“What was the sender’s rank?” Mazer asked the console.

“Lieutenant.”

Poor Lieutenant Graff had obviously underestimated the terror that incompetent officers feel in the presence of young, intelligent, energetic replacements.

At least it would be a conversation.

“Take down this answer, please,” said Mazer. “Dear Lieutenant Graff, I’m sorry for the time you have to waste waiting for this message . . . no, scratch that, why increase the wasted time by sending a message stuffed with useless chat?” Then again, doing a whole bunch of editing would delay the message just as long.

Mazer sighed, unwound himself from his stretch, and went to the console. “I’ll type it in myself,” said Mazer. “It’ll go faster that way.”

He found the words he had just dictated waiting for him on the screen of his message console, with the edge of Graff’s message just behind it. He flipped that message to the front, read it again, and then picked up his own message where he had left off.

“I am not an expert in identifying the traits of leadership. Your message reveals that you have already thought more about it than I have. Much as I might hope your endeavor is successful, since it would relieve me of the burden of command upon my return, I cannot help you.”

He toyed with adding “God could not help you,” but decided to let the boy find out how the world worked without dire and useless warnings from Mazer.

Instead he said “Send” and the console replied, “Message sent by ansible.”

And that, thought Mazer, is the end of that.

The answer did not come for more than three hours. What was that, a month back on Earth?

“Who is it from?” asked Mazer, knowing perfectly well who it would turn out to be. So the boy had taken his time before pushing the matters. Time enough to learn how impossible his task was? Probably not.