the time isn’t going to be long. The only Venus roundtripper. We’ll lick that, won’t we, Mitch?” He showed me into a cubicle and lowered the bed with his own hands. “Cork off with these,” he said, producing a sheaf of notes from his breast pocket. “Just some rough jottings for you to go over. I’ll send in something to eat and then Coffiest. A good hour or two of work on them, and then the sound sleep of the just, eh?” “Yes, Mr. Schocken.” He beamed at me and left, drawing the curtain. I stared glazedly at the rough jottings. “Six-color doubletrux. Downhold unsuccessful previous flights. Cite Learoyd ’29, Holden ’38, McGill ’46 et al heroic pioneers supreme sacrifice etc etc. No mention Myers-White flopperoo ’51 acct visibly exploded bfr passng moon orbit. Try get M-W taken out of newssheet files & history bks? Get cost estimate. Search archives for pix LH & McG. Shd be blond brunet & redhead. Ships in backgrnd. Looming. Panting woman but heroic pioneers dedicated look in eye not interested. Piquant bcs unavlbl . . .” Thoughtfully, there was a pencil and copypaper in the cubicle. I began to write painfully: “We were ordinary guys. We liked the earth and the good things it gave us. The morning tang of Coffiest . . . the first drag on a Starr . . . the good feel of a sharp new Verily pinstripe suit … a warm smile from a girl in a bright spring dress -but they weren’t enough. There were far places we had to see, things we had to know. The little guy’s Learoyd. I’m Holden. The redhead with the shoulders is McGill. Yes; we’re dead. But we saw the far places and we learned what we had to learn before we died. Don’t pity us; we did it for you. The long-hair astronomers could only guess about Venus. Poison gas, they said. Winds so hot they’d set your hair on fire and so strong they’d pick you up and throw you away. But they weren’t sure. What do you do when you aren’t sure? You go and see.” A guard came in with sandwiches and Coffiest. I munched and gulped with one hand and wrote with the other. “We had good ships for those days. They packed us and enough fuel to get us there. What they didn’t have was enough fuel to get us back. But don’t pity us; we had to know. There was always the chance that the long-hairs were wrong, that we’d be able to get out, breathe clean air, swim in cool water-and then make fuel for the return trip with the good news. No; it didn’t work out that way. It
worked out that the long-hairs knew their stuff. Learoyd didn’t wait to starve in his crate; he opened the hatch and breathed methane after writing up his log. My crate was lighter. The wind picked it up and broke it-and me with it. McGill had extra rations and a heavier ship. He sat and wrote for a week and then-well; it was pretty certain after two no-returns. He’d taken cyanide with him. But don’t pity us. We went there and we saw it and in a way we sent back the news by not coming back ourselves. Now you folks know what to do and how to do it. You know the long-hairs weren’t guessing. Venus is a mean lady and you’ve got to have the stuff and the know-how to tame her. She’ll treat you right when you do. When you find us and our crates don’t pity us. We did it for you. We knew you wouldn’t let us down.” I was home again.
fourteen “Please, Fowler,” I said. “Tomorrow. Not today.” He gave me a steady look. “I’ll go along, Mitch,” he said. “I’ve never been a back-seat driver yet.” He displayed one of the abilities that made him boss-man. He wiped clean out of his mind the burning curiosity about where I had been and what I had been doing. “That’s good copy,” he said, slapping my work of the previous night on his desk. “Clear it with O’Shea, won’t you? He can give it some extra see-taste-smell-hear-feel if anybody can. And pack for return aboard the Vilfredo Pareto-I forgot. You haven’t got anything to pack. Here’s some scratch, and shop when you get a chance. Take a few of the boys with you, of course. The Equalizer-remember?” He twinkled at me. I went to find O’Shea curled up like a cat in the middle of his full-sized bunk in the cubicle next to mine. The little man looked ravaged when he rolled over and stared blearily at me. “Mitch,” he said thickly. ” ‘Nother goddam nightmare.” “Jack,” I said persuasively. “Wake up, Jack.” He jerked bolt upright and glared at me. “What’s the idea-? Hello, Mitch. I remember. Somebody said something when I got in ‘smorning.” He held his small head. “I’m dying,” he said faintly. “Get me something, will you? My deathbed advice is this: don’t ever be a hero. You’re too nice a guy . . .” The midget lapsed into torpor, swaying a little with each pulse-beat. I went to the kitchen and punched Coffiest, Thiamax, and a slice of Bredd. Halfway out, I returned, went to the bar, and punched two ounces of bourbon. O’Shea looked at the tray and hiccuped. “What the hell’s that