by LESTER DEL REY
Illustrated by SCHOENHERR
The Heroes' March was fitting for
most spacemen. Somehow, though, if just didn't
apply to a space-borne garbage man!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Infinity June 1957.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Lester del Rey says: "I've grown more and more unhappyabout the trend to stories laid a thousand years ahead and a megaparsecaway. So every once in a while, I like to sit down with an idea where Ican be pretty darned honest about probable facts and see if some of theold, basic, simple ideas can't be twisted." He has a good point there,and we think you'll agree he has succeeded in his aim in The BandPlayed On.
CHAPTER I
Inside the rocket grounds, the band was playing the inevitableHeroes' March while the cadets snapped through the finalmaneuvers of their drill. Captain Thomas Murdock stopped at the gatenear the visitors' section, waiting until the final blatant notesblared out and were followed by the usual applause from the town kidsin the stands. The cadets broke ranks and headed for their study halls,still stepping as if the band played on inside their heads.
Maybe it did, Murdock thought. There had been little parade drill andless music back on Johnston Island when his group won their rocketemblems fifteen years before; yet somehow there had been a sense ofdestiny, like a drum beating in their brains, to give them the samespring to their stride. It had sent most of them to their deaths anda few to command positions on the moon, long before the base wastransferred here to the Florida coast.
Murdock shrugged and glanced upwards. The threatening clouds wereclosing in, scudding across the sky in dark blobs and streaks, andthe wind velocity was rising. It was going to be lousy weather for atake-off, even if things got no worse.
Behind him, a boy's voice called out. "Hey, pilot!"
He glanced about, but there was no other pilot near. He hesitated,frowning. Then, as the call was repeated, he turned doubtfully towardthe stands. Surprisingly, a boy of about twelve was leaning over therailing, motioning toward him and waving a notebook emphatically.
"Autograph, pilot?"
Murdock took the book and signed the blank page automatically, whilefifty pairs of eyes watched. No other books were held out, and therewas complete silence from the audience. He handed the pencil andnotebook back, trying to force a friendly smile onto his face. For amoment, there was a faint ghost of the old pride as he turned backacross the deserted parade ground.
It didn't last. Behind him, an older voice broke the silence indisgusted tones. "Why'd you do that, Shorty? He ain't no pilot!"
"He is, too. I guess. I know a pilot's uniform," Shorty protested.
"So what? I already told you about him. He's the garbage man!"
There was no vocal answer to that—only the ripping sound of paperbeing torn from the notebook.
Murdock refused to look back as the boys left the stands. He wentacross the field, past the school buildings, on toward the mainsections of the base—the business part, where the life-line to thespace station and the moon was maintained. A job, he told himself, wasa job. It was a word he would never have used six ships and fifteenyears before.
The storm flag was up on the control tower, he saw. Worse, the guycables were all tight, anchoring the three-stage ships firmly down intheir blast deflection pits. There we