They had expected such great things of him. After all, he was the son of Commandant Jemson and his brother Ken had been one of the most brilliant graduates the school ever had. Now, young Dirk was there to carry on in the Jemson tradition--to make good for the Commandant and for the gallant Ken who had lost his life in the first attempt made to land on Setebos. * * * * * They had expected great things--but they had been disappointed. Of course, his panic on the trip to Mars had been understandable. The first experience in space. It often happened so. Soon he'd be as calm and unaffected as the others. Then, there had been the practice flight to Deimos. For Dirk, it still had the immediacy of a nightmare. It was five years now--more than five--and yet he could still visualize the cramped quarters of that training ship. The instructor had been a fish-faced young man named Petley. Ensign Petley. He had seen in Dirk Jemson a chance for advancement. Give the commandant's son the breaks, he had told himself, and you'll get a promotion. As the trainer approached Deimos, Petley had turned from the visi-shield and smiled patronizingly at the tensed class who crowded around him. "We're approaching Deimos, class," he said, and his lips made little smacking noises as he spoke. "I'm going to let Dirk show us how to make a landing. Dirk--take the controls." And with that, he had gestured to Dirk and stepped back. The silence in the training ship had been absolute. The other thirteen in the class stared at the recipient of this signal honor. Who but the son of the commandant would be trusted to land a ship on his first training flight? Who but the heir to the space mantle of Commandant Jemson. Dirk remembered the sticky perspiration that had drenched his uniform as he had stared in disbelief at the beaming Petley. He had stammered some excuse, but Petley had smiled and firmly insisted. This was no time to be modest. Dirk had closed his eyes, moved to the controls. Through the visi-shield, the grey orb of Deimos rushed toward him. The black maw of space was a swirling, twisting, rotating nightmare that blurred up at him. In the background, Ensign Petley had murmured explanations to the watchers. Closer and closer whirled Deimos. Dirk's hands had faltered over the degravitator. Somehow, the movement of the universe had communicated itself to him. His mind, his heart, his stomach all swam in a whirlpool of black motion. "Now, Dirk!" Petley's voice was sharp. "Now! Show the class!" The eyes had been on him--the urgency in the voice had been great--but the hypnotic spinning of Deimos in the visi-shield was irresistible. With a little sigh, Dirk had blacked out.