“Of course I am!” Rod blurted.
“Of course you are. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t pass you. What’s that bandage on your leg?”
“Uh” The bandage concealed Helen’s knife “Lady Macbeth.” Rod sheepishly admitted the fact.
“Take it off.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve known candidates to pull dodges like that to cover up a disqualification. So let’s have a look.”
Rod started removing it; the physician let him continue until he was sure that it was a cache for a weapon and not a wound dressing. “Get your clothes on. Report to your instructor.
Rod put on his vest pack of rations and sundries, fastened his canteen under it. It was a belt canteen of flexible synthetic divided into halflitre pockets. The weight was taken by shoulder straps and a tube ran up the left suspender, ending in a nipple near his mouth, so that he might drink wit out taking it off. He planned, if possible, to stretch his meager supply through the whole test, avoiding the hazards of contaminated water and the greater hazards of the water hole assuming that fresh water could be found at all.
He wrapped twenty meters of line, light, strong, and thin, around his waist. Shorts, overshirt, trousers, and boot moccasins completed his costume; he belted “Colonel Bowie” on outside. Dressed, he looked fleshier than he was; only his knife showed. He carried his parka suit over his left arm. It was an efficient garment, hooded, with builtin boots and gloves, and with pressure seams to let him use bare hands when necessary, but it was much too warm to wear until he needed it. Rod had learned early in the game that Eskimos don’t dare to sweat.
Dr. Matson was outside the dispensary door. “The late Mr. Walker,” he commented, then glanced at the bulkiness of Rod’s torso. “Body armor, son?”
“No, sir. Just a vest pack.” “How much penalty you carrying?”
“Eleven kilograms. Mostly water and rations.”
“Mmm . . well, it will get heavier before it gets lighter. No Handy Dandy Young Pioneer’s Kit? No collapsible patent wigwam?”
Rod blushed. “No, sir.”
“You can leave that snow suit. Ill mail it to your home.”
“Uh, thank you, sir.” Rod passed it over, adding, wasn’t sure I’d need it, but I brought it along, just in case.
“You did need it.”
“Sir?”
“I’ve already flunked five for showing up without their snuggies. . . and four for showing up with vacuum suits. Both ways for being stupid. They ought to know that the Board would not dump them into vacuum or chlorine or such without specifying space suits in the test notice. We’re looking for graduates, not casualties. On the other hand, cold weather is within the limits of useful test conditions.”
Rod glanced at the suit he had passed over. “You’re sure I won’t need it, sir?”
“Quite. Except that you would have flunked if you hadn’t fetched it. Now bear a hand and draw whatever pig shooter you favor; the armorer is anxious to close up shop. What gun have you picked?”
Rod gulped. “Uh, I was thinking about not taking one, Deacon I mean ‘Doctor.'”
“You can call me ‘Deacon’ to my face ten days from now. But this notion of yours interests me. How did you reach that conclusion?”
“Uh, why, you see, sir. . . well, my sister suggested it.”
“So? I must meet your sister. What’s her name?”
“Assault Captain Helen Walker,” Rod said proudly, “Corps of Amazons.”
Matson wrote it down. “Get on in there. They are ready for the drawing.
Rod hesitated. “Sir,” he said with sudden misgiving, “if I did carry a gun, what sort would you advise?”
Matson looked disgusted. “I spend a year trying to spoon feed you kids with stuff I learned the hard way. Comes examination and you ask me to slip you the answers. I can no more answer that than I would have been justified yesterday in telling you to bring a snow suit.”
“Sorry, sir.
“No reason why you shouldn’t ask; it’s just that I won’t answer. Let’s change the subject. This sister of yours she must be quite a girl.”
“Oh, she is, sir.”
“Mmm . . . maybe if I had met a girl like that I wouldn’t be a cranky old bachelor now. Get in there and draw your number. Number one goes through in six minutes.”