"The same."
"Well," Cob ran a hand over his chin speculatively, "I know Gorman's
a prize stinker ... but you were in command of the _Ganymede_. And,
after all, you come from an old service family and all that. How come
this?" He indicated the monitor expressively.
Strike sighed. "Well, now, Cob, I'll tell you. You'll be spacing with
me and I guess you've a right to know the worst ... not that you
wouldn't find it out anyway. I come from a long line of very sharp
operators. Seven generations of officers and gentlemen. Lousy with
tradition.
"The first David Farragut Strykalski, son of a sea-loving Polish
immigrant, emerged from World War II a four-striper and Congressional
Medal winner. Then came David Farragut Strykalski, Jr., and, in the
abortive Atomic War that terrified the world in 1961, he won a United
Nations Peace Citation. And then came David Farragut Strykalski III ...
me.
"From such humble beginnings do great traditions grow. But something
happened when I came into the picture. I don't fit with the rest of
them. Call it luck or temperament or what have you.
"In the first place I seem to have an uncanny talent for saying the
wrong thing to the wrong person. Gorman for example. And I take too
much on my own initiative. Gorman doesn't like that. I lost the
_Ganymede_ because I left my station where I was supposed to be running
section-lines to take on a bunch of colonists I thought were in
danger...."
"The Procyon A people?" asked Cob.
"So you've heard about it." Strike shook his head sadly. "My tactical
astrophysicist warned me that Procyon A might go nova. I left my
routine post and loaded up on colonists." He shrugged. "Wrong guess. No
nova. I made an ass of myself and lost the _Ganymede_. Gorman gave it
to his former aide. I got this."