The Project Gutenberg eBook of Wanderlust, by Alan E. Nourse.

Somehow George Barlow had sensed that something was wrong the moment his son drove into the barnyard that evening. He had been waiting impatiently for Tad's return all afternoon; the men needed those tractor bolts before they could do the mowing. But George had felt the uneasiness, quite suddenly, deep in his chest when he heard the boy's three-wheeler chugging up the rutted country road from town.

He sat quietly, waiting, stroking old Snuffy behind the ears. He heard the little motor-car pop into silence as Tad drove it into the garage; then there was a long silence. George waited several minutes before running a hand through his tawny hair. "What's that boy doing out there, anyway?" he growled.

Florence Barlow glanced up through the kitchen window. "He's gone up on the ridge," she said. "He's just standing up there, looking down the valley." She turned back to the stove, pushing back an unruly whisp of graying hair.

George sat back in his chair, puffing his pipe, the uneasiness growing. Tad was usually back from town hours earlier. The oats had to be cut this week—the shipment of Venusian taaro was due from the next Rocket, and they had to have a field free for it. But still, he knew it was more than the tractor bolts that bothered him.

Then suddenly the door burst open and Tad was there, filling the room with his broad shoulders, whistling tunelessly to himself. A cool east breeze followed him in the door, and with it an aura of excitement. Tad's sunbaked hair was wild from the ride through the wind, his sharp eyes sparkling:

"Dad! The Rocket landed this afternoon. Out at Dillon's Landing. It's three weeks early this time!"

A chill swept up George's spine, tingling his scalp. "Then we should get the taaro in a couple of days," he said smoothly.

"We should." Tad's eyes were bright as he patted the dog's head. His whole body seemed alive with excitement. "I walked up on the ridge to get a look at it, dad. It's a beauty—tall and slim—you should see it down there. It catches the sunset like you never saw before—"

He was still talking as he walked out to the kitchen, stooping to kiss his mother on the forehead. "You ought to go up and take a look at it, mom—before the sun's gone."

"I've got plenty to do without going to gawk at a Rocket ship," his mother's voice was sharp. "You have too, for that matter. Did you get the tractor bolts for your father?"

The boy frowned suddenly, and snapped his fingers. "Plumb forgot them. The ship was landing just as I got into town, so I went over to watch it—" he took his place opposite his father at the table, his face brightening again. He didn't see the cloud on his father's face. "And they let us go inside it to look around, dad. I never saw anything like it. You wouldn't believe that they could get such a ship off the ground. Why, even I can remember when it was all they could do to blast off with a little ten-man ship, and now—why, this one is like a yacht. It's the STAR KING, the newest one in Dillon's fleet."

George Barlow scowled, the tightness in the pit of his stomach suddenly making his food tasteless. "That's lovely," he said sourly. "They can build them a mile long for all I care. They still aren't fit for rats. At least here you can wash your face if you want to—" He turned back to his plate, hoping the discussion was over, hoping—

"But this one had complete showers, soft bunks, everything. Hydroponic tanks that make the experimental station look like pikers—"

Tad lapsed into silence, the hearty silence of a hungry nineteen-year-old before a full dinner plate. His father took another mouthful and put down his fork, his appetite gone. He could feel the tension growing, the tightness of his breathing. He sensed his wife's apprehension as she too slowed and stopped eating. As if she, too, were waiting—

"Saw Len Cooper when he came off the ship, too, dad. Do you remember Len? This was his first cruise." Tad's eyes sparkled. "He says there's nothing like it, that Rocket life. They stopped on Venus, you know, and then did a reconnaissance in toward the Mercury orbit before they came back. Almost five years away from Earth! They've got a stack of reports as big as an almanac for printing. And Len—you know how scrawny he was? He's put on muscle now. Looks great." Tad put down his fork, a subtle change in his voice, his hand trembling. "We had a long talk, dad. Len says—"

"Len Cooper's a fool!" George Barlow's voice snapped irritably. "He hasn't got all his marbles. A kid like that—all the potential in the world—brains, opportunity—and what does he do with it? Shoots it into Rockets! First cruise, huh? It isn't his last, by a long shot. Those Rocket boys aren't stupid. They know it takes a good cruise to teach a youngster his way around out there. He can't begin to work for his wages until the second cruise, or the third. And then it's too late to come back—"

Tad fiddled with his fork, his eyes down. The room was silent; even Florence sat tense, startled by the outburst. George sat glumly. That was stupid, he thought. Inexcusably stupid. You'll have to face it some day—you know that. Now? Maybe—oh, Lord, not now—maybe tomorrow. But what could you say? What if it is now? His hand trembled as he fumbled awkwardly for his pipe. Where were the words, the phrases, the arguments, so long rehearsed, so sensible, so fatherly?

The boy looked straight at his father, his voice very low. "I'm going, dad," he said. "I'm going with it."

