Don remained silent. “Answer me!”
Presently Reeves took a deep breath and said, “Never mind. Go up to your room and pack. The copter will take you to Albuquerque at one o’clock.”
“Yes, sir.” He had started to leave when the headmaster called him back.
“Just a moment. In the heat of our, uh, discussion I almost forgot that there was a second message for you.”
“Oh?” Don accepted the slip; it said: DEAR SON, BE SURE TO SAY GOODBYE TO UNCLE DUDLEY BEFORE YOU LEAVE—MOTHER.
This second message surprised him in some ways even more than the first; he had trouble realizing that his mother must mean Dr. Dudley Jefferson-a friend of his parents but no relation, and a person of no importance in his own life. But Reeves seemed not to see anything odd in the message, so he stuck it in his Levis and left the room.
Long as he had been earthbound he approached packing with a true spaceman’s spirit. He knew that his passage would entitle him to only fifty pounds of free lift; he started discarding right and left. Shortly he had two piles, a very small one on his own bed—indispensable clothing, a few capsules of microfilm, his slide rule, a stylus, and a vreetha, a flutelike Martian instrument which he had not played in a long time as his schoolmates had objected. On his roommate’s bed was a much larger pile of discards.
He picked up the vreetha, tried a couple of runs, and put it on the larger pile. Taking a Martian product to Mars was coal to Newcastle. His roommate, Jack Moreau, came in as he did so. “What in time goes on? House cleaning?”
“Leaving.”
Jack dug a finger into his ear. “I must be getting deaf. I could have sworn you said you were leaving.”
“I am.” Don stopped and explained, showing Jack the message from his parents.
Jack looked distressed. “I don’t like this. Of course I knew this was our last year, but I didn’t figure on you jumping the gun. I probably won’t sleep without your snores to soothe me. What’s the rush?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. The Head says that my folks have war jitters and want to drag their little darling to safety. But that’s silly, don’t you think? I mean, people are too civilized to go to war today.”
Jack did not answer. Don waited, then said sharply, “You agree, don’t you? There won’t be any war.”
Jack answered slowly, “Could be. Or maybe not.”
“Oh, come off it!”
His roommate answered, “Want me to help you pack?”
“There isn’t anything to pack.”
“How about all that stuff?”
“That’s yours, if you want it. Pick it over, then call in the others and let them take what they like.”
“Huh? Gee, Don, I don’t want your stuff. I’ll pack it and ship it after you.”
“Ever ship anything ‘tween planets? It’s not worth it.”
“Then sell it. Tell you what, we’ll hold an auction right after supper.”
Don shook his head. “No time. I’m leaving at one o’clock.”
“What? You’re really blitzing me, kid. I don’t like this.”
“Can’t be helped.” He turned back to his sorting.
Several of his friends drifted in to say goodbye. Don himself had not spread the news and he did not suppose that the headmaster would have talked, yet somehow the grapevine had spread the word. He invited them to help themselves to the plunder, subject to Jack’s prior claim.
Presently he noticed that none of them asked why he was leaving. It bothered him more than if they had talked about it. He wanted to tell someone, anyone, that it was ridiculous to doubt his loyalty—and anyhow there wasn’t going to be a war.
Rupe Salter, a boy from another wing, stuck his head in, looked over the preparations. “Running out, eh? I heard you were and thought I’d check up.”
“I’m leaving, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s what I said. See here, ‘Don Jaime,’ how about that circus saddle of yours? I’ll take it off your hands if the price is right.”
“It’s not for sale.”
“Huh? No horses where you’re going. Make me a price.”