The man looked as if he had been born in his uniform. It fitted like a second layer of salt-colored skin, touched here and there with a line, a dot of blue. As simple and perfect a uniform as could be made, but with all the muscled power of the universe behind it.
His name was Trent. He spoke firmly, with a natural round perfection, directly to the subject. I stood there, and my mother was on the far side of the room, looking like a bewildered little girl. I stood listening. Out of all the talking I remember some of the snatches: ". . . Highest grades, high IQ. Perception A-1, curiosity Triple-A. Enthusiasm necessary to the long, eight-year educational grind. . . . "
"Yes, sir. "
". . . Talks with your semantics and psychology teachers "
"Yes, sir".
"... And don't forget, Mr. Christopher... " Mister Christopher! "... And don't forget, Mr. Christopher, nobody is to know you have been selected by the Astronaut Board".
"No one?"
"Your mother and teacher know, naturally. But no other person must know. Is that perfectly understood?"
"Yes, sir".
Trent smiled quietly, standing there with his big hands at his sides.
"You want to ask why, don't you? Why you can't tell your friends?
I'll explain.
"It's a form of psychological protection. We select about ten thousand young men each year from the earth's billions. Out of that number three thousand wind up, eight years later, as spacemen of one sort or another. The others must return to society. They've flunked out, but there's no reason for everyone to know. They usually flunk out, if they're going to flunk, in the first six months. And it's tough to go back and face your friends and say you couldn't make the grade at the biggest job in the world. So we make it easy to go back.
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