SEA LEGS
By FRANK QUATTROCCHI
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction November 1951.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Rootless and footloose, a man in space can't help
but dream of coming home. But something nobody should
do is bet on the validity of a homesick dream!
Flight Officer Robert Craig surrendered the tube containing his servicerecord tapes and stood waiting while the bored process clerk examinedthe seal.
"Your clearance," said the clerk.
Craig handed him a battered punch card and watched the man insert it inthe reproducer. He felt anxiety as the much-handled card refused for atime to match the instrument's metal contact points. The line of menbehind Craig fidgeted.
"You got to get this punched by Territorial," said the clerk. "Take itback to your unit's clearance office."
"Look again, Sergeant," Craig said, repressing his irritation.
"It ain't notched."
"The hell it isn't."
The man examined the card with squinting care and nodded finally. "It'sso damn notched," he complained. "You ought to take care of that card;can't get on without one."
Craig hesitated before moving.
"Next," said the clerk, "What you waiting for?"
"Don't I take my 201 file?"
"We send it on ahead. Go to Grav 1 desk."
A murmur greeted the order. Craig experienced the thrill of knowingthe envy of the others. Grav 1—that meant Terra. He crossed the long,dreary room, knowing the eyes of the other men were upon him.
"Your service tapes," the next noncom said. "Where you going?"
"Grav 1—Terra," fumbled Craig. "Los Angeles."
"Los Angeles, eh? Where in Los Angeles?"
"I—I—" Craig muttered, fumbling in his pockets.
"No specific destination," supplied the man as he punched a key on asmall instrument, "Air-lock ahead and to your right. Strip and followthe robot's orders. Any metal?"
"Metal?" asked Craig.
"You know, metal."
"Well, my identification key."
"Here," commanded the clerk, extending a plastic envelope.
Craig moved in the direction indicated. He fought the irrational fearthat he had missed an important step in the complicated clericalprocess. He cursed the grudging attitude of the headquarters satellitepersonnel and felt the impotence of a spaceman who had long forgottenthe bureaucracy of a rear area base. The knowledge that much of it wasmotivated by envy soothed him as he clumsily let himself into the lock.
"Place your clothing in the receptacle provided and assume a stationaryposition on the raised podium in the center of the lock."
Craig obeyed the robot voice and began reluctantly to remove his flightjacket. Its incredibly fine-grained leather would carry none of thestrange, foreign associations for the base station clerk who wouldappropriate it. He would never know the beautiful, gentle beast thatsupplied this skin.
"You are retarding the progress of others. Please respond more quicklyto your orders."
Craig quickly removed the last of his clothing. It was impossibleto hate a robot, but one could certainly hate those who set it intooperation.
"You will find a red button at your feet. Lower your head and depressthat button."
Stepping on the button with his bare foot produced an instant ofbrilliant blue illumination. A small scratch on his arm stung brieflyand he was somewha