He was a coward not only in the eyes of his men
but his father as well. Yet sometimes fear can be
mistaken for the honor badge of great courage....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
December 1950
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Dirk Jemson pressed his forehead against the cool metal of theastro-chart and hoped that he was not going to be sick. At any moment,the space cruiser would be entering the gravity field of Caliban, andif he were ordered to assume control ... he shuddered at the prospect.
Around him in the cabin, the other members of the crew went quietlyabout their duties. Allen, the astrogator worked over his chartsand calculations; Kennedy, the atochanic squinted worriedly at thereadings on his gauges; Tabor, the biophysicist was engrossed in a book.
They were men handling routine assignments automatically. If they feltany of the fear, the impending nausea which constricted Dirk's stomach,they gave no outward indication of it.
He straightened himself and closed his eyes. These others were at homeout in space, unperturbed by the thought that they were rushing now atthe speed of light toward an unknown world, the dark satellite ofCaliban. They could not understand this space sickness which held himin a vise. They were like his father.
Dirk looked apprehensively toward the audio-visor above Allen's head.Momentarily, his father's face would blur into that screen; hisfather's voice would saw into the quiet of the cabin with a command.And all of these men would come to attention and listen, for this wouldbe the face and voice of Commandant Jemson—Terra's most renowned anddaring space explorer.
Dirk's gaze roamed the cabin. These others—Allen, Kennedy—even Taborwho was only an observer—would listen to the words of the Commandant;but they would know that his message was meant only for Dirk. DirkJemson—the Commandant's son.
Wave upon wave of the sickness swept over him and he fought desperatelyagainst the impulse to call out for help. He imagined the surpriseon their faces as they assisted him, and then, afterward, the politepretense that nothing had happened.
Why couldn't they leave him on Terra, doing the things he wanted todo—the things he could do well? He was an alien here. He had been analien in the Service from the beginning. The agonizing days at thestrato-school on Mars still stood vividly in his memory.
They had expected such great things of him. After all, he was the sonof Commandant Jemson and his brother Ken had been one of the mostbrilliant graduates the school ever had. Now, young Dirk was there tocarry on in the Jemson tradition—to make good for the Commandant andfor the gallant Ken who had lost his life in the first attempt made toland on Setebos.
They had expected great things—but they had been disappointed. Ofcourse, his panic on the trip to Mars had been understandable. Thefirst experience in space. It often happened so. Soon he'd be as calmand unaffected as the others.
Then, there had been the practice flight to Deimos. For Dirk, it stillhad the immediacy of a nightmare. It was five years now—more thanfive—and yet he could still visualize the cramped quarters of thattraining ship.
The instructor had been a fish-faced young man named Petley. EnsignPetley. He had seen in Dirk Jemson a chance for advancement. Give thecommandant's son the breaks, he had told himself, and you'll get apromotion.
As the trainer approached Deimos, Petley had turned from thevisi-shield and smiled pa