That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let me
sleep.
_You've got to decide now_, I told myself. _You can't stay here. You've
got to make a choice._
The teaching job was still open. The spot on the _Odyssey_ was still
open--and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all the
way to Pluto.
_You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and a
home and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now._
_Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be a
line in a history book._
I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, "Get the hell out
of there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Get
out there on the _Odyssey_ where you belong. We got a date on Mars,
remember? At the _Space Rat_, just off Chandler Field on the Grand
Canal."
That's what he'd say.
And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always.
"Oh God," I moaned, "what shall I do?"
* * * * *
Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door and
brought back the audiogram. It was addressed to me; I wondered who
could be sending me a message.
I pressed the stud on the little gray cylinder, and a rasping,
automatic voice droned: "Luna City, Luna, July 27, 1995. Regret to
inform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman...."
Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the word
"lung-rot" and the metallic phrase, "This message brought to you by
courtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps."