Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. I
remembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze.
The metallic words had told the truth.
I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed at
Charlie's faded tin box.
Then, finally, I fingered his meager possessions--a few wrinkled
photos, some letters, a small black statue of a forgotten Martian god,
a gold service medal from the Moon Patrol.
This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space.
It was a bitter bargain. A statue instead of a wife, yellowed letters
instead of children, a medal instead of a home.
_It'd be a great future_, I thought. _You'd dream of sitting in a dingy
stone dive on the Grand Canal with sand-wasps buzzing around smoky,
stinking candles. A bottle of luchu juice and a couple of Martian girls
with dirty feet for company. And a sudden cough that would be the first
sign of lung-rot._
To hell with it!