Thiotimoline to the stars(搬运)(2)
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"Same speech, I suppose," said Ensign Feet wearily.
"Why not?" said Lieutenant Frohorov, closing his eyes and carefully sitting down on the small of his back. "He's given it for fifteen years, once to each graduating class of the Astronautic Academy."
"Word for word, I'll bet," said Feet, who had heard it the year before for the first time.
"As far as I can tell. -What a pompous bore! Oh, for a pin that would puncture pretension."
But the class was filing in now, uniformed and expectant, marching forward, breaking into rows with precision, each man and woman moving to his or her assigned seat to the rhythm of a subdued drumbeat, and then all sitting down to one loud boom.
At that moment Admiral Vernon entered and walked stiffly to the podium.
"Graduating class of '22, welcome! Your school days are over. Your education will now begin.
"You have learned all there is to know about the classic theory of space flight. You have been filled to overflowing with astrophysics and celestial relativistic mechanics. But you have not been told about thiotimoline.