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way.”
    He left his quarters and walked down the
corridor, trying to compose his thoughts. Commander Cook was
impossible, he thought as he entered the elevator. In the cosmic
year they had served together, they’d disagreed on almost
everything, and Cook gave him little support in the inevitable
battles with the crew for respect. Finally, the cauldron was coming
to a boil. LaRue had warned against granting leave to too many crew
members at once, but the stubborn Isitian had insisted. Now, with
orders just arrived to proceed to Isthar Command, they had
ninety-eight crewmen and officers—all but two dozen of the entire
ship’s complement— frolicking on the miserable planet below, doing
God knows what, while the rest of them had to scramble to get the
ship ready to depart on what, for all they knew, could be a mission
of great importance. He knew that any attempt to blame himself for
the inevitable delay would reflect badly upon his commanding
officer. But Cook had powerful friends—how else to explain his
cavalier attitude toward the Command Manual?—and LaRue worried that
he himself would be made the scapegoat.
    The elevator left him around the corner from
the Captain’s Quarters. Entering the adjoining office, LaRue was
startled to find the commander just returned from Ishtar and still
clad in his thermal uniform, busily rummaging through the unkempt
piles of papers, books and binders on his desk. Star charts
cluttered the worktable to his right; a single map of his home
planet hung crookedly from the otherwise naked wall to his left.
Behind were sketches of a half-dozen or so forgotten faces from
Terra’s past. All around the room were shelves filled to
overflowing with books and technical manuals and knick-knacks from
all corners of Terra.
    “ François,” said Cook, looking up from
the knotted maze but continuing the search. “I don’t suppose you’ve
seen my Krutzmann—that leather-bound book on comparative
biology?”
    “ No, sir,” LaRue replied dryly,
wondering whether his commanding officer had the audacity to summon
him to help search for an outdated, mold-bitten book. A printed
book, no less.
    “ Well, never mind,” frowned Cook. He
pushed a button on his intercom.
    “ Library,” answered a low-pitched
voice.
    “ Fred, this is the Skipper.” Cook
still foraged about his desk, but without the determined fervor of
before. “Would you order a printout of the following textbook:
Johannes Krutzmann, Biology Across the
Heavens . I have no idea what the tracking code is, but
it should be listed in the reference section.”
    “ Certainly, sir. You want it run to
your quarters?”
    “ No,” replied Cook; a look of defeat
crossed his brow. “I’ll be by later to pick it up.” The
leather-bound Krutzmann was one of his prized possessions, and he
wanted to give it to the Veshnans before departing. Now they would
have to settle for a computerized printing, which took the soul out
of the masterwork. Much like a paint-by-the-numbers Rembrandt, he
thought.
    “ Damn,” he sighed, sinking deeper into
his chair. Absently, he picked up some papers, letting them fall to
the table. “One of these days, I’ve got to get organized
here.”
    “ You wanted to see me, sir?” LaRue
interjected haughtily, wondering if Cook had forgotten about
him.
    Instantly, the commander’s bearing changed.
He leaned forward in his chair. The confused haze was gone from his
face and his fierce, intelligent eyes burned with curiosity.
Without warning, a commanding presence had filled the room and the
air crackled with purpose.
    “ You took the IshCom transmission,
François. The one calling us back to base, I mean. Do you know what
it’s about?”
    “ No, sir. The orders were to proceed
at once to the Base. So, I instituted procedures to— ”
    “ Well, if it’s not an emergency,”
interrupted Cook, “they can damn well wait until the rest of our
people check in.” He pushed another button on his
intercom.
    “