"It's a mistake!" Pete told his wife angrily. "Something's wrong! They didn't talk to Captain Drago like I told them, and—"
Nancy's eyes were indignant. She sent him steaming back with fire in his eyes, but he couldn't change the decision. He did get as far as the office of the doctor who had asked him all the fool questions, and he saw a paper he wasn't meant to see. It stunned him into temporary silence.
But it wasn't true! Positively not!
Definite signs of senility, the notes read. Irritable reaction to questioning. Mind wanders, fixes on irrelevancies. Preoccupation with casual remarks of associates....
And more. He didn't tell Nancy this, nor did he show her the reply he received to his protest.
"While a search of our records indicates a subjective—chronological age of approximately 48.6 years, physiological analysis puts the condition of your body at a much higher figure—it would be guesswork to try to name a figure. However, recent studies indicate that interstellar personnel with long terms of service tend to age at an increasingly rapid rate, due probably to psychological factors stemming from the knowledge of separation from the natal culture....
"We are sorry...."
He kept his hair dark and the wrinkles smoothed out and forced the tiredness from his bones. Other things were harder to fake, but Nancy wasn't a demanding wife. She thought he was about thirty-five, and she thought the blow of being dropped from the service had taken the life from him. She took his part firmly.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Pete. Not one person in a thousand could pass the examination for the interstellar service—they're really tough. And we're together."
"What will we live on?" Pete demanded, knowing he was being too irritable, but unable to control it. He waved the pension check. "Can we live on that? A fine payment for my years of service."