"In a way, yes. It's a logical necessity-those ships cant crash, unless you crash 'em on purpose. I know-my old man makes them."
"Well-maybe you're right." Matt dropped the matter, unsatisfied but lacking basis for further argument. It did convince him of one thing, however- spacesickness or not, come what may, he resolved to hang on as long as Girard Burke did, and at least twenty-four hours longer!
His table at dinner that night was numbered "147, 149, 151 & 153." There was room enough to seat the survivors.
Cadet Sabbatello looked them over pleasantly. "Congratulations, gentlemen, on having lasted it out. Since you will be sworn in tonight, when next we meet it will be in a different status." He grinned. "So relax and enjoy your last meal of freedom."
In spite of no effective breakfast and little lunch, Matt found himself unable to eat much. Girard Burke's interpretation of the tests and what they meant troubled him. He still intended to take the oath, but he had an uneasy feeling that he was about to take it without knowing what it signified-what the Patrol really was.
When the meal broke up, on sudden impulse he followed the cadet in charge of the table out. "Excuse me-Mr. Sabbatello, could I speak to you privately, sir?"
"Eh? I suppose so-come along." He led Matt to his own room; it was exactly like Matt's. "Now what is it?"
"Uh-Mr. Sabbatello, that crash today: was anybody hurt?"
"Hurt? It killed eleven people. Don't you call that hurt'?"
"Are you sure? Is it possible that it was a drone and nobody was inside?"