"It's the picture, sir," Bob said, recognizing the bafflement on his superior's face for what it was. "I finally had the bright idea of turning the problem over to the brain, aboard the ship. It followed the specifications from the tape by drawing the picture in periods."
"In what periods?" Jerry mumbled, still trying to come awake.
"Not time-periods, sir. Punctuation. Then, when it had the thing done, on a ten-by-fourteen-inch sheet of feed-paper from its roller, I had the ship's photographer take a snapshot and reduce it in size, so it looks at least as good as the average newspaper half-tone job."
Jerry nodded, absorbing the information even as his eyes crept over the image in his hands. "Looks strangely familiar," he said, studying it closely.
"If you'll pardon what sounds like a gag, sir," began the tech, "I think that the picture—in fact, we all think—"
"Yes?" said Jerry, looking at the man.
"Well, the consensus among the crew was that this baby here looks a hell of a lot like you, sir."
Jerry sat where he was, his eyes on Bob's face, for a long moment, as fingers of ice took hold of his spine. Then, with unreasoning apprehension, he turned his gaze back upon the near-photographic likeness he held. "Ensign," he said, after a minute. "This is a picture of me."
"But sir, it can't be," said the tech.
"You're wrong," said Jerry, letting the paper drop to the floor. "It can be, because it is. And all at once I think I know why."