Second Lieutenant Roger Kennison awoke early to a bright, cloudless Saturday. He threw the bed covers back, rose to his feet, went to the kitchenette stove and turned on the burner under the French-roast espresso he'd prepared the night before. Next, he headed into the small living room where he went through his morning wakeup regimen of twelve deep-knee bends, twelve straight-knee toe touches, twelve sit-ups and twelve pushups. The aroma of the already perking coffee was teasing his nostrils as he finished up his daily dozens. Returning to the stove, he turned off the heat, poured the steaming espresso from the pot into a Pyrex cup, stirred in some sugar, poured the mixture into a vacuum bottle and capped it. Then he shaved, showered, donned a light brown t-shirt, dark blue knee length shorts and sneakers, brushed his teeth and combed his hair. Finally, he sat down at the dinette table and poured his first shot-glass sized cup of coffee for the day. Drinking slowly, he savored its café riche flavor as the nectar washed gently over his tongue with every sip until, after three sips, he was done. "Ahh," he breathed, a hint of a smile decorating his lips. He was ready to meet day.
     Kennison cleared the table, put the used dishes in the sonic and turned it on automatic. He picked up his standard communicator from the nightstand and clipped it to his belt. Don't call me, Graves, old man, he thought, chuckling to himself. I'll call you! He left his quarters, went just outside the main gate and boarded the already crowded base shuttle for the ride downtown.
     San Diego is a clean city, its cleanliness enhanced by the fresh sea air and the off shore breezes. Great naval vessels still line the bay, myriad high-rises and shops adorn the sidewalks, vehicles of every sort, wheeled and air alike, travel the streets.
     The young lieutenant stepped off the shuttle at Pacific and Broadway. He began jogging east, springing off the balls of his feet, his loping gait like that of a gazelle. Three and a half kilometers and twelve minutes later, he arrived at his destination without breaking a sweat or breathing hard. The sign above the lot at 13th and E Streets proclaimed, "Cyrano's Air and Ground Autos, New and Used."
     Kennison walked up and down the rows of used personal-sized vehicles wide-eyed. Even the oldest among them looked amazing. Something in a used ground car, he thought, something small, maneuverable, and...
     "Don't settle for just wheels if you want more," the voice behind him chirped. "I can put you in a one-owner Levvy for a song! Cyrano James at your service!"
     Spinning around, Kennison saw a well-tanned man in his late thirties, impeccably dressed in a light blue summer suit, wearing a Panama hat and glasses. Looking into the man's pale blue eyes he said, "Well, Mr. James, while something to ply the air in would be great, I'll settle for a ground car. This little Tempo looks fine," he said pointing to a small beige two-door. "Okay if I take it for a spin?"
     "I've got a Dart Aero that's just right for you," he nudged.
     "No! I'm only interested in this Tempo."
     "Very well. Come inside. I'll get the key. I'll need to see your license."
     In the show room, Kennison took his wallet from his right front pants pocket, opened it, took out the license and handed it to the older man. James glanced briefly at the license, looked at Kennison, then back at the license. His eyebrows shot up immediately. "You're Second Lieutenant Roger Kennison?"
     "That's right," he replied, his own eyebrows up a notch.
     "Wait here," James said, almost in a whisper, and disappeared into an adjoining office. Returning less than a minute later, he handed Kennison a small, three by five envelope along with his license. "You have a top-of-the-line Dart Astro, bought, paid for, insured, and fully fueled. All the paperwork you'll need is in the car. The key's in this envelope. It appears you have a benefactor."
     Kennison pinned the older man with his gaze and queried, "A man named Graves, right?"
     "That's right. Funny thing though. The payment was by direct personal account transfer, but there was no information about the sender's account."
     "He's a wealthy man, wealthy enough he can have all the privacy he wants," Kennison, chuckling silently, lied.
     "Looks that way," he agreed. "Here, I'll take you to your Astro. You'll love it!"
     "Thank you," Kennison said, his smile lighting his face.
     The two men shook hands upon reaching the car. Smiling into the younger man's eyes, James said, "you know where to bring her for service, right?"
     "I do. And thanks again...for everything!"