Home. Earth. Thayerville, a small town in Kansas. Clean air, a shaded street, and a white, two-story house at the end of the block. Home—after two decades among the stars.
Sitting quietly before the round port, seeing and not seeing the endless darkness surrounding him, Murdock was remembering.
He remembered the worried face of his mother, her whispered prayers for his safety as he mounted the rocket ramp those twenty years ago; he could still feel the final, crushing handshake of his father moments before the outer airlock slid closed. His mother had been 55 then, his father 63. It was almost impossible to believe that they were now old and white-haired.
And what of himself?
He was now 41, and space had weathered him as the plains of Kansas had weathered his father. He, too, had labored as his father had labored—but on strange, alien worlds, under suns far hotter than Sol. Murdock's face was square and hard-featured, his eyes dark and deep under thrusting ledges of bone. He had changed as they had changed.
He was a stranger going home to strangers.
Carefully, Murdock unfolded his mother's last letter, written in her flowery, archaic hand, and received just before Earth take-off.
Dearest Bob,
Oh, we are so excited! Your father and I listened to your voice on the tape over and over, telling us that you are coming home to us at last. We are both so eager to see you, son. As you know, we have not been too well of late. Your father's heart does not allow him out much any more, and I have had a few fainting spells over the past month. But Doctor Thom says that we are all right, and you are not to worry. Just hurry home to us, Bob. We both pray God you will come back safely.
All our love,
Mother