"The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polish immigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and Congressional Medal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in the abortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a United Nations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ... me. "From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But something happened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest of them. Call it luck or temperament or what have you. "In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying the wrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take too much on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the _Ganymede_ because I left my station where I was supposed to be running section-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were in danger...." "The Procyon A people?" asked Cob. "So you've heard about it." Strike shook his head sadly. "My tactical astrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left my routine post and loaded up on colonists." He shrugged. "Wrong guess. No nova. I made an ass of myself and lost the _Ganymede_. Gorman gave it to his former aide. I got this." Cob coughed slightly. "I heard something about Ley City, too." "Me again. The _Ganymede's_ whole crew ended up in the Luna Base brig. We celebrated a bit too freely." Cob Whitley looked admiringly at his new Commander. "That was the night after the _Ganymede_ broke the record for the Centaurus B-Earth run, wasn't it? And then wasn't there something about...." "Canalopolis?" Whitley nodded. "That time I called the Martian Ambassador a spy. It was at a Tellurian Embassy Ball." "I begin to see what you mean, Captain." "Strike's the name, Cob." Whitley's smile was expansive. "Strike, I think you're going to like our old tin pot here." He patted the _Aphrodite's_ nether belly affectionately. "She's old ... but she's loose. And we're not likely to meet any Ambassadors or Admirals with her, either." Strykalski sighed, still thinking of his sleek _Ganymede_. "She'll carry the mail, I suppose. And that's about all that's expected of her." Cob shrugged philosophically. "Better than tanking that stinking rocket fuel, anyway. Deep space?" Strike shook his head. "Venus-Mars." Cob scratched his chin speculatively. "Perihelion run. Hot work." Strike was again looking at the spaceship's unprepossessing exterior. "A surge-circuit monitor, so help me." Cob nodded agreement. "The last of her class." * * * * *