Hanging around the lobby were Boerst, Smiga, and Payartz. For a semester he and Payartz had been deskmates in cosmodesy, and he had him to thank for all the ink blots in his star atlas.

“You’re up for a trial run tomorrow,” Boerst let drop just as Pirx was about to overtake them.

“No sweat,” came his lackadaisical reply. He was nobody’s fool.

“Don’t believe me? Read for yourself,” said Boerst, tapping his finger on the glass pane of the bulletin board.

He had a mind to keep going, but his head involuntarily twisted around on its axis. The list showed only three names—and there it was, right at the top, as big as blazes: Cadet Pirx.

For a second, his mind was a total blank.

Then he heard a distant voice, which turned out to be his own.

“Like I said, no sweat.”

Leaving them, he headed down a walkway lined with flower beds. That year the beds were planted with forget-me-nots, artfully arranged in the pattern of a descending rocket ship, with streaks of now faded buttercups suggesting the exhaust flare. But right now Pirx was oblivious of everything—the flower beds, the pathway, the forget-me-nots, and even of Bullpen, who at that very instant was hurriedly ducking out of the Institute by a side entrance, and whom he narrowly missed bumping into on his way out. Pirx saluted as they stood cheek to jowl.

“Oh, it’s you, Pirx!” said Bullpen. “You’re flying tomorrow, aren’t you? Well, have a good takeoff! Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to… er… meet up with those people from alien planets.”

The dormitory was situated behind a wall of sprawling weeping willows on the far side of the park.