The block of granite that held the plaque was darkened with age; the bronze itself was green, the words obscure and hard to make out. Lars Heldrigsson shifted his Spacer’s pack down from his broad shoulder and bent over, squinting, to make out the letters.
Launched: March 3, 2008
Returned:
There was no date on the second line. Slowly the young man ran his eyes down the names of the crewmen and felt the old familiar prickle of wonder and excitement starting at the base of his spine. They must have been brave ones, those people, he thought. Trying to make a Star-jump with ordinary unassisted thrust engines! It seemed incredible, and yet they had done it. Where were they now? Dead long since, of course, but what about their grandchildren and great-grandchildren? Lars tried to imagine being born and raised in a Star Ship, depending upon tapes and films for knowledge of Earth and Earthmen left behind, never knowing the crunch of gravel under the feet, or the warm flush of a summer breeze on the cheek. Had they finally reached a landfall, ever, anywhere?
Certainly they had never returned to Earth. After three hundred and fifty years the granite launching rack still stood empty. The rocket port had grown up around it, engulfing it as the years passed, until it stood in the great central lobby of the busy Terminal, a silent monument to the desperation and bravery of the ship that was launched there.
Nor had the Argonaut ever reached the planets of Alpha Centauri, its intended destination, for modern Koenig-drive ships had searched those planets long and diligently and found no trace, no sign that Man had ever come there. All the near stars had been reached and explored by now—Altair and Vega, Alpha Centauri and Sirius and Arcturus and the rest—and nowhere had a sign been found. The Argonaut had become a legend, a brave gesture of the past, but the thought of that hopeless voyage never failed to stir Lars Heldrigsson, to make him eager to be off, impatient with the years of study that had been necessary to qualify him for the Colonial Service Patrol. It was a legend of greatness, and there ,was still a challenge in the stars that time and a changing world could never destroy.
Of this Lars Heldrigsson was very sure.
He shouldered his pack again, a tiny fifty-pound bundle, the weight limit allowed crewmen on Colonial Service ships, and walked quickly up the long ramp into the main Terminal Concourse. He was large for his eighteen years, standing a full six feet two, broad shouldered, powerful. His height and weight had been something of an issue when he had entered the Colonial Service Academy five years before; since then he had gained another two inches, and barely passed the physical examination before graduation, not because of any sign of ill health but because of sheer size. His shock of yellow-white hair, his blue eyes and the flat, heavy features of his face revealed clearly his Nordic ancestry. He seemed to move slowly and ponderously. Throughout his life he had had to contend with smaller, faster ones who made the unfortunate mistake of assuming that Lars Heldrigsson couldn’t move fast when he wanted to—to their enduring regret.
Now he stepped briskly out into the Concourse, felt himself picked up and carried by the streams of travelers, crewmen, colonists and Security men riding the rolling strips to and from the launching racks and loading platforms. Everywhere there was feverish activity and bustle. Across the way he saw lines of colonists waiting for their final physicals and baggage checks before boarding the Star Ships that would carry them out to new homes, rugged homes, perhaps, a far cry from the crowded mechanization of the cities of Earth, but homes where they could have land and food and a place to raise their children, homes linked to Earth by the strong bonds of Colonial Service ships that traveled to the stars and back in months.
And down the Concourse were the flashing lights of the shuttles leading out to the ships themselves.
Star Ship Tethys, now loading colonists and supplies for the fourth planet of Sirius, an old Colony, well established, rich in land, rich in Earth-mutated wheat, a sub-tropical paradise with room for many thousands of families to settle and grow, almost self-supporting now and soon to apply for independent elections and representation in the Colonial Council.
Star Ship Danton, taking men and machinery to the newly opened colony on Aldebaran III, a bitter place until Earth weather technicians and Earth civil engineers had carved a foothold for hungry Earthmen to find homes. A weather-beaten fisherman made his way onto the shuttle, with a gold ring in his ear and a tiny Arcturian monkey-bear on his shoulder, tossing three sparkling tele-dice in the air before him to amuse his pet and laughing as the creature batted at them with a tawny paw. There were great seas and many fish on Aldebaran III.
Star Ship Mercedes, exploratory to the far system of Morua, a double star with endless summer on its seventh planet, a good prospect for a new colony in ten more years, after the exploratory crews and the survey crews and the engineering crews and the pilot colonies had done their work in opening it; a new escape valve for Earthmen who no longer had room enough at home.
Star Ship Ganymede—
Lars felt his heart pounding as he stepped across to the rolling strip bearing the green and white cross of the Ganymede. His ship I The assignment he had dreamed of since his first day in the Academy—to ship aboard the Ganymede with Walter Fox, the man who had opened more planets colonization than any man since the first Koenig-drive ship had left Earth; the man whose seal of approval on a planet was a virtual guarantee of a successful and healthy colony. This trip on the Ganymede would be no exploratory voyage, to be sure—a full week now before blastoff to bunk down the new members of the crew and get the Officers-in-Training settled in their duties; then a milk-run to Vega III to run a final check on a colony about to be opened to free colonization— but it would be a good trip to give an Officer-in-Training his space legs. There would be exploratories later, to unvisited stars, to unknown dangers. Time enough for that, Lars thought. Now it was enough just to be assigned aboard the Ganymede.
He glanced at the chrono on his wrist and stepped off the strip at a refresher booth. The assignment orders in his pocket instructed him to join his ship at 1400 hours; it was now only 1135. He had time to catch a shower and get himself into presentable uniform before going aboard. He wanted his first impression to be a good one. He could see himself in his mind’s eye, stepping off the gantry into the entrance lock of the Ganymede, saluting the flag first, then the officer of the deck. Walter Fox himself, perhaps? No, that would be too much to hope for. But perhaps Mr. Lorry then, the second officer, returning his salute with casual briskness and saying, “Name, Officer?”
“Heldrigsson, sir. Officer-in-Training. Planetary ecology.”
“Oh yes, one of the biology boys. You’ll be working with Dr. Lambert, then.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I’d hoped. Where will I find him, sir?”
“Up in the lab, I suppose. Glad to have you aboard, Officer.” And another salute.
In the refresher booth skillful robot fingers helped Lars ease off his travel-stained uniform, picked through his pack for disposables and discarded them all with a whoosh down the disposal chute. As new clothing popped out of the slot Lars stepped into the shower stall, still glowing from his daydream. He relaxed as sheets of warm water and detergent sponges enveloped him. Even five years of intensive study and preparation at the Academy could never truly prepare a man for space—this was understood from the start—and neither could they explain in advance the feeling of tension and excitement, the indescribable fever of wonder and adventure that took possession of you the hour before you stepped aboard a Star Ship for your first Officer-in-Training assignment.