around his eyes and mouth that Dal did not remember from before. The old
man's body seemed more wispy and frail than ever, and the black cloak
across his shoulders rustled as he led Dal back into a book-lined study.

The Black Doctor had not yet gone to bed. On a desk in the corner of the
study several books lay open, and a roll of paper was inserted in the
dicto-typer. "I knew you would get the message when you arrived," he
said as he took Dal's pack, "and I thought you might be later than you
planned. A good trip, I trust. And your friend here? He enjoys shuttle
travel?" He smiled and stroked Fuzzy with a gnarled finger. "I suppose
you wonder why I wanted to see you."

Dal Timgar nodded slowly. "About the interview tomorrow?"

"Ah, yes. The interview." The Black Doctor made a sour face and shook
his head. "A bad business for you, that interview. How do you feel about
it?"

Dal spread his hands helplessly. As always, the Black Doctor's questions
cut through the trimming to the heart of things. They were always
difficult questions to answer.

"I ... I suppose it's something that's necessary," he said finally.

"Oh?" the Black Doctor frowned. "But why necessary for you if not for
the others? How many were there in your class, including all the
services? Three hundred? And out of the three hundred only one was
refused assignment." He looked up sharply at Dal, his pale blue eyes
very alert in his aged face. "Right?"