"Well, maybe I didn't mean it that way. But you just name me another father at Marsport who takes his family up in a spaceship every Sunday to go picnicking. And a different asteroid each week. Ed Jones sits on his fanny all week-end, and Tom Ferris spends Saturday night in the gambling joints so he's dead on his feet Sunday and can hardly stay awake during the church services."
Marcia took his hand and placed it back on her shoulder. "Okay, dear—you're wonderful. But that doesn't give you permission to call my children 'brats'."
Burt smiled. "My children, too. And, well—if they're not brats, we've certainly spoiled them...."
Johnny's voice cut through the thin air. "Pop. Hey, pop. C'mere!"
Burt got up, laughing. "So that's how you teach your kids to call their old man, eh?"
Burt walked toward the incredibly close horizon. You could see the curvature of the tiny planet quite distinctly, and in a tight circle all around them the pale blue sky came down and met the jumble of rocks and crystal which was the surface of the asteroid. Johnny had called from someplace beyond the horizon, and as he walked, Burt heard him again: "You deaf, pop? C'mere!"
Johnny was standing, little hands on little hips, near a mound of dull metal. No, it wasn't a mound—it was battered and twisted and rusted, but the tear-drop shape was unmistakable. A spaceship....
Burt found the ancient airlock and pushed through the rusted door. He looked at the control panel. "It's an old Havelock," he muttered, "I'll be damned. They haven't made these in twenty years."
He went outside again, where Johnny still stood.