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.Whether what I felt coming from him was hostility I didn’t know, but his mood was obviously not a good one.The sooner gone from its negative aura the better.In my room I initialed and signed the Hover-lag storage form at the spaces checked in red as the printed directions instructed.I was about to seal it, when something caught me up short.Those red-penciled check marks.Could they possibly be—stars?There were five places to be initialed.Three of them were indicated by hastily made but straightforward check marks.The fourth was a mixture of an “X” and a check.The fifth, indicating the place for my full signature and Cadet number, was so scrambled (purposely?) that it did resemble a star.At least it had a starlike form.Or was I letting hopes guide my eyes into seeing a star where, in truth, only a harried clerk had rescribbled a check mark? That must be it, I concluded, for Jamison would never be that clumsy.If and when he sent me the star-sign (‘Oh, Gods, please let it be so—and soon!’ I silently prayed), it would be clear and unmistakable.Hidden, perhaps, to all other eyes, but like a beacon to mine.I sealed the form, put it aside to be dropped later into the pickup slot by the Cabin’s entrance, and got into the welcome spray of a hot shower.* * *“Star-sign?” “Jamison?”Your indulgence, please.There is much to tell and, not knowing how long is left me for the telling, I run ahead of myself.For a few moments let us leave young Cadet Chrome to wash himself before his evening meal, while I explain Jamison and the star-sign.It was early in our schooling at the Academy, and our friendship began with me losing my temper and fighting.You see, Jamison was short and stocky, barely tall enough, and almost too blocklike to meet requirements for Cadet candidacy, and, unfortunately for him, he possessed a mass of curly, golden chest hair.Partially in rough good-humored play and partly out of secret jealousy, the Cadets took to sneaking up and pulling sharply at its tufts.Jamison warded off the attacks as best he could, even, when pushed to the end of his temper’s tether, turning to counter with well-placed blows.It was to little avail, however.The torture soon commenced anew.The sight of him motionless in silent tears of rage and frustration one particular day, as his classmates circled, sadistically plucking and then darting away—I think that moment did it.I had never seen a man reduced to tears, and from what others told me later, I exploded.For my part, I remember nothing past flinging myself at the group around my friend.When the dust settled—literally, for we were out-of-doors in the sport area—none were permanently injured, the Gods be praised.All were keeping still, however, or else crawling away with great caution.Only Jamison and I were left upright, and he stood staring incredulously at me.I had blanched completely white, except for the thin, crimson trickle which ran from my bloodied nose down to stain my blue athletic trunks.So ended his torment and began our friendship.A real pair of opposites we were; Tall and short, black hair and blond, a talker and a doer.And I suppose part of what drew us together was Jamison’s endless patience with my theorizing and questioning.He was silent and listened most of the time, never spoke of himself, of his beginnings or his family.When I prodded, he finally told me with a rueful smile that he’d been here before and was going through the schooling now for a second time.“Gods! Did you fail?” I asked in awe.“No,” he grinned, “sorry to say, I remember everything!”He did seem a great deal older than the rest of us, and possessed by a certain melancholy.There were many times when he was absent from classes and our other activities, and I remember wondering if he had some lingering illness.He brushed aside my queries, but thanked me so warmly that I let matters go and centered my efforts on cheering him out of whatever gloom threatened to settle itself upon him.You see, it never occurred to me in those days to look beyond appearances, to question motives, or suspect a surface or doubt the substance beneath it.And so I accepted Jamison as what he seemed.And S.O.R.A., too.As the time for graduation drew nearer, Jamison and I within ourselves realized our closeness was soon to end.Being unable to acknowledge it, to speak of it openly and manfully— Love has many faces but so few names—we chose instead to make a secret pact.With it we decided to have a sign or symbol to be sent, one to the other, as a signal when we had reached whatever lay beyond our schooling’s end.“It must be something simple,” I cautioned.“A star,” suggested Jamison promptly.And that was it, our signal of triumph: A star.Easy and direct.And we were sure no matter what, servants could be bribed, friends cajoled, even superiors duped to act as unwitting messengers for us.But enough for now about friend Jamison and our pacts and symbols.Let us rejoin enterprising Chrome, still young and untested and full of high adventure, as he strides from his quarters for his evening meal.* * *Entering the central living area, I was surprised to see Vortex already there.He sat by the brazier, staring at its flames, lost in thought.Rather than disturb him, I went to the kitchen to forage for supper.The quickest, easiest, and most nourishing thing would be a peanut butter sandwich.(Thank the Gods that peanut butter, singly my most serious weakness, is one food our technicians haven’t spoiled with their tamperings.) Yes, or better two, I decided, and made them; ample layers, thickly spread on fresh laser-thawed slices of white bread.I cut them into neat halves, was pouring a large glass of malt-o-milk, chocolate flavored—“What’s that, Cadet?”Gods above, the man moved without a sound! I gave a start, of course, and spilled some.“Why are you nervous, Chrome?”“You’re so quiet, Oh, King! Couldn’t we perhaps put a bell around your neck?”Not too bad, I thought, on such short notice.“I am not a cat.You are not a bird.And whatever else we may be doing, Cadet, I am not stalking you.” As I cursed myself for being fool enough to lock horns with him, he continued with a nod at my sandwiches.“What have you made?”“My dinner, King Vortex.Sandwiches of peanut butter.”“Oh, yes.You spoke of it before.”“Nothing special.You seemed preoccupied over there, so I wanted to eat and be out of your way.”He regarded my sandwiches with interest.To fill the gap, I ventured, “Would you like to try one?”“Please
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