When Gregg left, Murphy examined the papers. As Gregg said, the papers were a test of their knowledge of military procedure. There were yes and no questions: questions such as Describe procedure to infiltrate enemy lines, Describe procedure for establishing night patrols, Describe alternate code system. Hundreds of questions.
And an aerial map. The question: Give the approximate location of Fort Johnson. And in small print at the bottom, the notation that this was a test of memory and ability to judge distance.
"Look at this, Hank."
Hank studied the map and question. "That's easy," he said. "I was stationed at Fort Johnson. There's Salt Lake. See? Fort Johnson is about—"
"I said look, not talk!" Murphy rose and glared at Hank. "You're stupid," he added.
"What's the matter with you?" Hank inquired, his jaw sagging.
"You're stupid," Murphy repeated. "Don't you ever question anything? This whole thing smells fishy." He paced the floor, glaring at the metal walls. There was something wrong with the compartment. It was like any compartment aboard any ship, but there was something wrong. He knew there was something wrong, but he couldn't pinpoint it. "It doesn't make sense. We were in a foxhole a few hours ago, and now we're on a ship headed for Earth. It doesn't make sense."
"We're going to be instructors."
"And that map is fishy," Murphy continued. "That's the sort of thing the Antarians would want to know. They have to photograph Earth from a thousand miles out. They'd like to know exactly where Fort Johnson is."
"Well, so what?"