“Okay,” Nolan agreed, standing up. “What’s the trouble?”
“Trouble? Did you see that picture?”
“Well?”
“Well, how do you feel about it? I’m a salesman, too, Fred. I sell steel. It don’t matter what the customer wants to use it for; I sell it to him. I’d sell a man a rope to hang himself. But I do love kids. I can’t stand to think of that cute little kid going along on that – that crazy expedition!”
“Why not? She’s better off with her parents. She’ll get as used to steel decks as most kids are to sidewalks.”
“But look, Fred. You don’t have any silly idea they’ll make it, do you?”
“They might.”
“Well, they won’t. They don’t stand a chance. I know. I talked it over with out technical staff before I left the home office. Nine chances out of ten they’ll burn up on the take off. That’ the best that can happen to them. If they get out of the solar system, which ain’t likely, they’ll still never make it. They’ll never reach the stars.”
Pete put another drink down in front of Barnes. He drained it and said:
“Set up another one, Pete. They can’t. It’s a theoretical impossibility. They’ll freeze – or they’ll roast – or they’ll starve. But they’ll never get there.”
“Maybe so.”
“No maybe about it. They’re crazy. Hurry up with that drink Pete. Have one yourself.”
“Coming up. Don’t mind if I do, thanks.” Pete mixed the cocktail, drew a glass of beer, and joined them.
“Pete, here, is a wise man,” Barnes said confidentially. “You don’t catch him monkeying around with any trips to the stars. Columbus – Pfui! Columbus was a dope. He shoulda stood in bed.”
The bartender shook his head. “You got me wrong, Mr. Barnes. If it wasn’t for men like Columbus, we wouldn’t be here today – now, would we? I’m just not the explorer type. But I’m a believer. I got nothing against the Pegasus expedition.”
“You don’t approve of them taking kids on it, do you?”
“Well… there were kids on the Mayflower, so they tell me.”
“It’s not the same thing,” Barnes looked at Nolan, then back to the bartender. “If the Lord had intended us to go to the stars, he would have equipped us with jet propulsion. Fix me another drink, Pete.”
“You’ve had about enough for a while, Mr. Barnes.”
The troubled fat man seemed about to argue, thought better of it.
“I’m going up to the Sky Room and find somebody that’ll dance with me,” he announced. “G’night.” He swayed softly toward the elevator.
Nolan watched him leave. “Poor old Barnes.” He shrugged. “I guess you and I are hard-hearted, Pete.”
“No. I believe in progress, that’s all. I remember my old man wanted a law passed about flying machines, keep ’em from breaking their fool necks. Claimed nobody ever could fly, and the government should put a stop to it. He was wrong. I’m not the adventurous type myself but I’ve seen enough people to know they’ll try anything once, and that’s how progress is made.”
“You don’t look old enough to remember when men couldn’t fly.”
“I’ve been around a long time. Ten years in this one spot.”
“Ten years, eh? Don’t you ever get a hankering for a job that’ll let you breathe a little fresh air?”
“Nope. I didn’t get any fresh air when I served drinks on Forty-second Street and I don’t miss it now. I like it here. Always something new going on here, first the atom laboratories and then the big observatory and now the star ship. But that’s not the real reason. I like it here. It’s my home. Watch this.”
He picked up a brandy inhaler, a great fragile crystal globe, spun it, and threw it straight up toward the ceiling. It rose slowly and gracefully, paused for a long reluctant wait at the top of it’s rise, then settled slowly, slowly, like a diver in a slow-motion movie. Pete watched it float past his nose, then reached out with thumb and forefinger, nipped it easily by the stem, and returned it to the rack.
“See that” he said. “One-sixty gravity. When I was tending bar on earth, my bunions gave me the dickens all the time. Here I weigh only thirty-five pounds. I like it on the Moon.”