Commandant Jemson's face spread on the screen like a slow stain. He cleared his voice. This was a strong face. The eyes were compelling; the nose generous and the mouth firm. Steel grey hair, cut short, completed the impression of controlled power. "Attention," the voice said; and it, too, was dynamic, forceful. "Attention, all participants in Operation Caliban. We are now approaching our objective. The flight, thus far, has been distinguished by its orderliness. We know that the landing will be equally well-organized. The high command has decided that the space cruiser ICARUS, piloted by Lieutenant Dirk Jemson, shall have the honor of leading the armada in. If that is clear, we will rendezvous on Caliban." The image flickered for a moment and then dwindled away. The die was cast. Shakily, Dirk rose to his feet. There had been a second when he had harbored the wild hope that his father might reserve the honor of the first landing for himself; that hope had foundered and gone down. The echo of the older man's pride hung suspended in Dirk's mind. Why couldn't the commandant understand that with Dirk it was different? Why couldn't he see the difference? "Are you all right, sir?" That was Allen, struggling to mask his concern with an air of forced casualness. "Yes." Dirk's voice sounded strained and taut. "Yes. I'm all right. I'll take over, Allen." He moved toward the visi-shield and Allen retreated. They were staring at him now, as those fellow students had stared long years before; but now, it was Caliban which bobbed in the visi-shield, not Deimos; this was the lead ship in the Jemson Armada, not a trainer; they were all waiting for him--Dirk Jemson--the commandant's son--to lead them in. * * * * * He clutched at the controls. His mouth was dry and his eyes ached. He longed desperately to close them--to shut out the spinning universe before him. He stared at his hands on the controls and they seemed detached--as if they belonged to someone else. Allen was at his shoulder with a suggestive clearing of his throat: "Are you sure, lieutenant, that you're well?" Impatiently, Dirk nodded. Why didn't they leave him alone? Why couldn't they ALL leave him alone? The audio-visor hummed. "We're waiting, ICARUS. Go ahead." They were waiting. Waiting on him. This was the moment--the moment he had hoped to avoid--when other men depended on him to put them into a safe harbor in space. His father was testing him. He was supposed to show the superiority of the breed--the special gifts that made the Jemson men apart. He closed his eyes for a moment and began to decelerate. "Careful of the flagship!" Kennedy's voice was low, but tense. "You're cutting in on him." Dirk forced himself to open his eyes. The universe spun and whirled in a confused circle before him and in the center of that gyrating mass was the flagship. Somehow he missed it.