George sat back in his chair, puffing his pipe, the uneasiness growing. Tad was usually back from town hours earlier. The oats had to be cut this week—the shipment of Venusian taaro was due from the next Rocket, and they had to have a field free for it. But still, he knew it was more than the tractor bolts that bothered him.
Then suddenly the door burst open and Tad was there, filling the room with his broad shoulders, whistling tunelessly to himself. A cool east breeze followed him in the door, and with it an aura of excitement. Tad's sunbaked hair was wild from the ride through the wind, his sharp eyes sparkling:
"Dad! The Rocket landed this afternoon. Out at Dillon's Landing. It's three weeks early this time!"
A chill swept up George's spine, tingling his scalp. "Then we should get the taaro in a couple of days," he said smoothly.
"We should." Tad's eyes were bright as he patted the dog's head. His whole body seemed alive with excitement. "I walked up on the ridge to get a look at it, dad. It's a beauty—tall and slim—you should see it down there. It catches the sunset like you never saw before—"
He was still talking as he walked out to the kitchen, stooping to kiss his mother on the forehead. "You ought to go up and take a look at it, mom—before the sun's gone."
"I've got plenty to do without going to gawk at a Rocket ship," his mother's voice was sharp. "You have too, for that matter. Did you get the tractor bolts for your father?"
The boy frowned suddenly, and snapped his fingers. "Plumb forgot them. The ship was landing just as I got into town, so I went over to watch it—" he took his place opposite his father at the table, his face brightening again. He didn't see the cloud on his father's face. "And they let us go inside it to look around, dad. I never saw anything like it. You wouldn't believe that they could get such a ship off the ground. Why, even I can remember when it was all they could do to blast off with a little ten-man ship, and now—why, this one is like a yacht. It's the STAR KING, the newest one in Dillon's fleet."
George Barlow scowled, the tightness in the pit of his stomach suddenly making his food tasteless. "That's lovely," he said sourly. "They can build them a mile long for all I care. They still aren't fit for rats. At least here you can wash your face if you want to—" He turned back to his plate, hoping the discussion was over, hoping—