The joint centenary celebration and graduation ceremony was held in the

Academy's giant Free-Flight Dome. The bare rock from which it had been

hewn was hung with flags and bunting, and criss-crossed with

computerised coloured laser beams that had been programmed to create

dazzling, ever-changing, patterns of light.

When the five thousand spectators had filed into their allotted seats,

the nine squadrons of cadets and the Academy staff paraded to the

stirring synthesised sounds of brass, LIFE and drum, then lined up with

geometrical precision for inspection by the visiting dignitaries from

Grand Central.

This was followed by squadron displays of marching and countermarching,

weapon handling, assault training demonstrations, gymnastics and

quarterstave combat drills.

The ground events, interwoven with highlights from the video-record of

the Flight Academy's history and achievements projected on a giant

screen, were climaxed by a flying display in which Steve Brickman took

a leading part.

After the ceremonial presentation of wings, prizes, a video-address by

George Washington Jefferson the 31st, the President-General of the

Federation, and seemingly interminable speeches by members of the

Amtrak Executive who had shuttled from Houston, the amplifiers boomed

out the opening chords of 'The Wild Blue Yonder', the Academy's

historic battle-hymn. Five thousand spectators rose to their feet and,

with one voice, joined the two hundred-strong choir in the verses and

chorus that accompanied the final march past. Tears flowed ashamedly

down the cheeks of veteran Trail-Blazers in the stands as the voices

and music soared to fill the huge circular arena; the sound merging, as

if by magic, with the rhythmic pulsing of the lasers, to create a

heart, mind and gut= gripping audio-visual experience; the crowning

moment of a triumphantly successful anniversary parade.

As the last words of the last ringing chorus faded, and the tears were

wiped away, the hymn was reprised in voiceless diminuendo. The First

and Second Year cadets marched out of the arena to the sound of

retreating drumbeats, and the three Senior squadrons, now proudly

bearing their newly-won wings on their tunics, were halted and

dismissed in front of the packed reviewing stand. After nearly four

hours on the parade ground, the Third Year cadets broke ranks with

broad smiles of relief as their guardians and kinfolk - some of whom

had travelled from the farthest reaches of the Federation - left their

seats and streamed down the steps to greet their wards with hugs and

handshakes, and shoot off more videotape for the unit album.

'How ya doing, Wonder-Boy?"

Steve ducked out from under the enthusiastic embrace of his kin-sister

and smoothed his uniform. 'Hey, Roz, come on - grow up will you?"

'I am grown up. I was fifteen last February, remember?"

'Sure, I remember."

'Could have looked in on me. Or at least sent a vee-gee."

'I forgot, Worm. Happy Birthday whenever. Okay?"

'And not a bleep from you when I passed my Inter-Med."

'Steve hardly ever looks in. You should know that,' said Annie

Brickman. Her voice was entirely devoid of malice or reproach. It was

just a plain statement of fact. Annie, Steve's guard-mother, stepped

aside as her kin-brother Bart Bradlee eased Jack Brickman's wheelchair

through the crowd.

'I was gonna send a vee-gee, but it got kind of busy."

'We know that, boy." In the three years since leaving home his

guard-father's voice had faded to a husky whisper.

Steve lifted his guard-father's hands from the arms of his chair and

squeezed them gently. Jack Brickman's fingers responded to the contact

like palsied chicken claws. It was hard to believe that these hands,

and the wasted body they were attached to, had once been packed with

lean hard flesh and enough muscle power to knock many bigger men clear

across a room.

'Good to see you, sir. I really appreciate you taking the trouble to

make the trip."

'If we hadn't brought him, he'd have got someone to tie him to the

chair and had himself shipped out as freight,' said Bart. He patted

Jack Brickman's shoulder. 'Ain't t