LITMIR.BIZ

      The Reluctant Heroes

      By Frank M. Robinson

       Pioneers have always resented their wanderlust, hated their hardships. But the future brings a new grudge—when pioneers stay put and scholars do the exploring!

      *

       The very young man sat on the edge of the sofa and looked nervous. He carefully studied his fingernails and ran his hands through his hair and picked imaginary lint off the upholstery.

       “I have a chance to go with the first research expedition to Venus,” he said.

       The older man studied the very young man thoughtfully and then leaned over to his humidor and offered him a cigaret. “It’s nice to have the new air units now. There was a time when we had to be very careful about things like smoking.”

       The very young man was annoyed.

       “I don’t think I want to go,” he blurted. “I don’t think I would care to spend two years there.”

       The older man blew a smoke ring and watched it drift toward the air exhaust vent.

       “You mean you would miss it here, the people you’ve known and grown up with, the little familiar things that have made up your life here. You’re afraid the glamor would wear off and you would get to hate it on Venus.”

       The very young man nodded miserably. “I guess that’s it.”

       “Anything else?”

       The very young man found his fingernails extremely fascinating again and finally said, in a low voice, “Yes, there is.”

       “A girl?”

       A nod confirmed this.

       It was the older man’s turn to look thoughtful. “You know, I’m sure, that psychologists and research men agree that research stations should be staffed by couples. That is, of course, as soon as it’s practical.”

       “But that might be a long time!” the very young man protested.

       “It might be—but sometimes it’s sooner than you think. And the goal is worth it.”

      “I suppose so, but—”

       The older man smiled. “Still the reluctant heroes,” he said, somewhat to himself.

      *

      Chapman stared at the radio key.

      Three years on the Moon and they didn’t want him to come back.

      Three years on the Moon and they thought he’d be glad to stay for more. Just raise his salary or give him a bonus, the every-man-has-his-price idea. They probably thought he liked it there.

      Oh, sure, he loved it. Canned coffee, canned beans, canned pills, and canned air until your insides felt as though they were plated with tin. Life in a cramped, smelly little hut where you could take only ten steps in any one direction. Their little scientific home of tomorrow with none of the modern conveniences, a charming place where you couldn’t take a shower, couldn’t brush your teeth, and your kidneys didn’t work right.

      And for double his salary they thought he’d be glad to stay for another year and a half. Or maybe three. He should probably be glad he had the opportunity.

      The key started to stutter again, demanding an answer.

      He tapped out his reply: “No!”

      There was a silence and then the key stammered once more in a sudden fit of bureaucratic rage. Chapman stuffed a rag under it and ignored it. He turned to the hammocks, strung against the bulkhead on the other side of the room.

      The chattering of the key hadn’t awakened anybody; they were still asleep, making the animal noises that people usually make in slumber. Dowden, half in the bottom hammock and half on the floor, was snoring peacefully. Dahl, the poor kid who was due for stopover, was mumbling to himself. Julius Klein, with that look of ineffable happiness on his face, looked as if he had just squirmed under the tent to his personal idea of heaven. Donley and Bening were lying perfectly still, their covers not mussed, sleeping very lightly.

      Lord, Chapman thought, I’ll be happy when I can see some other faces.

      “What’d they want?” Klein had one eyelid open and a questioning look on his face.

      “They wanted me to stay until the next relief ship lands,” Chapman whispered back.

      “What did you say?”

      He shrugged. “No.”

      “You kept it short,” somebody else whispered. It was Donley, up and sitting on the side of his hammock. “If it had been me, I would have told them just what they could do about it.”

      *

      The others were awake now, with the exception of Dahl who had his face to the bulkhead and a pillow over his head.

      Dowden rubbed his eyes sleepily. “Sore, aren’t you?”

      “Kind of. Who wouldn’t be?”

      “Well, don’t let it throw you. They’ve never been here on the Moon. They don’t know what it’s like. All they’re trying to do is get a good man to stay on the job a while longer.”

      “All they’re trying to do,” Chapman said sarcastically. “They’ve got a fat chance.”

      “They think you’ve found a home here,” Donley said.

      “Why the hell don’t you guys shut up until morning?” Dahl was awake, looking bitter. “Some of us still have to stay here, you know. Some of us aren’t going back today.”

      No, Chapman thought, some of us aren’t going back. You aren’t. And Dixon’s staying, too. Only Dixon isn’t ever going back.

      Klein jerked his thumb toward Dahl’s bunk, held a finger to his lips, and walked noiselessly over to the small electric stove. It was his day for breakfast duty.

      The others started lacing up their bunks, getting ready for their last day of work on the Moon. In a few hours they’d be relieved by members of the Third research group and they’d be on their way back to Earth.

      And that includes me, Chapman thought. I’m going home. I’m finally going home.

      He walked silently to the one small, quartz window in the room. It was morning—the Moon’s “morning”—and he shivered slightly. The rays of the Sun were just striking the far rim of the crater and long shadows shot across the crater floor. The rest of it was still blanketed in a dark jumble of powdery pumice and jagged peaks that would make the Black Hills of Dakota look like paradise.

      A hundred yards from the research bunker he could make out the small mound of stones and the forlorn homemade cross, jury-rigged out of small condensed milk tins slid over crossed iron bars. You could still see the footprints in the powdery soil where the group had gathered about the grave.

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