"Excellent. Excellent," the general declared. "A very distinguished-looking group you've assembled here, Dwindle. Hello, Jones." "Yes, sir," Dwindle said, "with the possible exception of the seedy chap in the rear." Jones looked to the rear of the room, and his eyes bugged. Freddy the Fish, clean-shaven but tattered, was alternately wetting the pencil lead in his mouth and eating peanuts. "That's the bum who feeds sparrows in the park!" Jones gasped. "How did he get out of jail so quick? I saw a couple of policemen haul him off just a day or so ago." "This is where they hauled him to," General Marcher said. "It just so happens that he answered every question right on the preliminary examination. He says his name's Freddy Smith, although I doubt that he could prove it." "He says he never had a father," Dwindle added. "Says his family was too poor." Jones stared at General Marcher, then stared at Dwindle, then turned and stared at Freddy the Fish, who had just left his seat and was ambling toward the trio. "Looks like he's throwing in the towel," Jones, said happily. "He's bringing his paper with him." "Maybe he just wants clarification on a question," Dwindle said. "I'm all done," Freddy said. "Who gets this?" "Go ahead, Dwindle," Carlton Jones smirked. "Grade the man's paper. He's all done." Dwindle smiled uncertainly. "You're allowed all the time you need, Mr. Smith." "Oh, that's O.K. I'm done." Dwindle produced his red pencil and the answer sheet which had 1,200 small circles punched in it. He sat down, placed the key over the test paper, and began searching for white spaces showing through. * * * * * "That's the last one, sir," Dwindle said six hours later as he added the one hundred twelfth graded test to the neat stack at the left of his desk. He stared through the thousand-plus holes in the answer key as if expecting the holes to shift. "And still no change in the standings?" General Marcher asked again. "Mr. Smith still has the best grade," Dwindle answered. "The percentages again?" the general asked. "Over all, ninety-six per cent for Mr. Smith," Dwindle said for the fourth time. "His lowest percentage in any one category was eighty per cent. The next highest score was by Dr. Schmelling, who had seventy-eight per cent, but he failed in six categories. The third highest score was by Dr. Ranson, seventy-six per cent, failing in seven categories. The fourth highest score was--" "Enough. Enough," General Marcher interrupted. "I think we've found our man, don't you, Dwindle?" "I hope we don't have to use pressure, sir," Dwindle replied. Jones turned from the window, from which he was observing the bums in the park. "How can you possibly consider such a thing," he blurted, "as to send a penniless, unemployed, dirty, ragged tramp to Ganymede as the United States' Number One emissary?"