_Space in its far dark reaches can be fickle with a man; it
can shatter his dreams, fill him with fear and hate. It can
also cure a man--if he is strong enough._
* * * * *
It filled all the ebony depths of space. Twirling slowly in awesome
majesty, the meteor scintillated like a massive black diamond. And
with its onrush came a devastating sense of doom. He looked
everywhere. To the front, to the side, and below--there was no escape.
Transfixed, he stared at the great rock flashing in the fire of myriad
suns as it--
Bill Staker, passenger rocket captain for Interplanetary Lines, came
fully awake in his New York hotel room. For a minute, he lay unmoving
on his bed, savoring the delicious sensation of weight. No queazy
stirring in the pit of his belly for lack of gravity, no forced
squinting because of muscular re-orientation.
With a muttered curse he unwound himself from his covers and sat up.
For a moment he rested his head in his hands, thinking, only a
nightmare, thank God, only a nightmare.
He lifted his head, and found cold sweat on his hands. Then sighing in
relief he swung his feet over the edge of his bed.
A glance at the clock showed 10:45 p.m. Monday, June 10th, 2039.
Heavily, he clumped across the room in the peculiar flat-footed gait
of a spaceman accustomed to magnetic contact shoes. Cigarette in hand
he sank into a heavy chair, touched a button on the arm, then sat back
to watch the telescreen.
It was a rehash of the day's news. In nasal tones a senator was
accusing the Republicrats of raising taxes. Then followed scenes from
a spectacular fire. Suddenly, Bill's drooping eyelids popped open.
[Illustration: _The small meteor ripped through the_ Space Bird's
_crew compartment, blinding the radar scope and severing communication
with Earth_.]
A commentator was saying, "... the two rockets of the Staker Space
Mining Company, ready for a scouting trip to the asteroid Beta
Quadrant."
A close-up of Tom Staker followed. Tall, rangy, with blond hair like
straw in the wind. Bill laid his cigarette in a tray and with critical
interest leaned forward to look at his brother.
"We figure to find uranium," Tom was saying, with a glance toward the
vertical rockets, "all through the Beta Quadrant. Our departure is
waiting on the return of my brother, Bill, from his Mars-to-Earth
run."
A reporter asked Tom, "Private enterprise is unique in these days of
virtual monopolies. What's the story behind it?"
"Well, our great-grandfather, George Staker, believed passionately in
private enterprise," Tom began. "Somewhere around 1952 or 1953 he
established a trust fund for his third generation descendants to
finance any project they think worthwhile. And he got an ironclad
guarantee from the government that the trust fund for private
enterprise would be honored in the future. You see, my ancestor was
quite a romanticist. In one of his books entitled 'The Philosophy of
Science' he says 'People of this dawning Atomic Age little realize
they are living in a vast dream. A dream that is slowly taking
objective shape. A tool here, a part there, a plan on some drafting
table. Men of ideas are pointing the way, structuring the inner dream
world of a generation. Even today's science fiction literature
contains important ideas for the dreams-become-reality of tomorrow.'"
Tom finished up, "With our Project Venture, Bill and I are going to
bring a dream into reality--making a little on the side, of course!"
The commentator ended his interview with: "And so, we await with great
interest the carrying out of George Staker's dream, a man whose
Twentieth Century ideas of private enterprise have blown a breath of
fresh air into an age of dull dreams and little imagination."
Bill Staker pressed the control button, darkening the screen. "Dream
boy. Tom, you damned fool." He got up and scuffed into the bathroom to
stare into the mirror. Twenty-five years old, and already lines were
grooving both sides of his nostrils. Tousled black hair like brush
hanging over a high bank, and ridged creases in his forehead. Little
lumps of flesh bulging over the corners of his mouth from constant
tension. The tension of outwitting space on each trip 'tween the
planets. But worst of all was the look in his gray eyes. The look that
never went away anymore. The look of a man who has spent too much time
staring into the enigma of the Universe and--thinking.
"I'm scared--scared as hell!" he blurted at his reflection. "And if I
don't get hold of myself, I'm through--washed up!"
Space was no place for a man with imagination--too much imagination.
You stared into the empty blackness here, you stared into the inky
blackness there, behind you the Earth a tiny pinpoint, the Earth that
meant rock solid footing, the caress of wind and land in all
directions. But out there in the aching void you raced for Mars like a
mouse scuttling across a lighted floor. Raced because of what you
couldn't see, couldn't fathom. Yet, you knew _It_ was out there,
staring back inscrutably.
He rubbed the flat of his hand across his right cheek, sighing from
emotional weariness. Then he scuffed back into the room. On the way he
collected a bottle of bourbon, mixer and glass, and dropped into the
big chair.
As he worked on the bottle, all the anxiety and apprehension in him
faded. Once he stared at the bottom of his empty glass. Funny how a
guy could panic all of a sudden. He remembered it clearly now. Riding
into town yesterday from the rocket port, he started brooding over
details of Project Venture. Suddenly, an overwhelming black tide of
fear worse than he had ever experienced confronted him. Like a man on
the verge of insanity he licked his dry lips, staring about him and
feeling as if something strange and terrible were taking possession of
his mind. And in the middle of his spell a cloud blacker than space
itself started reaching for him. That was when he yelled to the
startled bus driver to let him out at this hotel. Maybe he could get
hold of himself here.
Now, his arms sprawled over the sides of the heavy chair, he drifted
off into a snoring stupor.
* * * * *
In the morning he awoke to a splitting headache. Somehow it helped to
hold his head between both hands and swear at it in a running mutter.
Finally he roused himself to go to the bathroom for a cold shower.
Afterward, donning his powder blue Captain's uniform, he went down to
breakfast.
He dawdled over crisp bacon and eggs, glanced at morning editions, and
all the while the ashes of last night's emotional holocaust drifted
through him. Drifted in fitful vagrant thoughts. He should have said
no that first day a year ago. The big law firm made a great to do over
the old document from his ancestor. Unique, they said. The chance of a
lifetime. And by the end of the first meeting Tom was all fired up.
Mining atomic power metals in the asteroid belt would bring the
biggest returns, he said. They would be the only ones allowed to
compete with the Asteroid Mining Corporation monopoly. And now Tom was
building up public excitement in the venture, as if it were a circus.
The damned fool. Why had he let his brother talk him into--
Suddenly, his line of thought snapped, and he was acutely aware of
staring eyes.
He looked to his left, then felt a warm flush technicolor his cheeks.
"Christy!"
Her blond curls making a soft halo around her jauntily raked hat, the
space hostess from his ship gave him a warm smile. She was adequately
stacked, Bill reflected, but there was levelheaded firmness and
resolution in her too. That was why she was hard to handle.
"Good morning, Bill."
He didn't like the accusing gleam in her eye but he was glad to see
her.
"Sit down, Christy. Have some coffee." He held her hands a moment,
then eased her into the opposite chair.
He tried disarming her with a show of great enthusiasm. But the way
she settled herself into the seat, all the while regarding him with
those clear penetrating blue eyes, told him she was going on no snipe
hunt.
"When you kissed me goodbye at the port yesterday, Bill, you said you
were going directly to the field to be with Tom." It wasn't a
statement--it was an accusation.
With an elaborate show of casualness he shrugged his shoulders. "Well,
I was fagged out from this last trip. Decided I'd do better getting a
full night's rest by myself at a hotel."
The waiter brought her coffee, and she left it to cool. She folded her
long tapering fingers on the table, and a delicate lift to her fine
brows gave her an expression of sympathetic concern.
Her smile was regretful. "Rocket men don't drink, Bill. You know it
too. Bad for muscular coordination."