Mel Cramer's job was to defend the Space
Station in case of an enemy attack; still, there
wasn't anything in the book to order him on a—
MARTYR'S FLIGHT
By Hank Searls
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
December 1955
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Some of the anguish and bitterness and fear left Walter Stanton's heartas he gazed at the vista from the open landing-lock. It had been almostthree months since the core of Space Station One had nudged itself intoits silent orbit, but this, the only remaining view unhindered by thebulbous fuel storage tanks, still fascinated him. Now, as the nose ofCargo One crept backward into the blinding sunlight, he pulled himselffurther along the catwalk. He waved with his free hand at the pilot,Major Torrance, although he knew the Major could hardly be watchingduring the delicate maneuver. Then, while the massive hatch was stillgaping, he looked earthward.
Twenty-five thousand miles away, half of the western hemisphere shonethrough the murky earth-haze, the other half still in darkness.Through force of habit he oriented himself by looking at the centerof the half-darkened sphere; there lay the Galapagos Islands. Then hetraced the outline of the West Coast to Baja California and thence towhere he knew lay Sandia Base, New Mexico. He glanced at his watch;7:00 A.M. Mountain Standard Time; Lynne would be making breakfastfor Karen, soon to leave for school. He felt a stab of loneliness anda tug of envy for the men in Cargo II. Three skidding entries intothe atmosphere; three swinging returns to space, and they would havedecelerated enough to spiral to the incredible runway at Sandia. Intwelve hours they would be home with their wives.
He watched as Torrance, drifting a hundred yards away, eased themassive nose to a westerly direction and then, with a tiny burst ofpower, slowed his relative speed enough to fall rapidly out of SpaceOne's orbit. He sighed and swung himself around.
Colonel Mel Cramer was hanging on beside him, grotesquely familiar inthe flight gear he used as a Topside Suit. Walter Stanton's earphonescrackled.
"Walt, I'm going to take the Mistress out for a while and practicesome marriages, if it's OK with you."
Walter Stanton glanced at the lethal fighter ship nested across thelanding-lock and essayed their old joke again, but his heart wasn't init. "What would Marge say, Mel?"
Mel Cramer laughed. "She gave up to Mel's Mistress a year ago. OK togo?"
Walter Stanton thought of the letter in his pocket. "No, Mel, I thinknot." Then suddenly: "Is the Mistress armed ... all ready to go?"
Mel sounded hurt. "Of course, Walt. She's always ready.... Why?"
Stanton pulled himself to the hatch in the hub. "Meet me in Control,Mel. I want to talk to you."
Walter Stanton belted himself to his desk chair and pulled out theletter from De La Rue, reading it again. He felt a surge of nostalgiaat the Old Man's quaint English; the Secretary-General's white-hotinternationalism had never impelled him to improve his languages. Butthere was nothing quaint about the content of the letter....
Mel Cramer shuffled in with the strange gait that they had alldeveloped within days of arriving in space. Automatically he snappedhis safety belt to a grommet on Mel's desk, then sat on the top.
"What's on your mind, Walt?"
"This...." Walter Stanton handed him the letter. "Torrance brought it.I guess De La Rue didn't have enough to go on to send a dispatch, so hewrote the letter."
Mel Cramer read t