For twenty long unholy years Hurtz, the
pilot, dreamed of retirement ... and found
his "acre of heaven" on a Death Star.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories September 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Hurtz went through the automatic motions of preparing himself for theirlanding on the small unnamed planet, but each thing he did was a wastedmotion because it was really the boy, Jones, who was going to put therocket down. And what could Hurtz do now?
Hurtz touched his rough cheek with the back of his hand and sworesilently. The hard, aging muscles of his body were taut, and althoughthe lines about his eyes had deepened, his eyes, blue and sparkling,still retained their old ferocity. His eyebrows, although nearlycompletely gray now, intensified that ferocity with their thickness.
Jones, the boy, moved his hands and the rocket made its turn clumsily,pointing its blazing fins at the strange globe beyond.
Hurtz shook his head and asked himself why he had ever tried to helpthis cocky, all-knowing kid with the thin mouth and short-clipped hair.
The boy had fought everything Hurtz had tried to do for him, and rightnow Hurtz knew, even before he said it, that the boy would respond inthe same way he had since the trip started:
"I think you're doing all right," Hurtz said, and he tried to keep thetone of his voice casual, as though he really meant what he said.
The boy glanced at him briefly with insolent eyes. "I know I am," hesaid.
Hurtz had to clamp his jaw shut tightly to keep from saying anythingmore.
There was hardly any time involved in this landing, but each secondstretched out to an individual eternity. The distant globe came up tomeet them steadily, enlarging its circumference, and the roar of thejets was thunderous after the quiet free movement they had made throughspace.
There was nothing left for Hurtz to do now but wait, and he placed hishands on his knees, raising his curled fingers, dropping them, in amonotonous silent tapping.
It isn't right. None of it. The feel of it—the speed, the sound, thevery movement. It isn't going to work, and why not, for God's sake, onthis one last run?
As they slipped down through the atmosphere of the planet, Hurtz knewthat he had been very foolish and sentimental and very, very stupid forhaving asked to accompany the boy. The boy's first trip. Hurtz's last.But if Hurtz still believed in the premonitions that he could feel tothe marrow of his tired bones, this might be the last trip for both ofthem.
He watched the boy and he wished he could take control now before itwas too late. But this was the boy's own run, his rocket, and there wasnothing for Hurtz to do but wait.
Seconds now, and Hurtz thought of all the times he had done just whatthe boy was trying to do now. Twenty years of it, from globe to globe.Stretching the fingers of exploration, all to make the money andfinally tip his damned hat and say, "Thank you. It was nice, and nowI'm going to retire and let some other poor slob take my place." Butwhen the time came for him to do and say just that, he had climbed infor one more ride, just so a kid who didn't want any help might havehad a better chance to get along in this rotten exploratory servicethan Hurtz had been given.
The distance between the rocket and the widening surface of the planetwas disappearing, and in that last interval, Hurtz thought again of hisdream, the dream he had been carrying in his brain for all of theseyears.
The width and breadt