Commandant Jemson was seated at an enormous table of batek-wood from Thule. He didn't look up when Dirk closed the cabin door behind him and waited at attention. The Commandant was not a large man, yet he managed somehow through the sheer force of his personality to convey the impression of a giant. Seated now behind the great table, he seemed some remote demi-god, omnipotent and untouchable. Just as Dirk was about to clear his throat to ease the tension, his father spoke: "Come to the table." That was all. The voice was carefully modulated and controlled. Too carefully. Dirk was face to face with his father across the glistening batek-wood. Looking down into its polished surface, he could see his own white face, as well as each movement of his father's hands. "You disgraced me." The three words were thrown at him with electric force. Never before in his life could Dirk remember hearing three words spoken with such intensity and emotion. All of his father's life was summed up in that anguished declaration; all the hopes that had been sabotaged; all the dreams that were now derelict; and yet, the three words were spoken so quietly, they scarcely carried across the room. He wished his father would look up at him. If he could see the eyes, it might be easier. "You shouldn't have expected me to do it. You had no right to expect it of me." "No right!" The Commandant stood abruptly, his knuckles white against the wood of the table as he leaned forward. "What do you think I had left in my life but you--and the things you might do? What do you think I built my world on after Ken was killed? No right!" The eyes raked him now with a barrage of contempt and hurt. "You would have killed those men. Killed them because you're a weakling! A coward!" The words fell in the silent room like coiling snakes. Dirk stepped back. The hate, frustration and disappointment which radiated from the older man was almost unbearable. "You can't understand, dad," he faltered. "No. I can't. And don't call me 'dad.' You're no longer my son. No Jemson could put the lives of his men in jeopardy, no matter how stricken he might be. And this isn't the first time. I've closed my eyes. I told myself you were young; that you'd grow into this as you matured." "You shouldn't have tried to make me a space pilot. It's not for me. I could have found some other life on Terra ... something that I could have done well ... could have made you proud." "Proud!" The square shoulders sagged, and the old man sank down into his chair. "Proud. Proud of a weakling who puts his own comfort above the lives of his crew?" He stared again at the polished table surface, as if he might read there an answer to the dilemma. "If I hadn't seen it, I wouldn't have believed it." "Not all men are alike, dad. You must see that." But Dirk knew it was hopeless. His father knew only one life and that his son could want another was beyond his comprehension.