The last time I saw her she was wrapped in a flame-red cloak from the looms of Rigel and wore a fortune in Jovan rubies blazing on her wrists. Cliff was flipping a three-figure credit bill to a waiter. And Bat had a row of Vernal juice glasses set up before him. Just a little family party out on the town.
Song in a Minor Key
by C. L. Moore
He had been promising himself this moment for how many lonely months and years on alien worlds?
Beneath him the clovered hill-slope was warm in the sun. Northwest Smith moved his shoulders against the earth and closed his eyes, breathing so deeply that the gun bolstered upon his chest drew tight against its strap as he drank the fragrance of Earth and clover warm in the sun. Here in the hollow of the hills, willow-shaded, pillowed upon clover and the lap of Earth, he let his breath run out in a long sigh and drew one palm across the grass in a caress like a lover's.
He had been promising himself this moment for how long—how many months and years on alien worlds? He would not think of it now. He would not remember the dark spaceways or the red slag of Martian drylands or the pearlgray days on Venus when he had dreamed of the Earth that had outlawed him. So he lay, with his eyes closed and the sunlight drenching him through, no sound in his ears but the passage of a breeze through the grass and a creaking of some insect nearby—the violent, blood-smelling years behind him might never have been. Except for the gun pressed into his ribs between his chest and the clovered earth, he might be a boy again, years upon years ago, long before he had broken his first law or killed his first man.
No one else alive now knew who that boy had been. Not even the all-knowing Patrol. Not even Venusian Yarol, who had been his closest friend for so many riotous years. No one would ever know—now. Not his name (which had not always been Smith) or his native land or the home that had bred him, or the first violent deed that had sent him down the devious.paths which led here—here to the clover hollow in the hills of an Earth that had forbidden him ever to set foot again upon her soil.
He unclasped the hands behind his head and rolled over to lay a scarred cheek on his arm, smiling to himself. Well, here was Earth beneath him. No longer a green star high in alien skies, but warm soil, new clover so near his face he could see all the little stems and trefoil leaves, moist earth granular at their roots. An ant ran by with waving antennae close beside his cheek. He closed his eyes and drew another deep breath. Better not even look; better to lie here like an animal, absorbing the sun and the feel of Earth blindly, wordlessly.
Now he was not Northwest Smith, scarred outlaw of the spaceways. Now he was a boy again with all his life before him. There would be a white-columned house just over the hill, with shaded porches and white curtains blowing in the breeze and the sound of sweet, familiar voices indoors. There would be a girl with hair like poured honey hesitating just inside the door, lifting her eyes to him. Tears in the eyes. He lay very still, remembering.
Curious how vividly it all came back, though the house had been ashes for nearly twenty years, and the girl—the girl . . .
He foiled over violently, opening his eyes. No use remembering her. There had been that fatal flaw in him from the very first, he knew now. If he were the boy again knowing all he knew today, still the flaw would be there and sooner or later the same thing must have happened that had happened
twenty years ago. He had been born for a wilder age, when man took what they wanted and held what they could without respect for law. Obedience was not in him, and so—
As vividly as on that day it happened he felt the same old surge of anger and despair twenty years old now, felt the ray-gun bucking hard against his unaccustomed fist, heard the hiss of its deadly charge ravening into a face he hated. He could not be sorry, even now, for that first man he had killed. But in the smoke of that killing had gone up the columned house and the future he might have had, the boy himself— lost as Atlantis now—and the girl with the honey-colored hair and much, much else besides. It had to happen, he knew. He being the boy he was, it had to happen. Even if he could go back and start all over, the tale would be the same.
And it was all long past now, anyhow; and nobody remembered any more at all, except himself. A man would be a fool to lie here thinking about it any longer.
Smith grunted and sat up, shrugging the gun into place against his ribs.
Travel Diary
by Alfred Bester
By the end of the Twenty-second century, and at a cost of lives and money exceeding that of the final World War, communication between the planets of the solar system was finally established.
History of Solar Cities
John W. Lackland
*
June 10. Venus. Staying at the Excelsior. Everybody speaks English so no trouble at all. But they simply have no idea how to make Martinis. Nuisance. Went to that marvelous dressmaker Linda told me about. Bought five divine creations for practically peanuts. Tom said: “Exchange favors us.” I said: “What means?” Tom: “Our dollars buy more here than home.” Self: “Then why can’t buy six gowns?” Tom: “Doesn’t favor us that much.” But I notice he bought another camera. Pig!
Ran into the Trumbulls and the Rogers. Took us to a marvelous bistro where Clyde Pippin from the old Key Club is playing. Love his songs. Love that man. Tom too embarrassing adding up check with pencil. It’s true they all cheat us, but why can’t he show them we don’t give a D— Mars and Saturn next. Then Alpha Centaurus.
*
Speed was the one barrier to practical communication with the planetary systems of the far stars. When faster-than-light propulsion was at last developed after centuries of research, it became possible to travel to the far stars within weeks rather than years.
Development of Galactic Travel
Ezra Coudert
*
July 19. Alpha Centaurus. Staying at the Excelsior. Everybody speaks English so no trouble at all. But can’t drink the water. Nuisance. Went to that marvelous lace man Linda told me about. Bought five yards for practically peanuts.
People here too dirty and positively amoral. Disgusting. And rude? ! ! ! ! Tom took pictures of some kind of silly ceremony. People began screaming at us. Tried to steal T’s camera. Official came along and jabbered in broken English. “They say no more take, please. Break.” Tom: “Break what?” Official: “Religious. Sacred. No take look-see. Break.” Tom: “You got the nerve to tell me that clowning is religion?” Official: “Yes, please.” (Pointing to camera) “Give, please. Must break please.” Tom: (to me) “How about that for nerve? Give them my four-hundred-dollar camera to bust just because it’s taken a few religious pictures.” Self: “If it’s good enough for Notre Dame, it’s good enough for them.” Tom gave them some money and we left.
Ran into the Trumbulls and Rogers. Took them to a marvelous bistro where Clyde Pippin is playing now. Made me homesick to hear the old Key Klub tunes. Love that man. Tom too funny pretending to be visiting dignitary. Said was famous Senator from Saturn. Said was here investigating. Scared them all to death. Laugh? I tho’t I’d die! Betelgeuse next.
*
Conflicting cultures brought about inevitable clashes which culminated in the Great Galactic War. Betelgeuse, bankrupt and desperate, attempted a costly and controversial experiment. The government was overthrown and a one-party business despotism established under the leadership of an economic dictator.
The Political Economy of Space
Arthur