'Say, Matt,' said Tex, 'tell me-who was Kilroy?'
'Let me see,' Matt answered. 'He was somebody in the Second Global War, an admiral, I think. Yeah, Admiral 'Bull' Kilroy, that sounds right.'
'Funny they'd name it after an admiral.'
'He was a flying admiral.'
'You're a savvy cuss,' Tex said admiringly. 'I think I'll stick close to you during the tests.'
Matt brushed it off. 'Just a fact I happened to pick up.'
In room 3108 a decorative young lady waved aside their credentials but demanded their thumb prints. She fed these into a machine at her elbow. The machine quickly spit out instruction sheets headed by the name, serial
number, thumb print, and photograph of each candidate, together with temporary messing and rooming assignments.
The girl handed out the sheets and told them to wait next door. She abruptly turned away.
'I wish she hadn't been so brisk,' complained Tex, as they went out. 'I wanted to get her telephone code. Say,' he went on, studying his sheet, 'there's no time left on here for a siesta.'
'Did you expect it?' asked Matt.
'Nope-but I can hope, can't I?' -
The room next door was filled with benches but the benches were filled with boys. Jarman stopped at a bench which was crowded by three large cases, an ornate portable
refresher kit, and a banjo case. A pink-faced youth sat next to this. 'Your stuff?' Tex asked him.
The young man grudgingly admitted it. 'You won't mind if we move it and sit down,' Tex went on. He started putting the items on the floor. The owner looked sulky but said nothing.
There was room for three. Tex insisted that the others sit down, then sat down on his bag and leaned against Mart's knees, with his legs stretched out. His footwear, thus displayed, were seen to be fine western boots, high- heeled and fancy.
A candidate across from them stared at the boots, then spoke to the boy next to him. 'Pipe the cowboy!'
Tex snorted and started to get up. Matt put a hand on his shoulder, shoving him back. 'It's not worth it, Tex. We've got a busy day ahead.'
Oscar nodded agreement. 'Take it easy, fellow.'
Tex subsided. 'Well-all right. Just: the same,' he added, 'my Uncle Bodie would stuff a man's feet in his mouth for less than that.' He glared at the boy across from him.
Pierre Armand leaned over and spoke to Tex. 'Excuse me-but are those really shoes for riding on horses?'
'Huh? What do you think they are? Skis?'
'Oh, I'm sorry! But you see, I've never seen a horse.'
'What?'
'I have,' announced Oscar, 'in the zoo, that is.'
'In a zoo?' repeated Tex.
'In the zoo at New Auckland.'
'Oh-' said Tex. 'I get it. You're a Venus colonial.' Matt then recalled where he had heard Oscar's vaguely familiar lisp before-in the speech of a visiting lecturer. Tex turned to Pierre. 'Pete, are you from Venus, too?'
'No, I'm-' Pete's voice was drowned out.
'Attention, please! Quiet!' The speaker was dressed in the severely plain, oyster-white uniform of a space cadet. 'All of you,' he went on, speaking into a hand amplifier, 'who have odd serial numbers come with me. Bring your baggage. Even numbers wait where you are.'
'Odd numbers?' said Tex. 'That's me!' He jumped up.
Matt looked at his instructions. 'Me, too!'
The cadet came down the aisle in front of them. Matt and Tex waited for him to pass. The cadet did not hold himself erectly; he crouched the merest trifle, knees relaxed and springy, hands ready to grasp. His feet glided softly over the floor. The effect was catlike, easy grace; Matt felt that if the room were suddenly to turn topsy-turvy the cadet would land on his feet on the ceiling-which was perfectly true.
Matt wanted very much to look like him.
As the cadet was passing, the boy with the plentiful baggage plucked at his sleeve. 'Hey, mister!'
The cadet turned suddenly and crouched, then checked himself as quickly. 'Yes?'
'I've got an odd number, but I can't carry all this stuff. Who can I get to help me?'
'You can't.' The cadet prodded the pile with his toe. 'All of this is yours?'
'Yes. What do I do? I can't leave it here. Somebody'll steal it.'
'I can't see why anyone would.' The cadet eyed the pile with distaste. 'Lug it back to the station and ship it home. Or throw it away.'
The youngster looked blank. 'You'll have to, eventually,' the cadet went on. 'When you make the lift to the school ship, twenty pounds is your total allowance.'
'But- Well, suppose I do, who's to help me get it to the station?'
'That's your problem. If you want to be in the Patrol, you'll have to learn to cope with problems.'
'But-'
'Shut up.' The cadet turned away. Matt and Tex trailed along.
Five minutes later Matt, naked as an egg, was stuffing his bag and clothes into a sack marked with his serial number. As ordered, he filed through a door, clutching his orders and a remnant of dignity. He found himself in a gang refresher which showered him, scrubbed him, rinsed him, and blew him dry again, assembly-line style. His instruction sheet was waterproof; he shook from it a few clinging drops.
For two hours he was prodded, poked, thumped, photographed, weighed, X-rayed, injected, sampled, and examined until he was bewildered. He saw Tex once, in another queue. Tex waved, slapped his own bare ribs, and shivered. Matt started to speak but his own line started up.
The medicos examined his repaired leg, making him exercise it, inquired the date of the operation, and asked if it hurt him. He found himself admitting that it did. More pictures were taken; more tests were made. Presently he was told, 'That's all. Get back into line.' ,
'Is it all right, sir?' Matt blurted out.
'Probably. You'll be given some exercises. Get along.'
After a long time he came into a room in which several boys were dressing. His path took him across a weighing platform; his body interrupted electric-eye beams. Relays closed, an automatic sequence took place based on his weight, height, and body dimensions. Presently a package slid down a chute and plunked down in front of him.
It contained an undergarment, a blue coverall, a pair of soft boots, all in his size.
The blue uniform he viewed as a makeshift, since he was anxious to swap it for the equally plain, but oyster white, uniform of a cadet. The shoes delighted him. He zipped them on, relishing their softness and glovelike fit. It seemed as if he could stand on a coin and call it, heads or tails. 'Cat feet'-his first space boots! He took a few steps, trying to walk like the cadet he had seen earlier.
'Dodson!'
'Coming.' He hurried out and shortly found himself thrust into a room with an older man in civilian clothes.
'Sit down. I'm Joseph Kelly.' He took Mart's instruction sheet. 'Matthew Dodson . .. nice to know you, Matt.'
'How do you do, Mr. Kelly.'
'Not too badly. Why do you want to join the Patrol, Matt?'
'Why, uh, because-' Matt hesitated. 'Well, to tell the truth, sir, I'm so confused right now that I'm darned if I know!'
Kelly chuckled. 'That's the best answer I've heard today. Do you have any brothers or sisters, Matt?' The talk wandered along, with Kelly encouraging Matt to talk. The questions were quite personal, but Matt was sophisticated enough to realize that 'Mr. Kelly' was probably a psychiatrist; he stammered once or twice but he tried to answer honestly.
'Can you tell me now why you want to be in the Patrol?'
Matt thought about it 'I've wanted, to go out into space ever since I can remember.'
'Travel around, see strange planets and strange people- that's understandable, Matt. But why not the merchant
