Adventure flamed in Mr. Meek's timorous heart,
the surge of battle and singing blades. And so,
with a rocket-ship for his steed and a ray-gun
for his sword, he sallied forth ... carrying
cavalier justice to the resentful shining stars.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Now that he'd done it, Oliver Meek found the thing he'd done hard to
explain.
Under the calm, inquiring eyes of Mr. Richard Belmont, president of
Lunar Exports, Inc., he stammered a little before he could get started.
"For years," he finally said, "I've been planning a trip...."
"But, Oliver," said Belmont, "we would give you a leave of absence.
You'll be back. There's no reason to resign."
Oliver Meek shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable, a little guilty.
"Maybe I won't be back," he declared. "You see, it isn't just an
ordinary trip. It may take a long, long time. Something might happen.
I'm going out to see the Solar System."
Belmont laughed lightly, reared back in his chair, matching fingertips.
"Oh, yes. One of the tours. Nothing dangerous about them. Nothing at
all. You needn't worry about that. I went on one a couple of years
ago. Mighty interesting...."
"Not one of the tours," interrupted Meek. "Not for me. I have a ship of
my own."
Belmont thumped forward in his chair, looking almost startled.
"A ship of your own!"
"Yes, sir," Oliver admitted, squirming uncomfortably. "Over thirty
years I've saved for it ... for it and the other things I'll need. It
sort of got to be ... well, an obsession, you might say."
"I see," said Belmont. "You planned it."
"Yes, sir, I planned it."
Which was a masterpiece of understatement.
For Belmont could not know and Oliver Meek, stoop-shouldered,
white-haired bookkeeper, could not tell of those thirty years of thrift
and dreams. Thirty years of watching ships of the void taking off from
the space port, just outside the window where he sat hunched over
ledgers and calculators. Thirty years of catching scraps of talk from
the men who ran those ships. Men and ships with the alien dust of far
off planets still clinging to their skins. Ships with strange marks and
scars upon them, and men with strange words upon their tongues.
Thirty years of reducing high adventure to cold figures. Thirty years
of recording strange cargoes and stranger tales into accounts. Thirty
years of watching through a window while rockets, outbound, dug molten
pits into the field. Thirty years of being on the edge, the very fringe
of life ... but _never_ in it.
Nor could Belmont have guessed or Meek formed in words the romanticism
that glowed within the middle-aged bookkeeper's heart ... a thing that
sometimes hurt ... something earthbound that forever cried for space.
Nor the night classes Oliver Meek had attended to learn the theory of
space navigation and after that more classes to gain an understanding
of the motors and controls that drove the ships between the planets.
Nor how he had stood before the mirror in his room hour after hour,
practicing, perfecting the art of pistol handling. Nor of the
afternoons he had spent at the shooting gallery.
Nor of the nights he had read avidly, soaking up the lore and
information and color of those other worlds that seemed to beckon him.
"How old are you, Oliver?" asked Belmont.
"Fifty next month, sir," Meek answered.
"I wish you were taking one of the passenger ships," said Belmont.
"Now, one of those tours aren't so bad. They're comfortable and ..."
Meek shook his head and there was a stubborn glint in the weak blue
eyes behind the thick lensed glasses.
"No tour for me, sir. I'm going to some of those places the tours never
take you. I've missed a lot in these thirty years. I've waited a long
time and now I'm going out and see the things I've dreamed about."
* * * * *
Oliver Meek pushed open the swinging doors of the Silver Moon and
stepped timidly inside. Just through the door he stopped and stared,
for the place hit him squarely in the face ... the acrid smoke of
Venusian leaf, the high-pitched laughter of the Martian dancing girls,
the soft whirr of wheels, the click of balls as they bounced around
the spinning wheels, the clatter of poker chips, the odor of strange
liquors, the chirping and growling of a dozen tongues, the strange,
exotic music of Ganymede.
Meek blinked through his heavy lenses, moved forward cautiously.
In the far corner of the place stood a table occupied by one man ... an
old, grizzled veteran of the Asteroids with his muzzle in a flagon of
cheap beer.
Meek sidled toward the table, drew out a chair.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" he asked and Old Stiffy Grant choked on a
mouthful of beer in his amazement.
"Go ahead, stranger," he finally croaked. "I don't give a dang. I don't
own the joint."
Meek sat down on the edge of the chair. His eyes swept the room. He
smelled the smoke, the raw liquor, the sweat-stained clothing of the
men, the cheap perfumery of the dancing girls.
He shifted his gun belt so the two energy pistols hung more easily, and
cautiously slid farther back upon the chair.
So this was Asteroid City on Juno. The place he'd read about. The place
the pulp paper writers used as background for their more lurid tales.
This was the place where guns flamed and men were found dead in the
streets and a girl or a game of chance or just one spoken word could
start a fight.
The tours didn't include places such as this. They took one to the
nice, civilized places ... towns like Gusta Pahn on Mars and Radium
City on Venus and out to Satellite City on Ganymede. Civilized,
polished places ... places hardly different than New York or Chicago
or Denver back home. But this was different ... here one could sense
something that made the blood run faster, made a thrill scamper up
one's spine.
"You're new here, ain't you?" asked Stiffy.
Meek jumped, then recovered his composure.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I am. I always wanted to see this place. I read
about it."
"Ever read about an Asteroid Prowler?" asked Stiffy.
"I believe I have somewhere. In a magazine section. A crazy story...."
"It ain't crazy," protested Stiffy. "I saw one of them ... this
afternoon. Right here on Juno. None of these dad-blamed fools will
believe me."
Furtively, Meek studied the man opposite him. He didn't seem to be such
a bad fellow. Almost like any other human being. A little rough, maybe,
but a good fellow just the same.
"Say," he suggested impulsively, "maybe you'd have a drink with me."
"You're dang tootin'," agreed Stiffy. "I never turn down no drinks."
"You order it," said Meek.