I
They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course. In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of the timepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eurasia. Its quaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically by power-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a free swinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.
They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by such bigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician Lofting Gubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebody from the government who spoke, but he was one of those who were pseudo-elected and didn’t know much about the field of space travel nor the significance of Seymour Pond’s retirement. Si didn’t bother to remember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turned up at all.
In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generations before him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangible in the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add to his portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.
The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set them back. They hadn’t figured he had enough shares of Basic to see him through decently. Well, possibly he didn’t, given their standards. But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn’t have their standards. He’d had plenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limited crediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two or three more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.
He’d had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on the Moon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, long haul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms of space cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony, boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a one room mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-in auto-bar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed to find contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody like Doc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in a mini-auto-apartment … not realizing that to a pilot it was roomy beyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.
No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch and made a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. There wasn’t anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic to keep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. He was never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinking about it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.
They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.
The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which was typical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact, Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North America who still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia against having his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould his eyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.
That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, Hans Girard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convinced Gubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch more courage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon under the Ultrawelfare State.
Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home, Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, “Any more bright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing to the cloddy’s patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim have miserably failed.”
Girard-Perregaux said easily, “I wouldn’t call Seymour Pond a cloddy. In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has.”
“That’s nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly take Pond’s place were we capable of performing the duties for which he has been trained. There aren’t two men on North America—there aren’t two men in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing our delving into space.” Gubelin snapped his fingers. “Like that, either of us would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning the road to his destiny.”
His friend said drily, “Either of us could have volunteered for pilot training forty years ago, Lofting. We didn’t.”
“At that time there wasn’t such a blistering percentage of funkers throughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who could foresee that eventually our whole program would face ending due to lack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to face adventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner our ancestors did?”
Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced tea and tequila. He said, “Nevertheless, both you and I conform with the present generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one’s way of life in the comfort of one’s home than to be confronted with the unpleasantness of facing nature’s dangers in more adventurous pastimes.”
Gubelin, half angry at his friend’s argument, leaned forward to snap rebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. “Face reality, Lofting. Don’t require or expect from Seymour Pond more than is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in our Ultrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tomb security by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in our society that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food, clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low level of subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being drafted into industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of the population is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitude dossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it was you yourself who talked him into taking the training … pointing out the more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but six trips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortable life than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of the very few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well. He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long years of drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, he made his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He was drafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is now free from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen to our pleas for a few more trips?”
“But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for. …”
Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that, seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break off the conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spoken man.
He said, “No, he hasn’t. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man has always paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but in actuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him to the least dangerous path. Today we’ve reached the point where no one need face danger—ever. There are few who don’t take advantage of the fact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond.”
His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. “Let’s leave this blistering jabber about Pond’s motivation and get to the point. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It will take months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiate pilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our next explorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have been increasingly hard to come by—even though in our minds, Hans, we are near important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly so spark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will take hold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degenerated to the point that we haven’t a single pilot, then it might well be that the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddies on Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of Space Exploration.”
“So …” Girard-Perregaux said gently.
“So some way we’ve got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!”
“Now we are getting to matters.” Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement. Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as his face took on an expression of Machiavellianism. “And do not the ends justify the means?”
Gubelin blinked at him.
The other chuckled. “The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you have failed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven’t you ever read of the sailor and his way of life?”
“Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got to do with it?”
“You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing more than a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and viewpoints, tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you never heard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of his birth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months at sea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be out for years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talk of his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would be one short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay and heading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morning would find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off in jail. So back to sea he’d have to go.”
Gubelin grunted bitterly. “Unfortunately, our present-day sailor can’t be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I’d personally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him over the head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again.”
He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to his universal credit card. “The ultimate means of exchange,” he grunted. “Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it, nobody can, ah, con you out of it. Just how do you expect to sever our present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?”
The other chuckled again. “It is simply a matter of finding more modern methods, my dear chap.”