I finished my fourth tour of duty in S Force about nine years ago. The third and fourth tours, as you know if you are familiar with S Force, were voluntary. Two is the limit they figure a man should spend in deep space on assigned duty. By the third, if he has not achieved a command, or rank at the least, he might be somewhat loathe to spend three years on a cruise not of his own choosing. After my fourth tour I sat for exams and got my captain's papers, so I signed on for a two-tour contract with an outfit operating Star Class Scouts out of Alpha Centauri X. By the end of this contract, I'd had it with space, and I settled down to a nice life of ease. You know, fishing and a house by the sea in the tropics, and a boat. That, of course, is where I made my mistake. You don't break the habits of over twenty years merely by putting some idle wishes into fulfillment. I reflect on it now because that idiotic notion about retirement is probably why I am here. That, and the determination of Captain Robert Kingsford to be a hero again, with remaining witnesses to bear him out.
I spend so much talk on myself at this point, incidentally, because I have lots of time in which to do this. Time to do anything I please, as if there was anything to do beside this. Except for the periods of hiding, of course. The hiding isn't bad, either. One gets used to it.
I've done this thing, this writing it all down, though it is on slates with a sharp stone as a stylus, about fifteen times. I've never found traces of the other times I've written it, and somehow I feel it should all be down. In the beginning, just to express one's thoughts, even in writing, was enough. After a while, however, you sort of want to talk with someone, even if there is no one to talk with. I guess I've told myself this thing about a hundred times, in addition to the writings. It's changed a bit with the tellings. Also, I've never quite finished it. So actually, I'm creating the epic saga of a race. A race of which I am the sole member, and with no heirs apparent.
Well, it makes the time pass.
I, Philip Rogers, known as "Buck" to my less imaginative and non-spacemen acquaintances, decided to have done with retirement on Barbados after three years of the kind of living toward which all men strive. I had resided and dined in opulence, I had fished, I had traveled within the confines of atmospheric craft and I had seen the whole world. But living for itself, just as survival for itself, can be pretty well the same as death, and believe me, I can deliver virtuosic discourses on both subjects. Both tend to instill a certain cessation of all feeling. For that reason, incidentally, I've actually grown to look forward to the periods of hiding here. It's the only time I truly feel anything. But to get on, I got pretty well fed up with Barbados and the boat and the house. I had never married, principally because I'd never been fond of the idea of a woman standing on some "widow's walk" waiting for me. Three year cruises in deep space were hardly the short business trips of a commercial traveler. I had also, I imagine, never met the right woman. When I realized that this tropic paradise was becoming little more than a sort of waiting room for the voyage to hell or wherever I'll go, I began to cast feelers into the only other world I knew. I made certain inquiries among commercial space outfits for the possibility of a berth. I had let my papers lapse and learned that I was no longer eligible for a command. This was no great loss to me, since doing something was the primary objective. I could still gain an Exec's berth on any non-atmospheric craft. I reactivated my status, got my First Officer's papers, and was about to sign on for a mining expedition in the third asteroid belt of Alpha Centauri, when Kingsford completed his solo return from Aldebaran IX.
Basing speculations on the future profits to be had from Aldebaran IX, according to Kingsford's report, Anglo-Galactic Mining began almost immediately to outfit a new ship for a second expedition. I heard a bit of Kingsford's story, the landing, the surveys, the planet being almost a total ore deposit, and then the tragedy of the crew. One of Anglo-Galactic's geologists told me Kingsford's tale of how all of his crew was killed by being drawn up in the feeding action of some gigantic flying animal, how he alone had managed to avoid this horror, and his agonizing fourteen month voyage back all alone.
I thought I was well able to imagine the feeling of being a sole survivor on an alien world, let alone the almost superhuman task of activating a ship's drive, even with delayed action timing, and plotting a course and manning a craft through fourteen months in space alone.
They were recruiting a complete crew for Kingsford's new ship, the Algonquin. She was new throughout, the drive and astrogating equipment being of a design with which I was unfamiliar. I began to understand why I was no longer eligible for command. A short three year absence and space technology had passed me by. I had read about the Shaller drive system in a technical journal during my retirement, but all through those three years I had made a rather strenuous effort to stay away from anything to do with my former calling. Actually, the Shaller system had outstripped all former star drives and was now in almost exclusive use in all ships geared for long range space penetration. It had conquered inertial resistance to the point where there existed absolutely no problems or stresses to either craft or personnel during acceleration and deceleration. If Kingsford's report about Aldebaran IX were true, and assays of the ore he'd brought back seemed to promise even more than he did, a berth on the Algonquin would be quite a prize. I flew to London and arranged a preliminary interview with an Anglo-Galactic vice president whom I had known for years. This would take some politics. From what I could figure, an Executive Officer's berth on the Algonquin, if she should make the strike that seemed imminent, would be worth millions, at the one-twentieth share normally apportioned to Execs on exploratory mining expeditions.
"Naturally, Kingsford will command," I was told. "But if you've a rated Exec's papers, Rogers, I think we may swing it." It would mean ten percent of my share, but the requisite of portions of officers' shares is one of the fringe benefits enjoyed by executives of corporations like Anglo-Galactic. There were two others with Executive tickets being touted by other politics within Anglo-Galactic, but my past record, my S Force dossier and my age were tremendous determinants. Or, perhaps, my politics were stronger. I was chosen and signed on for the expedition. I had still not met Kingsford. This was a bit odd. After all, I was to be his executive officer, his immediate subordinate, and I had not even been requested to present myself for his appraisal before selection.