spacemen die at home 3

spacemen die at home 3

Charlie's hard face contorted itself into a gargoylish grin. "Maybe a

couple of months, maybe a couple of years. You know spacemen."

 

Then he waved and strode away, a strange, gray, withered gnome of a man.

 

I wanted him to say something, to tell me the secret that would kill

the doubt worming through my brain.

 

But he rounded a corner, still grinning and waving, and then he was

gone.

 

* * * * *

 

That afternoon Mickey showed me his room. It was more like a boy's

room than a spaceman's. In it were all the little things that kids

treasure--pennants, models of Everson's two ships, a tennis trophy,

books, a home-made video.

 

I began to realize how important a room like this could be to a boy.

I could imagine, too, the happiness that parents felt as they watched

their children grow to adulthood.

 

I'd missed something. My folks were shadow-people, my impressions of

them drawn half from ancient photos, half from imagination. For me, it

had been a cold, automatic kind of life, the life of dormitories and

routines and rules. I'd been so blinded by the brilliancy of my dreams,

I hadn't realized I was different.

 

_My folks were killed in a rocket crash. If it weren't for rockets, I'd

have lived the kind of life a kid should live._

 

Mickey noticed my frown.

 

"What's the matter, Ben? Still sore? I feel like a heel, but I'm just

not like you and Charlie, I guess. I--"

 

"No, I understand, Mickey. I'm not sore, really."

 

"Listen, then. You haven't accepted any offer yet, have you?"

 

"No. I got a couple of possibilities. Could get a berth on the

_Odyssey_, the new ship being finished at Los Angeles. They want me,

too, for the Moon Patrol, but that's old stuff, not much better than

teaching. I want to be in deep space."

 

"Well, how about staying with us till you decide? Might as well enjoy

Earth life while you can. Okay?"

 

I felt like running from the house, to forget that it existed. I wanted

someone to tell me one of the old stories about space, a tale of

courage that would put fuel on dying dreams.

 

But I wanted, also, to be with you, Laura, to see your smile and the

flecks of silver in your eyes and the way your nose turned upward ever

so slightly when you laughed. You see, I loved you already, almost as

much as I loved the stars.

 

And I said, slowly, my voice sounding unfamiliar and far away, "Sure,

I'll stay, Mickey. Sure."

 

* * * * *

 

Forty days of joy, forty nights of fear and indecision. We did all the

little things, like watching the rockets land at White Sands and flying

down to the Gulf to swim in cool waters. You tried, unsuccessfully, to

teach me to dance, and we talked about Everson and Charlie and the Moon

and the stars. You felt you had to give the stars all the beauty and

promise of a child's dream, because you knew that was what I wanted.

 

One morning I thought, _Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have both

you and the stars? Would that be asking too much?_

 

All day the thought lay in my mind like fire.

 

That evening I asked you to marry me. I said it very simply: "Laura, I

want you to be my wife."

 

You looked up at Venus, and you were silent for a long while, your face

flushed.

 

Then you murmured, "I--I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking me

to marry a spaceman or a teacher?"

 

"Can't a spaceman marry, too?"

 

"Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see,

Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for _maybe_ two months, _maybe_ two

years. Then you'd have a twenty-four hour liberty--and I'd have what?"

 

Somehow I'd expected words like these, but still they hurt. "I wouldn't

have to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years,

then teach."

 

"Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn't

you want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on?"

 

Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tears

glittering in your eyes.

 

"Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happened

on the _Cyclops_. There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship was

flooded with radiation--just for a second. It didn't seem serious. The

men had no burns. But a year later the captain had a child. And it

was--"

 

"I know, Laura. Don't say it."

 

You had to finish. "It was a monster."

 

That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let me

sleep.

 

_You've got to decide now_, I told myself. _You can't stay here. You've

got to make a choice._

 

The teaching job was still open. The spot on the _Odyssey_ was still

open--and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all the

way to Pluto.

 

_You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and a

home and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now._

 

_Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be a

line in a history book._

 

I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, "Get the hell out

of there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Get

out there on the _Odyssey_ where you belong. We got a date on Mars,

remember? At the _Space Rat_, just off Chandler Field on the Grand

Canal."

 

That's what he'd say.

 

And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always.

 

"Oh God," I moaned, "what shall I do?"

 

* * * * *

 

Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door and

brought back the audiogram. It was addressed to me; I wondered who

could be sending me a message.

 

I pressed the stud on the little gray cylinder, and a rasping,

automatic voice droned: "Luna City, Luna, July 27, 1995. Regret to

inform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman...."

 

Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the word

"lung-rot" and the metallic phrase, "This message brought to you by

courtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps."

 

I stood staring at the cylinder.

 

Charles Taggart was dead.

 

Charles Taggart was Charlie. Stardust Charlie.

 

My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie!

The audiogram had lied!

 

I pressed the stud again. "... regret to inform you of death of

Charles ..."

 

I hurled the cylinder at the wall. It thudded, fell, rolled. The broken

voice droned on.

 

You ran to it, shut it off. "I'm sorry, Ben, so terribly--"

 

Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. I

remembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze.

The metallic words had told the truth.

 

I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed at

Charlie's faded tin box.

 

Then, finally, I fingered his meager possessions--a few wrinkled

photos, some letters, a small black statue of a forgotten Martian god,

a gold service medal from the Moon Patrol.

 

This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space.

It was a bitter bargain. A statue instead of a wife, yellowed letters

instead of children, a medal instead of a home.

 

_It'd be a great future_, I thought. _You'd dream of sitting in a dingy

stone dive on the Grand Canal with sand-wasps buzzing around smoky,

stinking candles. A bottle of luchu juice and a couple of Martian girls

with dirty feet for company. And a sudden cough that would be the first

sign of lung-rot._

 

To hell with it!

 

I walked into your living room and called Dean Dawson on the visiphone.

 

I accepted that job teaching.

 

* * * * *

 

And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping,

and the house is silent.

 

It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I am

writing this.

 

I looked through Charlie's box again, more carefully this time, reading

the old letters and studying the photographs. I believe now that

Charlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that they

could tell me what he could not express in words.