' 'Cadets will at all times be smooth-shaven and will not wear their hair longer than two inches.'
He felt that he understood the last mentioned.
He got up before reveille the next morning and dived into the 'fresher, shaved hastily and rather unnecessarily and got into uniform.
It fit him well enough, but to his eye the fit was perfect, the styling superb. As a matter of fact, the uniform lacked style, decoration, trim, insignia, or flattering’ cut.
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.
