Adventure flamed in Mr. Meek's timorous heart,
the surge of battle and singing blades. And so,
with a rocket-ship for his steed and a ray-gun
for his sword, he sallied forth ... carrying
cavalier justice to the resentful shining stars.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1944.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Now that he'd done it, Oliver Meek found the thing he'd done hard toexplain.
Under the calm, inquiring eyes of Mr. Richard Belmont, president ofLunar Exports, Inc., he stammered a little before he could get started.
"For years," he finally said, "I've been planning a trip...."
"But, Oliver," said Belmont, "we would give you a leave of absence.You'll be back. There's no reason to resign."
Oliver Meek shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable, a little guilty.
"Maybe I won't be back," he declared. "You see, it isn't just anordinary trip. It may take a long, long time. Something might happen.I'm going out to see the Solar System."
Belmont laughed lightly, reared back in his chair, matching fingertips."Oh, yes. One of the tours. Nothing dangerous about them. Nothing atall. You needn't worry about that. I went on one a couple of yearsago. Mighty interesting...."
"Not one of the tours," interrupted Meek. "Not for me. I have a ship ofmy own."
Belmont thumped forward in his chair, looking almost startled.
"A ship of your own!"
"Yes, sir," Oliver admitted, squirming uncomfortably. "Over thirtyyears I've saved for it ... for it and the other things I'll need. Itsort of got to be ... well, an obsession, you might say."
"I see," said Belmont. "You planned it."
"Yes, sir, I planned it."
Which was a masterpiece of understatement.
For Belmont could not know and Oliver Meek, stoop-shouldered,white-haired bookkeeper, could not tell of those thirty years of thriftand dreams. Thirty years of watching ships of the void taking off fromthe space port, just outside the window where he sat hunched overledgers and calculators. Thirty years of catching scraps of talk fromthe men who ran those ships. Men and ships with the alien dust of faroff planets still clinging to their skins. Ships with strange marks andscars upon them, and men with strange words upon their tongues.
Thirty years of reducing high adventure to cold figures. Thirty yearsof recording strange cargoes and stranger tales into accounts. Thirtyyears of watching through a window while rockets, outbound, dug moltenpits into the field. Thirty years of being on the edge, the very fringeof life ... but never in it.
Nor could Belmont have guessed or Meek formed in words the romanticismthat glowed within the middle-aged bookkeeper's heart ... a thing thatsometimes hurt ... something earthbound that forever cried for space.
Nor the night classes Oliver Meek had attended to learn the theory ofspace navigation and after that more classes to gain an understandingof the motors and controls that drove the ships between the planets.
Nor how he had stood before the mirror in his room hour after hour,practicing, perfecting the art of pistol handling. Nor of theafternoons he had spent at the shooting gallery.
Nor of the nights he had read avidly, soaking up the lore andinformation and color of those other worlds that seemed to beckon him.
"How old are you, Oliver?" asked Belmont.
"Fifty next month, sir," Meek answered.
"I wish you were taking one of the passenger ships," said Belmont."Now, one of those tours aren't so bad. They're comfortable and ..."
Meek shook his head