"Well ... well, let's see. I guess you'd say that sort of got to him. I mean, you know, he thought it was--" the voice became distant, as though describing a fantastic event which he could not relate to anything in a rational environment--"he thought it was _his_ fault. You know how some of these guys are. I used to have a platoon once, you know. And they say--" He twisted his mouth and changed his voice to a childish whine. "What _for_?" The voice reverted to normal. "They don't ask for any reason. They just ask. I say to them, I say, 'God damn it'--excuse me, sir--'I told you to do it, ain't that enough?' Well, this Schuster, sir, he worried all the time. He got so he cut himself shaving. Damnedest thing. Oh, hell, maybe for the last week, every morning, he came out a bloody mess. Patches of toilet paper all over his face. 'I can't shave,' he'd say. 'My God, I can't shave.' He wasn't nervous, either. His hands were okay. They didn't shake. It's just that he couldn't shave. Like I say, he was a nut." No one spoke for a moment, and the corporal twisted uncomfortably. Then Mr. Tucker said, "Well, Corporal, tell me this, please." "Yes, sir." "What's your own personal impression of General Shorter?" "The old man?" the corporal asked in surprise. "He's okay." "Feel free to discuss this," Mr. Flison said. "We'd like to know, really, what your opinion is." "Like I say, he's okay. He's got a job to do. You know, he busted me once. General Shorter personally, I mean. Hell, I don't hold it against him, though. He's got his job to do, I got mine. I wouldn't say anything against General Shorter, no, sir. He's a soldier. I mean, you know ... he's a soldier." After the corporal was dismissed, Mr. Tucker said, "Well, gentlemen, I guess we've about wrapped it up here. I think this is enough. Anybody's mind changed? I don't think we need any more, do you?" Mr. Wallace sighed heavily. He looked down at his hands. * * * * * General Shorter was still at his writing desk when he was notified that Mr. Tucker would like to see him first thing in the morning. "Another day of it, eh?" the general asked the sergeant who brought the message. "No, sir. From the other crew, I hear they're planning to leave tomorrow." The general's face relaxed. His smile reflected weary tolerance. "Had enough in one day, have they? It's about time they let us get back to work." After the sergeant left, the general wrote a final paragraph: "I've just been informed the 'investigation' is completed. In record time, it seems. They finished up in the mess tonight, talking to some of the men. So what did it all really accomplish? They took a long ship that could better have been used somewhere else. Half my men are down with the virus. They almost cost me my schedule. And to what end? Just another piece of paper somewhere. Put Miracastle on the scale against some nice, heavy report and see which way the scale tips."