[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
What's more important--Man's conquest
of space, or one spaceman's life?
I
They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.
In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of the
timepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Its
quaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically by
power-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a free
swinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.
They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by such
bigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician Lofting
Gubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebody
from the government who spoke, but he was one of those who were
pseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travel
nor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother to
remember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turned
up at all.
In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generations
before him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangible
in the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add to
his portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.
The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set them
back. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see him
through decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.
But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd had
plenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limited
crediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two or
three more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.
He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on the
Moon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, long
haul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms of
space cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,
boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a one
room mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-in
autobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed to
find contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody like
Doc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in a
mini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomy
beyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.
No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch and
made a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. There
wasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic to
keep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. He
was never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinking
about it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.
They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.
* * * * *
The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which was
typical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,
Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North America
who still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia against
having his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould his
eyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.
That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, Hans
Girard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convinced
Gubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch more
courage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon under
the Ultrawelfare State.
Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,
Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, "Any more
bright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing to
the cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim have
miserably failed."
Girard-Perregaux said easily, "I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.
In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has."
"That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly take
Pond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he has
been trained. There aren't two men on North America--there aren't two
men in the world!--who better realize the urgency of continuing our
delving into space." Gubelin snapped his fingers. "Like that, either of
us would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning the
road to his destiny."
His friend said drily, "Either of us could have volunteered for pilot
training forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't."
"At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkers
throughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who could
foresee that eventually our whole program would face ending due to
lack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to face
adventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner our
ancestors did?"
Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced tea
and tequila. He said, "Nevertheless, both you and I conform with the
present generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one's
way of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted with
the unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurous
pastimes."
Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snap
rebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. "Face
reality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond more
than is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in our
Ultrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tomb
security by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in our
society that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,
clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low level
of subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being drafted
into industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of the
population is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitude
dossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it was
you yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing out
the more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but six
trips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortable
life than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of the
very few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.
He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long years
of drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, he
made his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He was
drafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is now
free from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen to
our pleas for a few more trips?"
"But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for...."
* * * * *
Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,
seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break off
the conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spoken
man.
He said, "No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man has
always paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but in
actuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him to
the least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no one
need face danger--ever. There are few who don't take advantage of the
fact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond."
His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. "Let's
leave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to the
point. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It will
take months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiate
pilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our next
explorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have been
increasingly hard to come by--even though in _our_ minds, Hans, we are
near important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly so
spark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will take
hold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degenerated
to the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well be
that the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddies
on Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of Space
Exploration."
"So...." Girard-Perregaux said gently.
"So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!"
"Now we are getting to matters." Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.
Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as his
face took on an expression of Machiavellianism. "And do not the ends
justify the means?"
Gubelin blinked at him.
The other chuckled. "The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you have
failed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever read
of the sailor and his way of life?"
"Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got to
do with it?"
"You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing more
than a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,
tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you never
heard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of his
birth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months at
sea--and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be out
for years at a stretch before returning to home port--he would talk
of his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would be
one short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay and
heading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morning
would find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off in
jail. So back to sea he'd have to go."
Gubelin grunted bitterly. "Unfortunately, our present-day sailor
can't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'd
personally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him over
the head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again."
He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to his
universal credit card. "The ultimate means of exchange," he grunted.
"Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,
nobody can, ah, _con_ you out of it. Just how do you expect to sever
our present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?"
The other chuckled again. "It is simply a matter of finding more modern
methods, my dear chap."