Death of a Spaceman Page 3

whitened so that he knewthat he had it, but he got it off the table and onto his chest, and hegot the cork out with his teeth. He had a long pull at the bottle, andit made his eyes water and his hands grow weak. But he got it back tothe table without spilling a bit, and he was proud of himself.

  The room was spinning like the cabin of a gyro-gravved ship. By the timehe wrestled it to a standstill, the nun was gone. The blare of musicfrom the Keith terrace was louder, and laughing voices blended with it.Chairs scraping and glasses rattling. A fine party, Keith, I'm glad youpicked today. This shebang would be the younger Keith's affair. RonaldTonwyler Keith, III, scion of Orbital Engineering and ConstructionCompany--builders of the moon-shuttle ships that made the run from thesatellite station to Luna and back.

  It's good to have such important neighbors, he thought. He wished he hadbeen able to meet them while he was still up and about. But the Keiths'place was walled-in, and when a Keith came out, he charged out in alimousine with a chauffeur at the wheel, and the iron gate closed again.The Keiths built the wall when the surrounding neighborhood began togrow shabby with age. It had once been the best of neighborhoods, butthat was before Old Donegal lived in it. Now it consisted of sooty oldhouses and rented flats, and the Keith place was really not a part of itanymore. Nevertheless, it was really something when a pensioned blastmancould say, "I live out close to the Keiths--you know, the _Ronald_Keiths." At least, that's what Martha always told him.

  The music was so loud that he never heard the doorbell ring, but when alull came, he heard Nora's voice downstairs, and listened hopefully forKen's. But when they came up, the boy was not with them.

  "Hello, skinny-britches," he greeted his daughter.

  Nora grinned and came over to kiss him. Her hair dangled about his face,and he noticed that it was blacker than usual, with the gray streaksgone from it again.

  "You smell good," he said.

  "You don't, Pops. You smell like a sot. Naughty!"

  "Where's Ken?"

  She moistened her lips nervously and looked away. "He couldn't come. Hehad to take a driver's lesson. He really couldn't help it. If he didn'tgo, he'd lose his turn, and then he wouldn't finish before he goes backto the academy." She looked at him apologetically.

  "It's all right, Nora."

  "If he missed it, he wouldn't get his copter license until summer."

  "It's okay. Copters! Hell, the boy should be in jets by now!"

  Several breaths passed in silence. She gazed absently toward the windowand shook her head. "No jets, Pop. Not for Ken."

  He glowered at her. "Listen! How'll he get into space? He's got to gethis jet licenses first. Can't get in rockets without 'em."

  Nora shot a quick glance at her mother. Martha rolled her eyes as ifsighing patiently. Nora went to the window to stare down toward theKeith terrace. She tucked a cigaret between scarlet lips, lit it, blewnervous smoke against the pane.

  "Mom, can't you call them and have that racket stopped?"

  "Donny says he likes it."

  Nora's eyes flitted over the scene below. "Female butterflies andpuppy-dogs in sport jackets. And the cadets." She snorted. "Cadets!Imagine Ron Keith the Third ever going to space. The old man buys hisway into the academy, and they throw a brawl as if Ronny passed theCompets."

  "Maybe he did," growled Old Donegal.

  "Hah!"

  "They live in a different world, I guess," Martha sighed.

  "If it weren't for men like Pops, they'd never've made their fortune."

  "I like the music, I tell you," grumbled the old man.

  "I'm half-a-mind to go over there and tell them off," Nora murmured.

  "Let them alone. Just so they'll stop the racket for blast-away."

  "Look at them!--polite little pattern-cuts, all alike. They takepre-space, because it's the thing to do. Then they quit before thepay-off comes."

  "How do you know they'll quit?"

  "That party--I bet it cost six months' pay, spacer's pay," she went on,ignoring him. "And what do real spacers get? Oley gets killed, and Pop'spension wouldn't feed the Keiths' cat."

  "You don't understand, girl."

  "I lost Oley. I understand enough."

