My Lady Selene
By MAGNUS LUDENS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Magazine April 1963.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Everyone knows the Moon is dead.
Everyone is quite correct—now!
On impact he'd had time to see Hatter's head jerk loose from thecarefully weakened strap. As Hatter slumped unconscious he touched thehidden switch.
A shock, then darkness.
What first came to him out of the humming blackout mist was his ownname: Marcusson. Al Marcusson, just turned sixteen that Saturday inJune, that green-leafed day his father had called him out to the backyard. They had sat on discount-house furniture under the heavy maple,Al who wore jeans and sneakers and a resigned expression, his fatherwho wore glasses, a sport shirt, slacks, eyelet shoes and a curiousreckless smile, a smile that didn't belong in the picture.
"Now you're sixteen, Al, there's something I have to tell you," hisfather had begun. "My father told me when I turned sixteen, and hisfather told him. First, the name of our family isn't Marcusson. It'sMarcopoulos. Your name's Alexander Marcopoulos."
"What? Dad, you must be kidding! Look, all the records...."
"The records don't go back far enough. Our name was changed fourgenerations back, but the legal records disappeared in the usualconvenient courthouse fire. As far as anyone knows, our family's name'salways been Marcusson. My grandfather went to Minnesota and settledamong the Swedes there. Unlike most foreigners he'd taken pains tolearn good English beforehand. And Swedish. He was good at languages."For a moment the out-of-place smile came back. "All our family is.Languages, math, getting along with people, seldom getting lost orconfused. You better pay attention, Al. This is the only time I'm goingto speak of our family, like my father. We never bothered much, by theway, about how our name was written. You can believe me or think I satin the sun too long, but I'll tell you how our most famous relativesspelled it: Marco Polo."
"Oh, now...."
"Never mind what you think now. Besides, I won't answer any questions,anyway. My father didn't and he was right. I found out some things bymyself later; you'll probably find out more. For example, the best jobfor us is still exploring. That's why I became an oil geologist, and itpaid off. Another thing: learning the legends of the place you're in,if you take up exploring, can mean the difference between success and abroken neck. That's all, boy. Guess I'll get your mother some peoniesfor the supper table."
Al Marcusson had gone up quietly to his room. Later, his special giftfor languages and math got him through college and engineering school;his sense of direction and lack of inner-ear trouble helped to get himchosen for Astronaut training while he was in the Air Force.
While in training at the Cape he had met and married a lusciousbrunette librarian in one of the sponge-fishing towns, a brunette witha rather complicated last name that became forgotten as she turnedinto Mrs. Marcusson, and unbeatable recipes for the most bewitchingcocktails since Circe held the shaker for Ulysses.
Marcusson's hobbies included scuba diving, electronic tinkering andreading. His psychiatrists noted a tendency to reserve, even secrecy,which was not entirely bad in a man who worked with classified materialand had to face long periods of time alone. Besides, his ability to getalong with peop