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well. A fine mathematician.” The High Secretary went on, “I understand that you have had the misfortune to lose your government Citizen’s Identification. Carl.”
    He had not raised his voice, but a young man appeared with the speed of a genie. “Yes, sir?”
    “Take this young man’s thumb print, call the Bureau of Identification—not here, but the main office at New Washington. My compliments to the Chief of Bureau and tell him that I would be pleased to have immediate identification while you hold the circuit.”
    The print was taken speedily; the man called Carl left. The High Secretary went on, “What was your purpose in coming here?” Diffidently, Max explained that his uncle had told him that he intended to nominate him for apprenticeship in the guild.
    The man nodded. “So I understand. I am sorry to tell you, young fellow, that Brother Jones made no nomination.”
    Max had difficulty in taking in the simple statement. So much was his inner pride tied to his pride in his uncle’s profession, so much had he depended on his hope that his uncle had named him his professional heir, that he could not accept at once the verdict that he was nobody and nothing. He blurted out, “You’re sure? Did you look?”
    The masseur looked shocked but the High Secretary answered calmly, “The archives have been searched, not once, but twice. There is no possible doubt.” The High Secretary sat up, gestured slightly, and the servant disappeared. “I’m sorry.”
    “But he told me,” Max said stubbornly. “He said he was going to.”
    “Nevertheless, he did not.” The man who had taken the thumb print came in and offered a memorandum to the High Secretary, who glanced at it and waved it away. “I’ve no doubt that he considered you. Nomination to our brotherhood involves a grave responsibility; it is not unusual for a childless brother to have his eye on a likely lad for a long time before deciding whether or not he measures up. For some reason your uncle did not name you.”
    Max was appalled by the humiliating theory that his beloved uncle might have found him unworthy. It could not be true—why, just the day before he died, he had said—he interrupted his thoughts to say, “Sir—I think I know what happened.”
    “Eh?”
    “Uncle Chester died suddenly. He meant to name me, but he didn’t get a chance. I’m sure of it.”
    “Possibly. Men have been known to fail to get their affairs in order before the last orbit. But I must assume that he knew what he was doing.”
    “But—”
    “That’s all, young man. No, don’t go away. I’ve been thinking about you today.” Max looked startled, the High Secretary smiled and continued, “You see, you are the second ‘Maximilian Jones’ who has come to us with this story.”
    “Huh?”
    “Huh indeed.” The guild executive reached into a pocket of his chair, pulled out some books and a card, handed them to Max, who stared unbelievingly.
    “Uncle Chet’s books!”
    “Yes. Another man, older than yourself, came here yesterday with your identification card and these books. He was less ambitious than you are,” he added dryly. “He was willing to settle for a rating less lofty than astrogator.”
    “What happened?”
    “He left suddenly when we attempted to take his fingerprints. I did not see him. But when you showed up today, I began to wonder how long a procession of ‘Maximilian Jones’ would favor us. Better guard that card in the future—I fancy we have saved you a fine.”
    Max placed it in an inner pocket. “Thanks a lot, sir.” He started to put the books in his rucksack. The High Secretary gestured in denial.
    “No, no! Return the books, please.”
    “But Uncle Chet gave them to me.”
    “Sorry. At most he loaned them to you—and he should not have done even that. The tools of our profession are never owned individually; they are loaned to each brother. Your uncle should have turned them in when he retired, but some of the brothers