Robert Silverberg - The Old Man

The Old Man took the envelope, slid it into his breast pocket, and looked up. The next item on the agenda was usually the flight assignment. Those came in thick green envelopes.

But Commander Jacobs shook his head. “Please open the pay envelope, Lieutenant. I want to make sure you read it now.”

The Old Man frowned. “The pay computers haven’t made a mistake yet, sir. I’d be willing to bet—”

“Open the envelope, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Old Man ran a fingertip down the envelope, opened it, took out its contents. There was a neat blue check in there, and he put that aside. He looked at the amount briefly, then whistled.

Then he read the accompanying voucher.

“Carter, Lieutenant Raymond F.

“For Callisto tour, round-trip, at usual rates: $7,431.62

“Severance pay, $10,000

“Total, $17,431.62.”

Numb, the Old Man looked up. “Severance pay?” His voice was a harsh, puzzled whisper. “But that means I’m—I’m—”

Commander Jacobs nodded. “I’m afraid so. That test you took at Callisto—”

“But I passed that!”

“I know. But the indications are that you’d have failed the next one, Lieutenant. We’re just avoiding an unpleasant and inevitable scene.”

“So you’re throwing me out?” the Old Man asked. The world seemed to spin around him. He should have expected it, but he hadn’t.

“We’re retiring you,” Jacobs corrected.

“I still have some time left, though! Can’t you let me take the one more flight to Neptune?”

“You’re not a good risk,” the Commander said bluntly. “Look here, Carter—you know that a pilot must be right up to peak, and nothing less than perfection will do. Well, you’re not perfect any more. It happens to all of us.”

“I’m still young, though.”

“Young?” Jacobs smiled. “Young? Nonsense, Carter. You’re a veteran. They call you the Old Man, don’t they? Look at those wrinkles around your eyes! You’re ancient , as space pilots go. You’re ready for the scrapheap. And I’m afraid we have to let you go. But there’ll always be room for you here, some sort of ground job.”

The Old Man swallowed hard, fighting to keep back the tears. The thought of Jim Selwyn struck him, and he knew he was like all the rest. There was no place in space travel for old men. You had to be young and fresh with trigger reflexes.

“Okay—sir,” he said hoarsely. “I won’t fight any. I’ll come around in a couple of days and talk over a ground job with you. When I’m feeling better.”

“That’s wise of you, Lieutenant. I’m glad you understand.”

“Sure. Sure, I understand,” the Old Man said. He picked up the paycheck and slid it into his pocket, saluted limply, and turned away. He walked outside, looking at the row of gleaming ships that sat there ready to spring toward the stars.

Not for me , he thought. Not any more .

But he admitted to himself that Jacobs was right. Those last few flights had been pretty shaky, though he tried to deny it.

There was no sense hiding the fact any more. He waved to Jim Selwyn, and started to walk toward him to tell him the news.

It was too bad, but it made sense. He was old, as space pilots went, and couldn’t expect anything else but this. It had to happen some time. He was ancient, in fact.

Why, he was nearly twenty.