"Now you're sixteen, Al, there's something I have to tell you," his father had begun. "My father told me when I turned sixteen, and his father told him. First, the name of our family isn't Marcusson. It's Marcopoulos. Your name's Alexander Marcopoulos."
"What? Dad, you must be kidding! Look, all the records...."
"The records don't go back far enough. Our name was changed four generations back, but the legal records disappeared in the usual convenient courthouse fire. As far as anyone knows, our family's name's always been Marcusson. My grandfather went to Minnesota and settled among the Swedes there. Unlike most foreigners he'd taken pains to learn good English beforehand. And Swedish. He was good at languages." For a moment the out-of-place smile came back. "All our family is. Languages, math, getting along with people, seldom getting lost or confused. You better pay attention, Al. This is the only time I'm going to speak of our family, like my father. We never bothered much, by the way, about how our name was written. You can believe me or think I sat in the sun too long, but I'll tell you how our most famous relatives spelled it: Marco Polo."
"Oh, now...."
"Never mind what you think now. Besides, I won't answer any questions, anyway. My father didn't and he was right. I found out some things by myself later; you'll probably find out more. For example, the best job for us is still exploring. That's why I became an oil geologist, and it paid off. Another thing: learning the legends of the place you're in, if you take up exploring, can mean the difference between success and a broken neck. That's all, boy. Guess I'll get your mother some peonies for the supper table."
Al Marcusson had gone up quietly to his room. Later, his special gift for languages and math got him through college and engineering school; his sense of direction and lack of inner-ear trouble helped to get him chosen for Astronaut training while he was in the Air Force.
While in training at the Cape he had met and married a luscious brunette librarian in one of the sponge-fishing towns, a brunette with a rather complicated last name that became forgotten as she turned into Mrs. Marcusson, and unbeatable recipes for the most bewitching cocktails since Circe held the shaker for Ulysses.
Marcusson's hobbies included scuba diving, electronic tinkering and reading. His psychiatrists noted a tendency to reserve, even secrecy, which was not entirely bad in a man who worked with classified material and had to face long periods of time alone. Besides, his ability to get along with people largely compensated.
With slowly returning consciousness the last months of training swam in Al Marcusson's mind. The orbital flight—the only part of it he'd really enjoyed was the quarter-hour alone with SARAH, the electronic beacon, cut off from Control and even from the rescue team just over the horizon, alone with the music of wind and sea.