“Microfilmed everything you can?”
“Yes, everything but this picture.” It was a cabinet stereo of Anne, weighing about a pound and nine ounces.
“Keep that, of course. Face it, Bill, you’ve got to travel light. We’re pioneers.”
“I don’t know what to throw out.”
I guess I looked glum for he said, “Quit feeling sorry for yourself. Me, I’ve got to give up this—and that’s tough, believe me.” He held out his pipe.
“Why?” I asked. “A pipe doesn’t weigh much.”
“Because they aren’t raising tobacco on Ganymede and they aren’t importing any.”
“Oh. Look, George, I could just about make it if it weren’t for my accordion. But it licks me.”
“Hmm… Have you considered listing it as a cultural item?”
“Huh?”
“Read the fine print. Approved cultural items are not covered by the personal weight schedule. They are charged to the colony.”
It had never occurred to me that I might have anything that would qualify. “They wouldn’t let me get away with it, George!”
“Can’t rule you out for trying. Don’t be a defeatist.”
So two days later I was up before the cultural and scientific board, trying to prove that I was an asset. I knocked out Turkey in the Straw, Nehru’s Opus 81, and the introduction to Morgenstern’s Dawn of the 22nd Century, as arranged for squeeze boxes. I gave them The Green Hills of Earth for an encore.
They asked me if I liked to play for other people and told me politely that I would be informed as to the decision of the board… and about a week later I got a letter directing me to turn my accordion over to the Supply Office, Hayward Field. I was in, I was a “cultural asset”!
Four days before blast-off Dad came home early-he had been closing his office—and asked me if we could have something special for dinner; we were having guests. I said I supposed so; my accounts showed that we would have rations to turn back.
He seemed embarrassed. “Son—”
“Huh? Yes, George?”
“You know that item in the rules about families?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Well, you were right about it, but I was holding out on you and now I’ve got to confess. I’m getting married tomorrow.”
There was a sort of roaring in my ears. Dad couldn’t have surprised me more if he had slapped me.
I couldn’t say anything. I just stood there, looking at him. Finally I managed to get out, “But, George, you can’t do that!”
“Why not, Son?”
“How about Anne?”
“Anne is dead.”
“But— But—” I couldn’t say anything more; I ducked into my room and locked myself in. I lay on the bed, trying to think.
Presently I heard Dad trying the latch. Then he tapped on the door and said, “Bill?”
I didn’t answer. After a while he went away. I lay there a while longer. I guess I bawled, but I wasn’t bawling over the trouble with Dad. It seemed the way it did the day Anne died, when I couldn’t get it through my head that I wouldn’t ever see her again. Wouldn’t ever see her smile at me again and hear her say, “Stand tall, Billy.”
And I would stand tall and she would look proud and pat my arm.
How could George do it? How could he bring some other woman into Anne’s home?
I got up and had a look at myself in the mirror and then went in and set my ‘fresher for a needle shower and a hard massage. I felt better afterwards, except that I still had a sick feeling in my stomach. The ‘fresher blew me off and dusted me and sighed to a stop. Through the sound it seemed to me I could hear Anne speaking to me, but that must have been in my head.
She was saying, “Stand tall, Son.” I got dressed again and went out.
Dad was messing around with dinner and I do mean messing. He had burned his thumb on the shortwave, don’t ask me how. I had to throw out what he had been fiddling with, all except the salad. I picked out more stuff and started them cycling. Neither of us said anything.