Robert Silverberg: The Old Man

The Old Man came down the ramp of the spaceship and stood at the edge of the landing field, just looking around. It was good to see Earth again. For a quarter of his lifetime, he’d seen Earth only in snatches, between space trips.

He stood there, one hand on the cold metal of the ship’s catwalk, and looked at the field. It had been a night flight in from Callisto, and the field was brightly lit, sparkling sodium lamps and glittering constellations of guide-beams to illuminate the landing strip for pilots coming down. Bright light was necessary. It was a split-second job, landing a spaceship, calling for devilishly good reflexes. The Old Man looked at his own unshaking hands, and smiled proudly.

Then he picked up his duffel and started to walk across the field.

After about four steps, a gray-clad figure stepped out from behind a dolly and grinned at him.

“Hello there, Carter!”

“Hello there,” the Old Man said amiably. But the blankness on his face told the other that the Old Man did not remember him.

“I’m Selwyn—Jim Selwyn. Remember now?”

A smile crossed the Old Man’s space-tanned, strain-lined face “Sure I do—Lieutenant.”

“Not any more.” Selwyn said, shaking his head. “I’m retired.”

“Oh,” the Old Man said.

He remembered Selwyn from the far-off past of his trainee days. Lieutenant James Selwyn had been one of the big men of the Space Patrol, and he had paid a visit to the Academy to talk to the new recruits—one of whom had been the Old Man. The Old Man blushed a little for his younger self, as he remembered the blunt idol-worship with which he had approached Selwyn then.

And here was Selwyn now. Retired. A hasbeen.

“What are you doing these days?” the Old Man asked.

“Ground Mech. Can’t get the feel of rockets out of my system, I guess. They retired me after one of my flights on the Pluto run. Guess I slowed down taking the turnover curve, or something. It’s a good thing they spotted me before I had an accident.”

“Yeah,” the Old Man said. “Good thing. You got to have real good eyes to stay behind one of those big crates. Eyes and hands. The second your reflexes start to go, you gotta come out.” Suddenly he glanced inquisitively at Selwyn. “Hey, Selwyn, tell me something.”

“What?”

“You’re not bitter about getting bounced—getting retired, are you? I mean, it doesn’t kill you to look at the ships going out and leaving you here?”

Selwyn chuckled. “Hell, no! Not any more. I kicked like hell when I first got my notice, but it wore off. I miss it, a little—but I know my time was up when they yanked me. You remember Les Huddleston, don’t you?”

The Old Man nodded grimly. Huddleston was one of the few who’d managed to fool them. He’d lasted past the usual retirement age, bluffed his way—until the day he was taking up the Mars ship, and didn’t quite have it. He was only a fifth of a second off in his coordination, but it cost a hundred lives and fifty million dollars. They kept an eye out for the Huddlestons, now.

“Have a good trip?” Selwyn asked.

The Old Man nodded. “Pretty good. I did the Callisto run. It’s all frozen and blue ice out there. Not much to see.”

For some reason, Selwyn’s eyes looked misty. “Yeah. Not much to see. Just blue ice.”

“That’s all. But I made the trip okay. I’m due to take out the Neptune run this time around. Pretty good job.”

“Neptune’s an interesting place,” Selwyn said, leaning on the dolly. “Venus was always my favorite, though. It’s got—”

Suddenly there was a crackle and the field PA system came to life. “Flight Lieutenant Carter, please report to Administration Building at once . Flight Lieutenant Carter , please report to Administration Building at once . Thank you.”

“That’s me,” the Old Man said. “Guess I gotta go. They probably want to give me my new assignment, and they’ve got my paycheck for me. Pretty good paycheck, too.” Selwyn smiled and clapped the Old Man on the arm. “Good luck, Carter. Give ’em hell.”

“Don’t worry about me,” the Old Man said. He picked up his duffel and started walking across the field to the big gleaming frosty-white dome of the Administration Building.

He passed a couple of other pilots on the way—green kids, right out of the academy, without the knowing look and air of competence that there was about a veteran pilot. They were running springily someplace, perhaps just working off excess energy before their next trip up—or before their first trip up.

“Hey there, Old Man!” they yelled, as they ran by. “How’s things, Lieutenant?”

“Can’t complain,” the Old Man said, and kept walking.

He thought of Selwyn again. So that was what it was like to be washed up? You hung around the spacefield, pushing a dolly, tinkering with feedlines and hauling fuel, grateful to be allowed to smell spaceships and feel the rumble of takeoffs after your time was up. You watched the pilots who still had the eyes and the hands, and envied them.

The Old Man shook his head bitterly. It was sometimes a lousy business, running spaceships. The tests, for one thing. A test before you took off, a test when you landed. They gave him a test on Callisto, and they’d give him another one when he was ready to take out the Neptune run. They kept watch on you, all right.

“Hello, Lieutenant Carter. Have a good trip?”

It was Halvorsen, Base Medic. “Did all right, Doc. Nothing to gripe about.”

“Be in to see me for a checkup soon, Lieutenant?”

“Soon enough,” the Old Man said. “I’m taking the Neptune run, I hear.” He grinned and kept walking.

After a few minutes more he was at the door to the Administration Building, and the plastic door swung open as he walked up to it. A crisp-looking, efficient secretary came forward and flashed a row of white teeth at him.

“Good evening, Lieutenant Carter. Commander Jacobs would like to see you as soon as possible, Lieutenant.”

“Tell him I’ll be right in,” the Old Man said. He walked over to the water cooler, took a long slug—he couldn’t risk drinking anything stronger, for fear of damaging his pilot’s reflexes—and headed for the panelled door that said on it D. L. JACOBS, Base Commander.

The Old Man paused for just a moment, adjusting his flight jacket, straightening his tie, squaring his shoulders. Then he rapped on the door.

“Yes?”

“Lieutenant Carter to see you, sir.”

“Come right in, Lieutenant!”

The Old Man pushed open the door and walked in. Commander Jacobs stood stiffly behind his desk, looking very military and stern. The Old Man’s arm snapped up in crisp salute, which the Commander returned.

“Have a seat, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, sir.” The Old Man pulled out a chair and glanced expectantly at Jacobs. Jacobs was an old spaceman himself, the Old Man knew. He wondered how come Selwyn had become a rocket mech and Jacobs a Base Commander, and then decided neither job was worth a damn next to that of being a space pilot.

Commander Jacobs fumbled in his desk drawer, took out a long brown envelope. At the sight of his paycheck, the Old Man grinned.

“How was your trip, Lieutenant?”

“Not bad at all, sir. I’ll be filing the log later. It was a good trip, though.”

“They have to be good trips. Lieutenant. Anything less is disastrous. You know that, of course.”

“Of course, sir.”

The Commander scowled and handed the Old Man the pay envelope. “Here’s your pay for the flight just concluded, Lieutenant.”