I laughed. "He offered me a job here at the Academy teaching astrogation. What a life that would be! Imagine standing in a classroom for forty years when I've got the chance to—"
I hesitated, and you supplied the right words: "When you've got the chance to be the first to reach a new planet. That's what most of you want, isn't it? That's what Mickey used to want."
I looked at you as if you were Everson himself, because you seemed to understand the hunger that could lie in a man's heart.
Then your last words came back and jabbed me: "That's what Mickey used to want."
"Used to want?" I asked. "What do you mean?"
You bit your lip, not answering.
"What did she mean, Mickey?"
Mickey looked down at his feet. "I didn't want to tell you yet, Ben. We've been together a long time, planning to be on a rocket. But—"
"Yes?"
"Well, what does it add up to? You become a spaceman and wear a pretty uniform. You wade through the sands of Mars and the dust of Venus. If you're lucky, you're good for five, maybe ten years. Then one thing or another gets you. They don't insure rocketmen, you know."