The chill widened in George Barlow's stomach, spreading into his legs and chest. He heard his wife's startled gasp, and the chill deepened. He searched for words, and no words came. How long, now, had he prepared, rehearsed? And now—nothing. He just sat there in the dead still room—

"Well, I never heard anything more ridiculous in all my life!" Florence burst out finally. "You're crazy, Tad. Plumb crazy. Do you mean to sit there and say that you're going to give up college, throw away this farm?" She set the cream pitcher down with a thump. "It's out of the question. You just can't mean it."

Tad wriggled uneasily. "I do mean it, mom. The STAR KING is signing up crew tomorrow. They have places for four novices, this time. They'll take me. I know they will. I—I asked this afternoon. I want to go."

George Barlow gripped the edge of the table, fighting for control. "Don't be silly, boy," he said finally, his voice tight. "You're no Rocket man. You don't know what you're saying—" his hands trembled. "Space is no place for a fellow like you—you belong here, studying, working—not hopping around space like a common tramp." He tamped tobacco into his pipe bowl with an air of finality. "Every boy nowadays thinks about going to Space, I know. The fleets are growing larger, taking more and more boys—but the smart ones stay home."

Tad's voice was low and quiet, more deadly firm than George had ever heard it. "You don't understand, dad. I know you don't like it—I know you think it's foolish not to finish college, you hate to see me leave home—but you don't understand." He looked up, his boyish face pale under deep summer tan. "I can't explain it, dad. Ever since I was little, since I saw my first Rocket shooting up into the sky toward the stars, I knew I had to go, too, sometime." He shook his head helplessly. "It's what I've wanted all my life, dad. I've got to go."

"But the farm, son—" Florence was almost in tears. "Doesn't that mean anything to you? Your family's been here for a hundred years, Tad. It's yours, as soon as you're ready to farm it. Don't you care about it after all these years?"

"You know I care, mom." The boy avoided her tearful eyes, ran a hand through his hair. "You know I like the place, and I feel awful running out after all the work you and dad and the men have put in, building it up—but I couldn't make a go of it. I don't want to be earth-bound, tied down to a piece of land all my life—"

His mother's face was suddenly very, very tired. "Oh, you fool," she said, her voice bitter. "You don't know how you'll long for green grass again—" her face flared red in anger. "You've barely started to shave, and you want to go to Space. Well, it's nonsense! You can't do it, that's final. Tell him, George! Tell him why he can't go—tell him why—"

His voice was sharp, urgent. "I think—maybe Tad and I ought to talk this out—ourselves—"

"I'm sorry, George." Florence Barlow rose silently. She began clearing the table, her eyes brimming.

Tad's face was troubled. "I wish you wouldn't make a fuss, dad. I suppose it's a surprise to you both—"

George smiled sourly. "Hardly. We've been around a while, Tad. We saw Len Cooper go, and a half-dozen like him. We knew you'd get the bug sooner or later. But you've got to understand why we can't allow it."

The room was silent, except for the faint rustling of the breeze through the curtains. "You don't know what you're walking into, Tad. None of you boys really know. You only see one side of the picture, the excitement and adventure. I know, it's a thrilling picture, but the thrill wears off, and then you have the long dull days of waiting, sitting, always waiting, with nothing to see but the bulkhead and a dozen men cramped into impossible tight quarters without any room to move around. You don't know how you'd get to hate those men, how you'd wish you could be alone for just a little while, how you'd long for privacy. And you don't realize the danger—not the exciting, bravado kind of danger that you read about, but the live, horrible danger of depending for your life on a little sliver of metal.

"So many things can go wrong, and any one of them means you're through. Not a brave death, son, nor a heroic death—just a very lonely death, where you freeze and starve, and feel the life choke out of you. There are so many ways to die in Space, such horrible ways, so easily. And there isn't any reward worth the risk. It's all risk, and you have nothing for it. A few days of glory when you're back home, and then you're off again. Once you go, you're gone. You'll never come back. Only the lucky ones come back. You'll be in Space 'til it kills you."

"But the colonies, dad. Mars Mountain, Player's Folly, Ironstone—they're all going concerns. They need men, lots of men, with ideas—men who aren't afraid of work—"

"The colonies!" George Barlow's voice rose angrily, his control wearing thin. "Why the colonies? What glory can you see in working a lifetime to squeeze a living out of Mars rock? Scraping and fighting, squeezing every last drop of water, every possible inch of topsoil to dig up enough to keep barely alive—and then dying thirty years before your time? What can you see in that? Or Venus, where you sweat, and waste away, until the fungus gets into your lungs and blood, and you finally just go to sleep forever? You're crazy, Tad! You can't do it!"

