Reilly sighed, and swiveled his chair until he could see through the one cluttered window. The parade ground stretched away beneath, the system pennant fluttered briskly in the stiff breeze. Into his view marched a battalion of Cadets. Much the same scene had repeated itself daily during the thirty years he had occupied the office. "The faces change." "Sir?" "The faces change, Sergeant. How many thousands of boys have come through these doors? The uniform never changes, though. And I suppose that's really the most important thing, in its essence--the uniform and the tradition." "That it is, sir." Reilly chuckled. "You know, Sergeant, I never considered myself a particularly sentimental man. Still, the faster the years fly by, the dearer old memories become. The clearer, too. I can recall things that happened when I was a boy much easier than I can remember what I had for breakfast this morning. And I know that's a sign of old age." He picked up his coffee and made a face when he found it cold. "Sergeant, as two old men sharing the past, how about having a cup of something a bit stronger than this watery brew with me?" "Sir! I really don't think...." "Oh, bother regulations, Sergeant! I'm speaking as a man now, not as a general. I'd deem it an honor." "Then I'd be proud to, sir." * * * * * He sat down in the visitor's chair while Reilly opened the bottom drawer of his desk and drew out a bottle and two very dusty glasses. He blew into them, set them on the edge of the desk and poured generous measures of the amber liquid. The sergeant accepted his with a bow of his head. They raised their glasses. "To yesterday, Sergeant." "To yesterday, sir. And may these days be as memorable to those who will be remembering fifty years from now." "And those days fifty years further." They touched glasses, then tossed off the contents, wincing as the whiskey cut its way down. A soft ball of fire exploded in Reilly's midsection. He sighed, capped the bottle and stowed it and the glasses away. A short rat-a-tat-tat sounded on the door; the Cadet Sergeant-Major opened it and stuck his head through. "Sir?" "Yes, Sergeant?" "Six gentlemen to see you, sir." "What?" He glanced at his memo pad. A notation warned him six prospective cadets were due to come in. It was not standard procedure for him to interview candidates, but all six were the sons of Academy graduates killed in the line of duty. "Give me five minutes, Sergeant, then show them in." "Very good, sir." He withdrew and closed the door. "Well, Sergeant," said Reilly, turning to the regular service man. "Perhaps these are the lads who will be doing that reminiscing fifty years from now." "Quite possible, sir." He stood up and came to attention. "Do I have the general's permission, sir?" "Dismissed, Sergeant."