“Huh? Yes, so you have.”
“Come then, I’m going to sign up for pilot training. That’s why I wanted to know what you planned to do.”
“Oh.”
“But it doesn’t make any difference—not between us. Anyhow, you’re going to Mars.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s right.”
“Good!” Jack glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to run—or they’ll throw my chow to the pigs. Sure you’re not coming?”
“Sure.”
“See you.” He dashed out.
Don stood for a moment, rearranging his ideas. Old Jack must be taking this seriously—giving up Yale for pilot training. But he was wrong—he had to be wrong.
Presently he went out to the corral.
Lazy answered his call, then started searching his pockets for sugar. “Sorry, old fellow,” he said sadly, “not even a carrot. I forgot.” He stood with his face to the horse’s cheek and scratched the beast’s ears. He talked to it in low tones, explaining as carefully as if Lazy could understand all the difficult words.
“So that’s how it is,” he concluded. “I’ve got to go away and they won’t let me take you with me.” He thought back to the day their association had begun. Lazy had been hardly more than a colt, but Don had been frightened of him. He seemed huge, dangerous, and probably carnivorous. He had—never seen a horse before coming to Earth; Lazy was the first he had ever seen close up.
Suddenly he choked, could talk no further. He flung his arms around the horse’s neck and leaked tears.
Lazy nickered softly, knowing that something was wrong, and tried to nuzzle him. Don raised his head. “Goodbye, boy. Take care of yourself.” He turned abruptly and ran toward the dormitories.
II – “Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin”
THE SCHOOL copter dumped him down at the Albuquerque field. He had to hurry to catch his rocket, as traffic control had required them to swing wide around Sandia Weapons Center. When he weighed in he ran into another new security wrinkle. “Got a camera in that stuff, son?” the weighmaster had inquired as he passed over his bags.
“No. Why?”
“Because we’ll fog your film when we fluoroscope, that’s why.” Apparently X-ray failed to show any bombs hidden in his underwear; his bags were handed back and he went aboard-the winged-rocket Santa Fe Trail, shuttling between the Southwest and New Chicago. Inside, he fastened his safety belts, snuggled down into the cushions, and waited.
At first the noise of the blast-off bothered him more than the pressure. But the noise dopplered away as they passed the speed of sound while the acceleration grew worse; he blacked out.
He came to as the ship went into free flight, arching in a high parabola over the plains. At once he felt great relief no longer to have unbearable weight racking his rib cage, straining his heart, turning his muscles to water—but, before he could enjoy the blessed relief, he was aware of a new sensation; his stomach was trying to crawl up his gullet.
At first he was alarmed, being unable to account for the unexpected and unbearably unpleasant sensation. Then he had a sudden wild suspicion could it? Oh, no! It couldn’t be… not space sickness, not to him. Why, he had been born in free fall; space nausea was for Earth crawlers, groundhogs!
But the suspicion grew to certainty; years of easy living on a planet had worn out his immunity. With secret embarrassment he conceded that he certainly was acting like a groundhog. It had not occurred to him to ask for an antinausea shot before blast-off, though he had walked past the counter plainly marked with a red cross.
Shortly his secret embarrassment became public; he had barely time to get at the plastic container provided for the purpose. Thereafter he felt better, although weak, and listened half-heartedly to the canned description coming out of the loudspeaker of the country over which they were falling. Presently, near Kansas City, the sky turned from black back to purple again, the air foils took hold, and the passengers again felt weight as the rocket continued glider fashion on a long, screaming approach to New Chicago. Don folded his couch into a chair and sat up.