Flunking a physical was the greatest worry
a space pilot had. It was the one worry Kendall
never bothered about--until he landed on Mars....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
August 1957
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ted Kendall waited with thinly-concealed impatience in the unheated
outer office of Mars' branch of Space Service, cursing the red tape
that kept him anchored on this cold, miserable pebble of a planet.
"We'll have that analysis in just a moment, Pilot Kendall," came the
voice from the inner office. "Please be patient."
"I'll try," Kendall growled bitterly.
Actually, he thought, it was his own fault. A spacepilot had to have
a reflex checkup every six months, to determine whether or not he was
still capable of the myriad split-second decisions that had to be made
during the course of the Earth-Mars run.
Kendall's six-month exam had been scheduled to fall due about four days
after he left Earth for his present run. A midflight due-date of this
sort gave him an option: he could take the test four days early, on
Earth, or he could wait till the journey was completed and be tested at
the Mars end of the run.
He had chosen Mars, since otherwise he would have had to give up his
assignment on the _Queen Alexandra_ and wait to draw another. He was in
good health, his reflexes were fine, and he didn't expect to hit any
snags on the Mars end.
_Not much_, he thought.
He rose and walked toward the door. "How's that machine of yours
coming?"
"We're still computing your curve, Pilot Kendall. It'll take just
another moment or two."
Frowning, he took his seat again. He hadn't looked for this sort of
trouble on Mars.
The Martian branch of Space Service didn't work with the same smooth
efficiency as the Earth office. There, you walked in, let the computer
run you over, and in ten minutes your license was stamped for another
six-month extension. Here things worked differently.
It had taken him two days just to get an appointment--two days in which
he wandered through Mars City, lonely and bitter, shuddering in the
biting cold and feeling homesick for Earth and Kathy and good warm air
with some oxygen in it. Then he had his exam--and, unaccountably, they
requested him to return the next day for a re-test.
A re-test? What the devil for? When Kendall had returned, he had
been shivering not only with the cold of Mars but with apprehension.
He looked at his hands. They seemed to be steady. Were his reflexes
wearing out? Was he washed-up as a spacepilot? He didn't know. The
machine was going to tell him that soon enough.
The door opened. A white-smocked computer technician wearing the
comet-insignia of Space Service came out, frowning uneasily and
riffling a sheaf of papers. Kendall stood up.
"It's about time; I'd like to get going on my return run. Where's my
license?"
The technician stared at him strangely for a moment. "I'm sorry, Mr.
Kendall. I can't give you your license. The computer shows that you're
no longer fit to pilot a spacegoing vessel."
* * * * *
For an instant Kendall didn't react. Then it hit him. The technician
had called him _Mr._ Kendall instead of _Pilot_ Kendall. That meant
only one thing.
He blinked and shook his head. "You're kidding. This is some kind of
joke. I never felt better in my life."
"I'm just doing my job, Mr. Kendall. The computer says no--and I can't
argue. I'll have to refuse you an extension of your certificate."
"But that means--hell, man, the _Alexandra's_ due to blast off for
Earth tonight! How--"
"We've already alerted an off-duty pilot to take your place, Mr.
Kendall."