In Tut’s defense I’ll admit he was a skilled Explorer. He’d graduated from the Academy five years before I had, and his grades had been excellent. He’d even won an award in microbiology, his field of specialization. (My specialization was biochem… a natural choice after all the hours I’d spent analyzing the fluid from my cheek.)

Tut was the sort to throw himself unreservedly into whatever he chose to do. He was a quick learner and possessed a high degree of patience — an obsessive degree of patience. I never had cause to criticize his handling of equipment or his knowledge of operating procedures.

But Tut was as mad as a mongoose. Not violently so — since he was still alive after five years in space, the League of Peoples obviously didn’t consider him a threat to others. I often enjoyed his company, and found him helpful as a mentor: he’d had five years’ on-the-job experience, and he taught me many things my academic training hadn’t covered.

But none of that mattered. How could I trust a lunatic in life-or-death situations? Why was Tut on active duty when anyone could see he was non compos mentis?

I asked him that once. Tut just laughed. "They don’t need us sane, Mom. They just need us ready to bleed." He chucked his finger under my chin like a fond uncle amused by his young niece. "If they rejected head cases, Mom, you wouldn’t be here either."

I was so affronted by his insinuation I stormed out of the room, stomped back to my cabin, and made thirteen statues of little gold-faced men being disemboweled by tiger-headed demons. When I showed Tut the results, he said, "Shiny-finey! Could I eat one?" I told him no, but later I noticed my favorite demon was missing.

Two months and fifty-four statuettes later, we finally received a distress call.