The Brave Walk Alone

They had expected great things--but they had been disappointed. Of course, his panic on the trip to Mars had been understandable. The first experience in space. It often happened so. Soon he'd be as calm and unaffected as the others.

Then, there had been the practice flight to Deimos. For Dirk, it still had the immediacy of a nightmare. It was five years now--more than five--and yet he could still visualize the cramped quarters of that training ship.

The instructor had been a fish-faced young man named Petley. Ensign Petley. He had seen in Dirk Jemson a chance for advancement. Give the commandant's son the breaks, he had told himself, and you'll get a promotion.

As the trainer approached Deimos, Petley had turned from the visi-shield and smiled patronizingly at the tensed class who crowded around him.

"We're approaching Deimos, class," he said, and his lips made little smacking noises as he spoke. "I'm going to let Dirk show us how to make a landing. Dirk--take the controls."

And with that, he had gestured to Dirk and stepped back. The silence in the training ship had been absolute. The other thirteen in the class stared at the recipient of this signal honor. Who but the son of the commandant would be trusted to land a ship on his first training flight? Who but the heir to the space mantle of Commandant Jemson.

Dirk remembered the sticky perspiration that had drenched his uniform as he had stared in disbelief at the beaming Petley. He had stammered some excuse, but Petley had smiled and firmly insisted. This was no time to be modest.

Dirk had closed his eyes, moved to the controls. Through the visi-shield, the grey orb of Deimos rushed toward him. The black maw of space was a swirling, twisting, rotating nightmare that blurred up at him.

In the background, Ensign Petley had murmured explanations to the watchers. Closer and closer whirled Deimos. Dirk's hands had faltered over the degravitator. Somehow, the movement of the universe had communicated itself to him. His mind, his heart, his stomach all swam in a whirlpool of black motion.

"Now, Dirk!" Petley's voice was sharp. "Now! Show the class!"

The eyes had been on him--the urgency in the voice had been great--but the hypnotic spinning of Deimos in the visi-shield was irresistible. With a little sigh, Dirk had blacked out.

There had been very little said, naturally. Petley had broken the rules in turning a ship over to a boot, in the first place; and one of the other trainees had saved them by seizing the controls at the crucial moment and decelerating. Dirk had asked to be transferred to another class, and his request was granted. He was, after all, the Commandant's son and allowances must be made.

Enough allowances were made to permit him to graduate from the strato-school. He was a great theorist, his instructors agreed. Perhaps he lacked a little of his father's daring and drive, but he had the same comprehension, the same inter-stellar grasp.

And after graduation, nothing sensational. A little routine work between Mars and Luna--work which permitted him to stay in the navigator's cell--away from the visi-shield--away from the twisting whirlpool of space.

For, after all, promotions must not come too rapidly. He was the son of a famous man and sons of famous men are closely observed by the Universe. When he rose, it must not be the result of family, but because he was well qualified and experienced.

His days as a Lunar navigator were as happy as any Dirk had known, but they were not to last. Commandant Jemson was planning another voyage of exploration--the most audacious in his long and brilliant career. The goal was the dark satellite known as Caliban. A space armada would accompany the commandant on this, the climactic space trek of his colorful career, and in charge of one cruiser in the fleet would be Dirk Jemson--the commandant's brilliant but untried son.

And now, they were approaching Caliban.

"What d'ya think we'll find on Caliban, Doc?" Kennedy addressed his question to Tabor, who had closed his book with a little sigh, and was staring dreamily ahead.

"Very little." Tabor pursed his lips in an academic pout. "It is my theory that the atmosphere on Caliban will not support organic life as we know it."

"But there could be other kinds? Like the Venusians, maybe, or those things from Circe I've seen at the Zoo."

Tabor nodded. "That's what makes being a part of this expedition so stimulating. When we reach Caliban, I will be the first biophysicist to be permitted to examine the satellite. I'll be the first to coordinate fact and theory."

Allen peered through the visi-shield. "You can start coordinatin' pretty soon, Doc. Caliban's just ahead."

As Allen spoke, the audio-visor above his head hummed and flickered. Dirk tensed himself. This was it. In a few seconds, that humming and flickering would materialize and he would be watching his father's face, hearing his father's voice.

As with a single impulse, the other three men in the cabin turned and regarded Dirk. They seemed to sense that the moment was his. Allen stepped back from the visi-shield; Kennedy turned from his gauges.

Commandant Jemson's face spread on the screen like a slow stain. He cleared his voice. This was a strong face. The eyes were compelling; the nose generous and the mouth firm. Steel grey hair, cut short, completed the impression of controlled power.

"Attention," the voice said; and it, too, was dynamic, forceful. "Attention, all participants in Operation Caliban. We are now approaching our objective. The flight, thus far, has been distinguished by its orderliness. We know that the landing will be equally well-organized. The high command has decided that the space cruiser ICARUS, piloted by Lieutenant Dirk Jemson, shall have the honor of leading the armada in. If that is clear, we will rendezvous on Caliban."

The image flickered for a moment and then dwindled away. The die was cast. Shakily, Dirk rose to his feet. There had been a second when he had harbored the wild hope that his father might reserve the honor of the first landing for himself; that hope had foundered and gone down. The echo of the older man's pride hung suspended in Dirk's mind. Why couldn't the commandant understand that with Dirk it was different? Why couldn't he see the difference?

"Are you all right, sir?" That was Allen, struggling to mask his concern with an air of forced casualness.

"Yes." Dirk's voice sounded strained and taut. "Yes. I'm all right. I'll take over, Allen." He moved toward the visi-shield and Allen retreated.