Wanderlust

The boy frowned suddenly, and snapped his fingers. "Plumb forgot them. The ship was landing just as I got into town, so I went over to watch it--" he took his place opposite his father at the table, his face brightening again. He didn't see the cloud on his father's face. "And they let us go inside it to look around, dad. I never saw anything like it. You wouldn't believe that they could get such a ship off the ground. Why, even I can remember when it was all they could do to blast off with a little ten-man ship, and now--why, this one is like a yacht. It's the STAR KING, the newest one in Dillon's fleet."

George Barlow scowled, the tightness in the pit of his stomach suddenly making his food tasteless. "That's lovely," he said sourly. "They can build them a mile long for all I care. They still aren't fit for rats. At least here you can wash your face if you want to--" He turned back to his plate, hoping the discussion was over, hoping--

"But this one had complete showers, soft bunks, everything. Hydroponic tanks that make the experimental station look like pikers--"

"Eat," said George.

Tad lapsed into silence, the hearty silence of a hungry nineteen-year-old before a full dinner plate. His father took another mouthful and put down his fork, his appetite gone. He could feel the tension growing, the tightness of his breathing. He sensed his wife's apprehension as she too slowed and stopped eating. As if she, too, were waiting--

"Saw Len Cooper when he came off the ship, too, dad. Do you remember Len? This was his first cruise." Tad's eyes sparkled. "He says there's nothing like it, that Rocket life. They stopped on Venus, you know, and then did a reconnaissance in toward the Mercury orbit before they came back. Almost five years away from Earth! They've got a stack of reports as big as an almanac for printing. And Len--you know how scrawny he was? He's put on muscle now. Looks great." Tad put down his fork, a subtle change in his voice, his hand trembling. "We had a long talk, dad. Len says--"

"Len Cooper's a fool!" George Barlow's voice snapped irritably. "He hasn't got all his marbles. A kid like that--all the potential in the world--brains, opportunity--and what does he do with it? Shoots it into Rockets! First cruise, huh? It isn't his last, by a long shot. Those Rocket boys aren't stupid. They know it takes a good cruise to teach a youngster his way around out there. He can't begin to work for his wages until the second cruise, or the third. And then it's too late to come back--"

Tad fiddled with his fork, his eyes down. The room was silent; even Florence sat tense, startled by the outburst. George sat glumly. That was stupid, he thought. Inexcusably stupid. You'll have to face it some day--you know that. Now? Maybe--oh, Lord, not now--maybe tomorrow. But what could you say? What if it is now? His hand trembled as he fumbled awkwardly for his pipe. Where were the words, the phrases, the arguments, so long rehearsed, so sensible, so fatherly?

"Dad."

His fingers were like ice on the pipe bowl. Not tomorrow, then. Now.

"Dad."

"Yes, Tad."

The boy looked straight at his father, his voice very low. "I'm going, dad," he said. "I'm going with it."

"Well, I never heard anything more ridiculous in all my life!" Florence burst out finally. "You're crazy, Tad. Plumb crazy. Do you mean to sit there and say that you're going to give up college, throw away this farm?" She set the cream pitcher down with a thump. "It's out of the question. You just can't mean it."

Tad wriggled uneasily. "I do mean it, mom. The STAR KING is signing up crew tomorrow. They have places for four novices, this time. They'll take me. I know they will. I--I asked this afternoon. I want to go."

George Barlow gripped the edge of the table, fighting for control. "Don't be silly, boy," he said finally, his voice tight. "You're no Rocket man. You don't know what you're saying--" his hands trembled. "Space is no place for a fellow like you--you belong here, studying, working--not hopping around space like a common tramp." He tamped tobacco into his pipe bowl with an air of finality. "Every boy nowadays thinks about going to Space, I know. The fleets are growing larger, taking more and more boys--but the smart ones stay home."

Tad's voice was low and quiet, more deadly firm than George had ever heard it. "You don't understand, dad. I know you don't like it--I know you think it's foolish not to finish college, you hate to see me leave home--but you don't understand." He looked up, his boyish face pale under deep summer tan. "I can't explain it, dad. Ever since I was little, since I saw my first Rocket shooting up into the sky toward the stars, I knew I had to go, too, sometime." He shook his head helplessly. "It's what I've wanted all my life, dad. I've got to go."

"But the farm, son--" Florence was almost in tears. "Doesn't that mean anything to you? Your family's been here for a hundred years, Tad. It's yours, as soon as you're ready to farm it. Don't you care about it after all these years?"

"You know I care, mom." The boy avoided her tearful eyes, ran a hand through his hair. "You know I like the place, and I feel awful running out after all the work you and dad and the men have put in, building it up--but I couldn't make a go of it. I don't want to be earth-bound, tied down to a piece of land all my life--"

His mother's face was suddenly very, very tired. "Oh, you fool," she said, her voice bitter. "You don't know how you'll long for green grass again--" her face flared red in anger. "You've barely started to shave, and you want to go to Space. Well, it's nonsense! You can't do it, that's final. Tell him, George! Tell him why he can't go--tell him why--"

"_Florence!_"

She stopped short, eyes wide. "George, I'm sorry--"

His voice was sharp, urgent. "I think--maybe Tad and I ought to talk this out--ourselves--"

"I'm sorry, George." Florence Barlow rose silently. She began clearing the table, her eyes brimming.

Tad's face was troubled. "I wish you wouldn't make a fuss, dad. I suppose it's a surprise to you both--"

George smiled sourly. "Hardly. We've been around a while, Tad. We saw Len Cooper go, and a half-dozen like him. We knew you'd get the bug sooner or later. But you've got to understand why we can't allow it."

The room was silent, except for the faint rustling of the breeze through the curtains. "You don't know what you're walking into, Tad. None of you boys really know. You only see one side of the picture, the excitement and adventure. I know, it's a thrilling picture, but the thrill wears off, and then you have the long dull days of waiting, sitting, always waiting, with nothing to see but the bulkhead and a dozen men cramped into impossible tight quarters without any room to move around. You don't know how you'd get to hate those men, how you'd wish you could be alone for just a little while, how you'd long for privacy. And you don't realize the danger--not the exciting, bravado kind of danger that you read about, but the live, horrible danger of depending for your life on a little sliver of metal.

"So many things can go wrong, and any one of them means you're through. Not a brave death, son, nor a heroic death--just a very lonely death, where you freeze and starve, and feel the life choke out of you. There are so many ways to die in Space, such horrible ways, so easily. And there isn't any reward worth the risk. It's all risk, and you have nothing for it. A few days of glory when you're back home, and then you're off again. Once you go, you're gone. You'll never come back. Only the lucky ones come back. You'll be in Space 'til it kills you."

"But the colonies, dad. Mars Mountain, Player's Folly, Ironstone--they're all going concerns. They need men, lots of men, with ideas--men who aren't afraid of work--"