19

LOOKING BACK

The sun reached out with fiery knives and cut away my arm and leg. . . .

I swam through a sea of molten metal, under a giant red Sun, struggling to reach the icy coolness of the rock before the liquid metal burned through to my bones. . . .

Rosalie waited for me on the rock. I loved her, desired and needed her more than ever—but my hands were skeletons when I pulled myself up on the soothing shore. . . .

As the painkillers wore off, my dislocated shoulder and broken wrist, together with a touch of oxygen starvation, taught me a lot of respect for old Merk. I was so glad to be alive that I wished I might have broken the other wrist, just so as not to push my luck.

I lay there for more than a month, wondering if the planet was really done with me; a new quake might kill me as I slept. Bob and Rosalie calmed me down in the evenings, but I still had trouble accepting sleep.

When I was finally able to doze regularly, my dreams were filled with guilt and anxiety about the work that was starting without me. If I wasn’t going to be part of the work, then everything that had happened to me would be meaningless. I was fixated on this, even though there was no chance of the habitat being finished before I got there.

Sometimes I dreamed that I was dying by pieces—first my legs, then my arms and torso, leaving only my head, which was not enough to go home with; they would probably just throw it away.

“Bob told us how you helped save his life,” Robert Svoboda said, as he and his wife sat by my bed one day.

“He still had to hold his suit together.”

Eleanor touched my hand. “He felt differently about telling us after you were both inside.”

I looked up at the ceiling and felt very unheroic. “We might both have died.”

“Couldn’t expect you not to try something,” Robert said. “I’m glad you did, as it turned out. The judgments you two made about the situation were right. Bob learned a few things. Eleanor and I had always shielded him a bit.”

“I want to get to my real job as soon as possible.”

Eleanor’s look of gratitude was making me nervous. It surprised me that Bob had decided to tell the whole story. How would it go over with his friends? Maybe it would draw us all together.

Bill Turnbull, my orientation advisor from the university, surprised me with a visit one Friday afternoon.

“I joined up with the second wave,” he said. “Brought you some letters from home.”

“Thanks—how’s the work going?”

“Can’t go on without you,” he said cheerfully, putting the sealed fax-letter copies on my table. “Half the workers are on the asteroid, building temporary quarters on the inner surface. The engineers took all the livable space in the construction sphere.” He smiled. “Don’t lie around here too long.”

I stared at the letters after he left, afraid to open them; if you don’t feed old problems, they fade away.

I picked up one and tore it open:

25 MAY 2057, BERNAL HALL, BERNAL ONE

DEAR JOE,

I DON’T KNOW IF YOU WANT TO HEAR FROM ME OR NOT OUT THERE WHERE YOU’RE PIONEERING. I HEARD YOUR NAME ON THE NEWS, AMONG THOSE WHO WERE INJURED, SO I DECIDED YOU SHOULD HEAR FROM ME.

I GUESS YOU WERE ALWAYS A PRACTICAL SORT, LOOKING FOR A PLACE TO SHINE. I KNOW I SAID NOT MUCH COULD BE DONE ABOUT THE MERCURY PROBLEM, AND I’M STILL SKEPTICAL, BUT I DIDN’T EXPECT YOU TO GO AND MAKE YOURSELF PART OF THE SOLUTION, SUCH AS IT IS—HATS OFF!

I STILL HOPE THAT YOU’LL COME BACK TO SCHOOL SOONER OR LATER. YOU MIGHT MAKE A GOOD EXPERIMENTAL PHYSICIST, WITH YOUR PRACTICAL TURN OF MIND. YOU ALWAYS SEEMED TO NEED PEOPLE AROUND TO DO THINGS WITH. ME, I STILL THINK LIFE IS FOR THE PRIVATE STRUGGLE TO UNDERSTAND THE UNIVERSE, THE WAY EINSTEIN OR HAWKING STRUGGLED TO CLIMB THE MOUNTAIN OF KNOWLEDGE IN THEIR MINDS—JUST TO SEE IF THEY COULD SEE NATURE WHOLE.

Morey still sounded a million years old, but I would have been disappointed if he had changed.

MAYBE I HAVE TO SHUT OUT EVERYTHING ELSE, JUST TO BE ABLE TO DO WHAT I WANT? SOMETIMES I CAN’T BEAR TO THINK THAT THERE ARE OTHER ROADS IN LIFE, OR THAT I MIGHT WANT TO TAKE THEM AND FORGET THE SLOW CLIMB TOWARD THE WALL OF MYSTERY THAT IS PHYSICS. IF THERE IS ANYTHING THAT YOU WANT VERY MUCH, THEN YOU MUST KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

THERE’S NO RUSH, YOU KNOW. THE BIOLOGISTS SAY PEOPLE OUR AGE MAY MAKE IT TO 200, IF NOT MORE. I THINK YOU’LL FEEL THE PULL OF STUDY AGAIN WHEN YOU’RE OLDER. SOME PEOPLE APPRECIATE KNOWING THINGS MORE WHEN LIFE GETS CHANCY.

