It is lonely out there in space. Very, very lonely! A
man needs to see a human face, hear a human voice. So
visitors have to be sent out somehow--by some means.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Super-Science Fiction February 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There were winds on the asteroid, and they blew in threads of heat and
cold, chilling your feet and dampening your brow with sweat. The man
shivered and cursed when the winds blew, condemning the freak currents
of space, damning the Authority which had anchored him to this lonely
outpost.
"If you could only feel them," he said intensely to the three men at
the other side of the room.
"No, thanks," said Briggs. He laughed, and the sound was like brass.
"I feel it in my sleep sometimes," the man said moodily, staring at
the floor. "It does something to your dreams. I have the strangest
nightmares...."
"Maybe it's the rations," Towne suggested, with the hint of a twinkle.
Towne was a great kidder.
"Trouble with you, Pace," said Briggs. "You think too much. Too many
gadgets out here to do your work for you. The Authority oughta scrap
some of these robot controls and get you to use your hands. It's a
great cure for the doldrums, you know."
Murchison, the third man, looked grave. "In my opinion," he said
judiciously, "we need a better rotation system out here. How long have
you been observing on GT-8?"
"One year, five months, two weeks, three days...." Pace looked at
nothing.
"Two hours, forty minutes, and seven seconds, eh?" Towne chuckled. "You
outposters are all alike. Living clocks, every one of you." He nudged
Murchison's side. "Watch this, Deano. What time is it now, Pace? No
fair looking."
"Sixteen hundred plus twenty," the man answered dully.
Towne checked his wrist. "On the button," he said gleefully. "You
really get a talent for it on this job."
"Use your hands," Briggs insisted. "Get out and dig. Plant something.
Build something. Make yourself some furniture."
Murchison frowned. "Not so fast, Freddie." He took a folded paper from
his hip pocket and whispered something to the man by his side. "Spec
sheet, GT-8."
"Never mind," said Pace. "I don't expect you to know the specs on every
outpost on the Belt."
Briggs looked embarrassed. "Oh. Well, okay. So you can't do planting
here. But you could find _something_ to do. You know this fellow
Morgan on TW-1? He's got quite a project under way. He's building a
miniature Earth."