He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to
the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself
before....
DESIRE NO MORE
by Algis Budrys
(illustrated by Milton Luros)
"Desire no more than to thy lot may fall...."
—Chaucer
THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head.
"But you've got to learn a trade," his father said, exasperated. "Ican't afford to send you to college; you know that."
"I've got a trade," he answered.
His father smiled thinly. "What?" he asked patronizingly.
"I'm a rocket pilot," the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin ofhis cheeks.
His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate andhate. "Yeah," he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hardthat the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floorwith an unnoticed stiff rustle.
"A rocket pilot!" His father's derision hooted through the quietparlor. "A ro—oh, no!—a rocket pilot!"
The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lipsfell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with thetension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalkedout of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch.He stopped there, hesitating a little.
"Marty!" His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemedto act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almostran as he got down the porch stairs.
"What is it, Howard?" Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as shecame in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry againstthe sides of her housedress.
"Crazy kid," Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of hisson as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into thestreet. "Come back here!" he shouted. "A rocket pilot," he cursedunder his breath. "What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocketpilot!"
Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown."But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very oddthings in high schools these days, but it seems to me...."
"Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet! Comeback here, you idiot!" Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, hisclenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms.
"Are you sure, Howard?" his wife asked faintly.
"Yes, I'm sure!"
"But, where's he going?"
"Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me? Marty?"
"Howard! Stop acting like a child and talk to me! Where is that boygoing?"
Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turnedaway from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. "I don't know," hetold her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs."Maybe, the moon," he told her sarcastically.
Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11", had come ofage at seventeen.
THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. "No," he said. "I am notinterested in working for a degree."
"But—" The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellowpencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arcof black flecks. "Look, Ish, you've g