Mr. Zytztz hesitated. Then one leaf raised in a regal salute.

They lifted her off the concrete. She slanted up and up and up at tremendous speed, and then, free of Mars' gravitational influence, curved downward into the sixty-year trajectory that would bring them to Gamma Velorum in the southern skies.

The next day they were out far past Uranus and still accelerating at a constant two gravities. Two faint messages came on the videophone. One said:

CONGRATULATIONS, ADMIRAL, AND BEST WISHES. I GUESS THERE'S NOBODY FUNNIER THAN PEOPLE.—PICKENS, ADMIRAL, I.S.M., RETIRED.

The other said:

JOHN HEALEY, ADMIRAL, I.S.M., RETIRED. CONGRATULATIONS ON BECOMING THE SIXTH ADMIRAL. WISH I COULD HAVE SHAKEN YOUR HAND, BUT YOU KNOW WHAT IS BEST. GOOD LUCK FROM YOUR DAD.—MARK HEALEY, ADMIRAL, I.S.M., RETIRED.

Healey looked up. Mr. Zytztz was on the bridge. He was facing Vela. His leaves were rustling gently. He was going home. And from the way he was staring through the porthole, Healey knew his eyes were open.

Healey softly folded the last message and put it carefully in his breast-pocket. He walked over and stood beside Mr. Zytztz and looked toward Vela. Healey's eyes were open, too, but they were wet.

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