Tad shuffled his feet, his eyes downcast. "I knew you wouldn't understand. I can't explain it, dad—I don't know the words. But I've got to go, even if you don't—"

George's face flushed in exasperation. "Now look. Just listen a minute. I understand perfectly, I just—"

"You don't understand!" The boy's eyes blazed in sudden anger, his voice was bitter. "How could you understand? You've been nothing but a slogging dirt farmer all your life! How could you understand why I'd want to go to the stars? What do you know about Mars, or Venus? You've never been there!"

George Barlow sat stiff, as though he had been struck. The room was tense, and he heard the boy breathing across the room. "Then you give me no choice," he said finally, his voice suddenly tired and barely audible. "I'm your father. I forbid you to go."

George Barlow lay in bed, breathing quietly. The room was close, the air stuffy and humid. He heard his wife's steady breathing, peaceful now, after sobbing herself to sleep. And somehow, deep within him, he seemed to hear the steady pom-pom-pom of spaceship engines, deep, throaty, thrilling, throbbing, vibrating—

He rose quietly and walked to the window. He heard Snuffy stir herself, heard her claws scrabbling on the bare farmhouse floor, and felt her warm muzzle, firm and comforting in his hand. Then he heard nothing but the buzzing of cicadas, the quiet night-sounds of the farm, smelled the cool, hearty odor of hay and clover, heard the occasional uneasy stomping of cattle in the barn. And still, deep in his mind, he heard older sounds, more familiar sounds, sounds tinged with fear, horror, hate, desperation—he shook his head, trying to forget, but there was excitement there, too, that intangible, overpowering thrill of the wanderlust—

Memories flooded back into his mind, memories he had thought long ago blotted out and forgotten. The rich thrill of excitement as the last seconds crowded in close, with the strap cutting a deep welt across his chest—the muffled roar, the powerful sledge-hammer blow, driving his stomach and legs down like lead, then easing, easing gently into no pressure, then less than no pressure—the exhilarating, wonder-filled vision of the Earth rushing away, dwindling into a mottled patchwork, still dwindling—

Oh, he understood, all right. He knew what tugged at his son's heels, he knew the consuming thrill, the insatiable hunger to reach higher and higher, to seek out unknown places. He knew the wonder of stepping on another land, an alien land, the thrill of watching two moons creep softly over a reddish horizon. He knew the deep, rich thrill of pushing the frontier outward until the sun winked coldly like another star. Memories flooded his mind, and he remembered too well the insistent tug of the wanderlust at his heels, the call of the open road, the call of space. And he knew that, try as he would, no Earth-bound answer would ever drive it away—

Yes, he understood. But deep in his heart he felt the coldness, the pain and agony, the sense of bitter loss. He was one of the lucky. He had come back. Tad would never come back. The odds were too great, there were too few of the lucky. And it was better not to be one of the lucky, better to die out there, forgotten, unmourned.

Maybe he should have told the boy while he was young, tried to teach him, to make him understand. Perhaps he'd been wrong to conceal it all these years, to lie to Tad, to make Florence conceal, too. Perhaps Tad should have been told—but even knowing that someday the wanderlust would come, he knew he couldn't have told him. Better to conceal, to wait for the contempt, wait to hear the words, short, bitter words: "How could you ever understand? You've never been there—"

George felt the perspiration trickle down his neck. How could he explain the things he hardly dared think about himself? The fear, the bitterness, the horror? Tad would be sleeping now, peacefully, in his room, his bag half packed on the dresser, dreaming dreams of wonder in his sleep, and never dreaming for an instant of the terror, the pain—never knowing how hard a taskmaster the wanderlust could be, what terrible fees it could exact.

He knew he couldn't fight it. He had known since Tad was born that it would be useless. For the young saw only what they wanted to see.

And suddenly George was fumbling in his dresser drawer, frantically searching for the small oblong box, rushing, before he changed his mind. His hands closed on the small container, and its contents were cold between his fingers. And then he was in Tad's room, quietly, seeking the bag, half packed, a few meager clothes, a few meager memories to go away with a hopeful heart. He fumbled in the bag, and suddenly the memories closed in on George Barlow, and he was living again the horrible moments, the rumbling, jolting thunder in the bowels of the ship; the frantic scrambling down the dark passageways, the men, fear-crazed and tumbling over each other in free fall—the gleaming white-hot of the atomic fires gone wild; the screams of agony, the crashing, fiery groping through oven-like chambers, the twisting, wrenching of controls, fighting to stay alive, fighting in blazing agony, fire burning to the bottom of his soul—

The little metal disc slipped into the boy's bag, down between a pair of pants and a book; a thin metal disc of pure gold, a simple symbol, with simple words: To George L. Barlow, for Heroism in Space—

He dropped the disc into the boy's bag and stumbled back to his room. He sat in the silence stroking old Snuffy's soft muzzle, sat in darkness, eternal since that hour of terror, as tears streamed down scarred cheeks from his sightless eyes....

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WANDERLUST

By Alan E. Nourse