He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when she was alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions: "A Space Officer Is Honest" "A Space Officer Is Loyal." "A Space Officer Is Dutiful." Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts, mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held it prisoner for half a million years. Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead, would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago. * * * * * Ben sighed. He had a debt to pay. A good officer would pay that debt. He'd surrender and take his punishment. He'd rip the crimson braid from his uniform. He'd prevent the Academy for the Conquest of Space from being labeled the school of a murderer and a coward. And by doing these things, the haunting image of a dead man would disappear from his vision. But the other half of Ben Curtis was the boy who'd stood trembling beneath a night sky of beckoning stars. The eyes in Jacob's photo seemed to be staring at the boy in him, not at the officer. They appeared both pleading and hopeful. They were like echoes of cold, barren worlds and limitless space, of lurking and savage death. They held the terror of loneliness and of exile, of constant flight and hiding. But, too, they represented a strength that could fulfill a boy's dream, that could carry a man to new frontiers. They, rather than the neat white uniform, now offered the key to shining miracles. That key was what Ben wanted. But he asked himself, as he had a thousand times, "If I follow Jacob, can I leave the dead man behind?" He tried to stretch his legs and he cursed their numbness. He smiled grimly. For a moment, he'd forgotten. How futile now to think of stars! What if he were to be like this always? Jacob would not want a man with dead legs. Jacob would either send him back to Earth or--Ben shuddered--see that he was otherwise disposed of. And disposal would be the easier course. * * * * * This was the crisis. He sat on the side of the bed, Maggie before him, her strong arm about his waist. "Afraid?" she asked. "Afraid," he repeated, shaking. It was as if all time had been funneled into this instant, as if this moment lay at the very vortex of all a man's living and desiring. There was no room in Ben's mind for thoughts of Jacob now. "You can walk," Maggie said confidently. "I _know_ you can." He moved his toes, ankles, legs. He began to rise, slowly, falteringly. The firm pressure around his waist increased. He stood erect. His legs felt like tree stumps, but here and there were a tingling and a warmth, a sensitivity. "Can you make it to the window?" Maggie asked. "No, no, not that far." "Try! Please try!" She guided him forward. His feet shuffled. Stomp, stomp. The pressure left his waist. Maggie stepped away, walked to the window, turned back toward him.