NOW THAT I’M WELL INTO THE BIG MATH AND TALKING SMOOTHLY TO THE ARTIFICIAL BRAIN CORES, I FIND THAT I’M DEVELOPING ALL SORTS OF NEAT SUSPICIONS ABOUT THE UNIVERSE—AS IF IT WERE SOME SORT OF STAGE SCENERY. TELL YOU MORE IN THE NEXT LETTER.

SO—EVEN THOUGH I THINK STRIVING FOR ACHIEVEMENT IS EVERYTHING, ACCOMPLISHMENTS MAY VARY, EVEN GO UNSEEN. I DIDN’T SEE WHAT YOU WANTED, BUT NOW THAT I FEEL I’M GETTING CLOSER TO WHAT I WANT, AND DON’T FEEL SO DESPERATE ABOUT MOVING ALONG, I SEE WHAT I MIGHT BE MISSING ALONG THE WAY. YOU PAY FOR EVERYTHING SOMEWHERE. IF I DON’T CONCENTRATE STUBBORNLY, I WON’T GET WHAT I WANT. ONLY LUCK, THAT SUDDEN, UNEARNED INPUT OF ENERGY FROM SOMEWHERE ELSE, ENABLES US TO SOMETIMES COME OUT AHEAD. I GUESS I THINK MOST PEOPLE ARE PRETTY HOPELESS—THEY LIVE AND DON’T DO MUCH THAT I CAN SEE, EXCEPT TO SECURE THEIR LIVES AND THE LIVES OF THEIR CHILDREN. MAYBE MOST HUMANITY ISN’T READY FOR MORE YET.

WRITE WHEN YOU CAN, OR LEAVE MESSAGES. DAVID, MARCO, AND NARITA SAY HELLO.

YOUR FRIEND, MOREY

Good old Morey, I thought as I put the letter on my night table. For once he made me feel that it didn’t have to be an either/or choice. Distant moments of achievement were worth working for, if you could see that far. I hadn’t been able to do it on Bernal, but his letter made me feel good—not so threatened about making another choice. Scratch that problem. I would have called him immediately, but the delays between answers would have been frustrating, even if Merk had been in position to avoid static interference from the Sun.

I glanced uneasily at the envelopes from my parents; it seemed that their words were waiting to drag me back into my childhood. I scooped up the letters and opened one.

It was from Dad:

23 May 2057, NEW YORK CITY

DEAR JOE,

WE HEARD THAT YOU WERE INJURED, BUT THE SVOBODAS ASSURED US THAT IT WAS NOT SERIOUS ENOUGH FOR US TO COME OUT, BUT IF YOU WANT US THERE WE’LL TAKE THE NEXT SHIP OUT. I’M TOLD THAT THERE ARE QUITE A FEW GOING BACK AND FORTH THESE DAYS, TWICE A MONTH, IN FACT. I HEAR IT’S PRETTY RUGGED THERE.

WRITE OR LEAVE A MESSAGE WHEN YOU GET THIS. CALL IF YOU WANT AND SOLAR CONDITIONS PERMIT. I’LL SIT THROUGH THE DELAYS.

LOVE, DAD

P.S. YOU MIGHT LIKE TO HEAR THAT MARISA HAS GONE RIGHT INTO COMMERCIAL ART. HER LOOP SEQUENCES, MOSTLY LANDSCAPES, ARE REPLACING QUITE A FEW PICTURE WINDOWS IN THE LARGE CITIES.

I looked at the “We heard” part of the letter. Of course, they weren’t together. Old habits die hard. Was he trying to lure me back home with news of Marisa? Probably not; he just thought I’d be interested. I was—mildly.

I opened the last letter.

16 MAY 2057, BRASILIA

DEAREST JOE,

I WAS WORRIED SICK ABOUT YOUR BEING HURT. I PASSED THE NEWS THAT IT WAS NOTHING SERIOUS TO YOUR FATHER AND GRANDPARENTS, BUT I WON’T REALLY FEEL RIGHT UNTIL YOU WRITE OR CALL WITH DETAILS. PLEASE DON’T KEEP ME IN SUSPENSE!

I’VE BEEN STUDYING AND READING A LOT. JIM AND I LIVE OUT HERE ON HIS RANCH. HE’S AN AUSTRALIAN, BUT HE SPENT A LOT OF TIME ON LUNA. HE’S VERY IMPRESSED WITH YOUR DECISION TO WORK ON MERCURY. SAYS HE UNDERSTANDS YOU, AND HE’S BEEN EXPLAINING TO ME.

I SOMETIMES THINK THAT IF I WERE YOUR AGE I WOULD HAVE DONE THE SAME THING. YOUR FATHER AND I ARE ON AMIABLE TERMS, SO PLEASE DON’T WORRY ABOUT THAT, MY SON.

WRITE SOON.

LOVE, MOM

Scratch another problem. I was completely on my own, and it felt good.