"To yesterday, sir. And may these days be as memorable to those who will be remembering fifty years from now."
"And those days fifty years further." They touched glasses, then tossed off the contents, wincing as the whiskey cut its way down. A soft ball of fire exploded in Reilly's midsection. He sighed, capped the bottle and stowed it and the glasses away.
A short rat-a-tat-tat sounded on the door; the Cadet Sergeant-Major opened it and stuck his head through. "Sir?"
"Yes, Sergeant?"
"Six gentlemen to see you, sir."
"What?" He glanced at his memo pad. A notation warned him six prospective cadets were due to come in. It was not standard procedure for him to interview candidates, but all six were the sons of Academy graduates killed in the line of duty. "Give me five minutes, Sergeant, then show them in."
"Very good, sir." He withdrew and closed the door.
"Well, Sergeant," said Reilly, turning to the regular service man. "Perhaps these are the lads who will be doing that reminiscing fifty years from now."
"Quite possible, sir." He stood up and came to attention. "Do I have the general's permission, sir?"
"Dismissed, Sergeant."