  * * * * *

  He watched her silently for a moment, then closed his eyes. It was nogood trying to explain, no good trying to tell her the dough didn't meana damn thing. She'd been a spacer's wife, and that was bad enough, butnow she was a spacer's widow. And Oley? Oley's tomb revolved around thesun in an eccentric orbit that spun-in close to Mercury, then reachedout into the asteroid belt, once every 725 days. When it came withinrocket radius of Earth, it whizzed past at close to fifteen miles asecond.

  You don't rescue a ship like that, skinny-britches, my darling daughter.Nor do you salvage it after the crew stops screaming for help. If youuse enough fuel to catch it, you won't get back. You just leave such aship there forever, like an asteroid, and it's a damn shame about themen trapped aboard. Heroes all, no doubt--but the smallness of thewidow's monthly check failed to confirm the heroism, and Nora was bitterabout the price of Oley's memory, perhaps.

  Ouch! Old Donegal, you know she's not like that. It's just that shecan't understand about space. You ought to make her understand.

  But did he really understand himself? You ride hot in a roaringblastroom, hands tense on the mixer controls and the pumps, eyes gluedto instruments, body sucked down in a four-gravity thrust, and wait forthe command to choke it off. Then you float free and weightless in along nightmare as the beast coasts moonward, a flung javelin.

  The "romance" of space--drivel written in the old days. When you're notblasting, you float in a cramped hotbox, crawl through dirty mazes ofgreasy pipe and cable to tighten a lug, scratch your arms and bark yourshins, get sick and choked up because no gravity helps your gullet getthe food down. Liquid is worse, but you gag your whiskey down becauseyou have to.

  Stars?--you see stars by squinting through a viewing lens, and it's likea photo-transparency, and if you aren't careful, you'll get an eyeful ofOld Blinder and back off with a punch-drunk retina.

  Adventure?--unless the skipper calls for course-correction, you floataround in the blast-cubicle with damn little to do between blast-awayand moon-down, except sweat out the omniscient accident statistics. Ifthe beast blows up or gets gutted in space, a statistic had your nameon it, that's all, and there's no fighting back. You stay outwardly sanebecause you're a hog for punishment; if you weren't, you'd never getpast the psychologists.

  "Did you like horror movies when you were a kid?" asked the psych. Andyou'd damn well better answer "yes," if you want to go to space.

  * * * * *

  Tell her, old man, you're her pop. Tell her why it's worth it, if youknow. You jail yourself in a coffin-size cubicle, and a crazy beastthunders berserk for uncontrollable seconds, and then you soar inominous silence for the long, long hours. Grow sweaty, filthy, sick,miserable, idle--somewhere out in Big Empty, where Man's got no businessexcept the trouble he always makes for himself wherever he goes. Tellher why it's worth it, for pay less than a good bricklayer's. Tell herwhy Oley would do it again.

  "It's a sucker's run, Nora," he said. "You go looking for kicks, but theonly kicks you get to keep is what Oley got. God knows why--but it'sworth it."

  Nora said nothing. He opened his eyes slowly. Nora was gone. Had shebeen there at all?

  He blinked around at the fuzzy room, and dissolved the shifting shadowsthat sometimes emerged as old friendly faces, grinning at him. He foundMartha.

  "You went to sleep," said Martha. "She had to go. Kennie called. He'llbe over later, if you're not too tired."

  "I'm not tired. I'm all head. There's nothing much to get tired."

  "I love you, Old Donegal."

  "Hold my hand again."

  "I'm holding it, old man."

  "Then hold me where I can feel it."

  She slid a thin arm under his neck, and bent over his face to kiss him.She was
crying a little, and he was glad she could do it now withoutfleeing the room.

  "Can I talk about dying now?" he wondered aloud.

  She pinched her lips together and shook her head.

  "I lie to myself, Martha. You know how much I lie to myself?"

  She nodded slowly and stroked his gray temples.

  "I lie to myself about Ken, and about dying. If Ken turned spacer, Iwouldn't die--that's what I told myself. You know?"

  She shook