Beauclaire reached the platform and threw down his gear, thinking that
this was one hell of a way to begin a career.
Wyatt nodded to him, but didn't say anything. He accepted the letter,
opened it and read it. He was a short man, thick and dark and very
powerful. The lines of his face did not change as he read the letter.
"Well," he said when he was done, "thank you."
There was a long wait, and Wyatt said at last: "Is the Commandant
coming down?"
"No, sir. He said he was tied up. He said to give you his best."
"That's nice," Wyatt said.
After that, neither of them spoke. Wyatt showed the new man to his
room and wished him good luck. Then he went back to his cabin and sat
down to think.
After 28 years in the Mapping Command, he had become necessarily
immune to surprise; he could understand this at once, but it would be
some time before he would react. _Well, well_, he said to himself; but
he did not feel it.
Vaguely, flicking cigarettes onto the floor, he wondered _why_. The
letter had not given a reason. He had probably flunked a physical. Or
a mental. One or the other, each good enough reason. He was 47 years
old, and this was a rough business. Still, he felt strong and
cautious, and he knew he was not afraid. He felt good for a long while
yet ... but obviously he was not.
_Well, then_, he thought, _where now_?
He considered that with interest. There was no particular place for
him to go. Really no place. He had come into the business easily and
naturally, knowing what he wanted--which was simply to move and listen
and see. When he was young, it had been adventure alone that drew him;
now it was something else he could not define, but a thing he knew he
needed badly. He had to see, to watch ... and _understand_.
It was ending, the long time was ending. It didn't matter what was
wrong with him. The point was that he was through. The point was that
he was going home, to nowhere in particular.
When evening came, he was still in his room. Eventually he'd been able
to accept it all and examine it clearly, and had decided that there
was nothing to do. If there was anything out in space which he had not
yet found, he would not be likely to need it.
He left off sitting, and went up to the control room.
* * * * *
Cooper was waiting for him. Cooper was a tall, bearded, scrawny man
with a great temper and a great heart and a small capacity for liquor.
He was sitting all alone in the room when Wyatt entered.
Except for the pearl-green glow of dashlights from the panel, the room
was dark. Cooper was lying far back in the pilot's seat, his feet
propped up on the panel. One shoe was off, and he was carefully
pressing buttons with his huge bare toes. The first thing Wyatt saw
when he entered was the foot glowing luridly in the green light of the
panel. Deep within the ship he could hear the hum of the dynamos
starting and stopping.
Wyatt grinned. From the play of Coop's toes, and the attitude, and the
limp, forgotten pole of an arm which hung down loosely from the chair,
it was obvious that Coop was drunk. In port, he was usually drunk. He
was a lean, likable man with very few cares and no manners at all,
which was typical of men in that Command.
"What say, Billy?" Coop mumbled from deep in the seat.