ear me out in this. You would
decorate us for being the first to navigate space; but we are not the
first."

"Continue!" ordered the quiet voice as Chet paused. "You refer to
Haldgren, probably."

"To Pilot Haldgren, sir."

"This is absurd! Haldgren was lost. It is supposed that he fell back
into the sea, or struck some untraveled part of Earth."

"I have checked over his data, sir. It is my opinion that he did not
fall; his figures indicate that he must have thrown his ship beyond the
gravitational influence of Earth."

The Commander eyed the master pilot coldly. "And because you _think_
that your conclusions are more accurate than those of my own
investigating committee, you refuse this honor!

"Attention!" he snapped sharply. "The entire Service of Air is being
rendered ridiculous by your conduct! I command you to accept this
decoration."

"You are exceeding your authority, sir. I refuse!"

Suddenly the frozen quiet of the Commander's face was flushed red with
rage. "Give me that insignia!" he demanded, and pointed to the triple
star on Chet Bullard's breast. "Your commission is revoked!"

* * * * *

To the last breathless spectator in the farthest end of the great hall
the white pallor of Chet Bullard's face must have been apparent. One
hand moved toward the emblem on his blouse, the cherished triple star of
a master pilot of the World; then the hand paused.

"I have still another reason for believing Haldgren is alive," he said
in a cold and carefully emotionless voice. "Are you interested in
hearing it?"

"Speak!" ordered the Commander.

Chet Bullard, still wearing the triple star, crossed quickly to a phone
panel in the speaker's stand at one side of the stage. He jerked out an
instrument. The buzz of excited whispering that had swept the audience
gave place to utter silence. Each quiet, incisive word that Chet spoke
was clearly heard. He gave his call number.

"Bullard; Master Pilot, First Class; Number U.S. 1; calling Doctor Roche
at Allied Observatory, Mount Everest. Micro-wave, please, and connect
through for telefoto-projection."

A few breathless seconds passed, while Chet aimed an instrument of
gleaming chromium and glass, whose cable connections vanished in the
phone panel recess. He focused it upon an artificially darkened screen
above and behind the grouped figures on the stage. Then:

"Doctor Roche?" Chet queried.

And, before the whole audience, th