The Commodore's voice went militarily expressionless. "Very well,
Lieutenant. You'll have the customary three weeks leave before going out
again. Dismissed."
Don saluted snappily, wheeled and marched from the office.
Outside, in the corridor, he muttered a curse. What did that chairborne
brass hat know about space cafard? About the depthless blackness, the
wretchedness of free fall, the tides of primitive terror that swept you
when the animal realization hit that you were away, away, away from the
environment that gave you birth. That you were alone, alone, _alone_. A
million, a million-million miles from your nearest fellow human. Space
cafard, in a craft little larger than a good-sized closet! What did the
Commodore know about it?
Don Mathers had conveniently forgotten the other's claim to five years'
service in the Scouts.
* * * * *
He made his way from Space Command Headquarters, Third Division, to
Harry's Nuevo Mexico Bar. He found the place empty at this time of the
day and climbed onto a stool.
Harry said, "Hi, Lootenant, thought you were due for a patrol. How come
you're back so soon?"