“Eh?” asked his father. “What picture?”
“Why, that wildman picture that had Roddie’s name on it. You must have seen it; it was on facsimile and Empire Hour both. I knew it wasn’t him. I said to Joseph, ‘Joseph,’ I said, ‘that’s not a picture of Rod Walker, its a fake.'”
“I must have missed it. As you know, I”
“I’ll send it to you; I clipped it. I knew it was a fake. It’s a horrible thing, a great naked savage with pointed teeth and a fiendish grin and a long spear and war paint all over its ugly face. I said to Joseph”
“As you know, I returned from hospital just this morning, Nora. Rod, there was no picture of you on the news services, surely?”
“Uh, yes and no. Maybe.”
“I don’t follow you. Why should there be a picture of you?”
“There wasn’t any reason. This bloke just took it.”
“Then there was a picture?”
“Yes.” Rod saw that “Aunt” Nora was eyeing him avidly: “But it was a fake sort of.”
“I still don’t follow you.
“Please, Pater,” Helen intervened. “Rod had a tiring trip. This can wait.”
“Oh, surely. I don’t see how a picture can be ‘a sort of a fake.'”
“Well, Dad, this man painted my face when I wasn’t looking. I” Rod stopped, realizing that it sounded ridiculous.
“Then it was your picture?” “Aunt” Nora insisted.
“I’m not going to say any more.
Mr. Walker blinked. “Perhaps that is best.”
“Aunt” Nora looked ruffled. “Well, I suppose anything can happen ‘way off in those odd places. From the teaser on Empire Hour I understand some very strange things did happen . . . not all of them nice.”
She looked as if daring Rod to deny it. Rod said nothing. She went on, “I don’t know what you were thinking of, letting a boy do such things. My father always said that if the Almighty had intended us to use those gate things instead of rocket ships He would have provided His own holes in the sky.”
Helen said sharply, “Mrs. Peascoat, in what way is a rocket ship more natural than a gate?”
“Why, Helen Walker! I’ve been ‘Aunt Nora’ all your life. ‘Mrs. Peascoat’ indeed!”
Helen shrugged. “And my name is Matson, not Walker as you know.”
Mrs. Walker, distressed and quite innocent, broke in to ask Mrs. Peascoat to stay for dinner. Mr. Walker added, “Yes, Nora, join us Under the Lamp.”
Rod counted to ten. But Mrs. Peascoat said she was sure they wanted to be alone, they had so much to talk about . . . and his father did not insist.
Rod quieted during ritual, although he stumbled in responses and once left an awkward silence. Dinner was wonderfully good, but he was astonished by the small portions; Terra must be under severe rationing. But everyone seemed happy and so he was.
“I’m sorry about this mixup,” his father told him. “I suppose it means that you will have to repeat a semester at Patrick Henry.”
“On the contrary, Pater,” Helen answered, “Deacon is sure that Rod can enter Central Tech with advanced standing.”
“Really? They were more strict in my day.”
“All of that group will get special credit. What they learned cannot be learned in classrooms.”
Seeing that his father was inclined to argue Rod changed the subject. “Sis, that reminds me. I gave one of the girls your name, thinking you were still in the Corps she wants to be appointed cadet, you see. You can still help her, can’t you?”
“I can advise her and perhaps coach her for the exams. Is this important to you, Buddy?”
“Well, yes. And she is number-one officer material. She’s a big girl, even bigger than you are and she looks a bit like you. She is smart like you, too, around genius, and always good-natured and willing but strong and fast and incredibly violent when you need it . . . sudden death in all directions.”
“Roderick.” His father glanced at the lamp.
“Uh, sorry, Dad. I was just describing her.”
“Very well. Son . . . when did you start picking up your meat with your fingers?”