by Shinichi Hoshi
translated by Daniel Felice
March 3, 2007

"Hey, let me have a look in that telescope. We must be getting close to Earth," said the old man, stretching in the cramped passenger seat. He always asked to use the telescope when he woke up from a nap, as he just had.

"All right, go ahead," the young man in the pilot's seat said with a smile.

They were the only people aboard the small rocket. It was an interplanetary transit rocket en route from the Mars base to Earth. Outside the cockpit window was an infinite expanse of crystalline darkness, dusted with countless stars that sparkled like shattered fragments of a frozen rainbow.

"I wonder if we're close enough to make out the oceans and mountains," said the old man. "You know, it's been decades since I last went home."

He bent down to look into the telescope near the pilot's seat, then lifted his head from the eyepiece, muttering.

"Can't see anything. My eyes must be getting pretty bad. Space is hard on a man, you know."

He took eyedrops from his pocket, put some in his wrinkle-surrounded eyes.

"Of course you can't see anything," chuckled the young man. "The lens cap is on!" He turned and popped the lens cap off of the eyepiece.

"Why, you...! You got me again," the old man hollered, jabbing the young man on the shoulder. But he was not really angry. He had spent most of his life in space bases, where practical jokes were a way of life. Recreation was scarce in space; all spacers shared the duty to ridicule and be ridiculed.

Of course, the jocularity was not confined to bases. The situation aboard rockets was much the same. A serious, taciturn pilot would draw few customers. Therefore, the old man was not angered in the least, but actually looked forward to seeing what trick the pilot would pull next. The two had gotten along well since departing from Mars, perhaps because the young man reminded the old man of his own younger years.

"How is it? You should be able to see now," said the young man, orienting the telescope toward that point of blue light in the void.

"Ah, I can see it. Blue ocean, white clouds, green land.... How much longer now?"

"As I just told you, two more days to the moon port, and then one more day to Earth. We're almost there. No big hurry, is there?"

"No, no," said the old man, still gazing into the telescope. "It's just — like I said, it's been decades."

"That's a long time," mused the young man. "Most people would take some time off and visit Earth, at least every ten years or so. Why have you been away so long? You must have been out there ever since you were young."

"That's right," said the old man.

"Which base did you work in?"

"Well, at first, I worked on the moon base. Around then, they started construction of the Mars base, and so I applied to join in. I wanted to go out a bit farther."

"I know the feeling," said the young man. "I fly the Earth-Mars run, but I want to move to another route farther out. I can't really explain it. It's like space is pulling on me, and Earth is pushing me away."

The old man nodded. "It's the same for all us space men. I worked on Mars for ten years. When the construction started to slow down, I got a transfer to the Asteroid Belt Survey Fleet. Found some precious ores there, but I spent my earnings at the Mars base, gambling and whatnot. So I kept on going back to the asteroids."

"Then...?"

"Well, eventually, they formed the Jovian Moons Exploratory Fleet, so I applied. We made a tiny base, and built it up little by little. I spent years just looking up at Jupiter from that little world. Nothing but pale blue ice. You wouldn't believe how much of the sky Jupiter covers."

"Must have been tough," said the pilot, but his expression was full of longing.

"I was about 40 when I ended up going back to work in the asteroid belt."

"Why was that?"

"Not sure exactly why. Felt like I wanted to work a little closer to Earth."

"Because of your age?"

"Most likely. Time marches on — even on an ice world where nothing else ever changes. So I went back to Mars. Guess I started to miss Earth. I used to look at her in the telescope all the time."

"Can't say I know that feeling."

"You will someday," said the old man. "Feels like Earth is pulling me home and space is pushing me back. Maybe space doesn't need me anymore," he added with a wink.

"And so you finally decided to go back. Nothing wrong with that, of course. Bring home your memories of space, live out the rest of your days on Earth. That's only natural."

"Maybe so, but part of me still doesn't want to leave. It's odd. Feel like the stars are my family. I dunno...."

The old man trailed off, shaking his head, and the young man kept silent. They opened the storage cabinets and prepared a simple meal.

The clock in the cabin ticked on as they gradually drew nearer to Earth. Then, suddenly, there was a much louder sound. The cabin rocked under the shock of impact, scattering items and passengers alike. A whirling pattern of silver pinstripes filled the cockpit window.

It was over in an instant. The quiet returned. The old man could not move for a few moments; he had been thrown against the wall. At length, he stirred, wiped the crumbs from his mouth, rubbed his shoulder. "Now see here," he moaned, "that time you went too far. Don't surprise me when I'm about to swallow! When we get to Earth, I'm going to file a complaint at the spaceport, see that you get a pay cut. What kind o' pilot puts a payin' customer through this kind o'...."

The old man knew, of course, that there had been an accident. But he knew just as well that there was nothing to gain from despair.

"Got you good that time, didn't I?" replied the young man from under the pilot's seat. He too knew that there was no point in panicking.

"You all right? I hurt my shoulder," said the old man.

"I'm pretty beat up. In fact, I can only move my mouth," answered the pilot.

"What?" The old man approached the pilot's seat.

"Just kidding. I'm fine," said the young man, climbing back into his seat. There was, however, a bump where his forehead had collided with a gauge.

"Whew, you got me again," the old man sighed. "Anyway, what was it? Meteor?"

"Looks like it." The young man looked out the window. The stars had changed. The telescope no longer pointed to Earth. They had been knocked off course.

Frowning, he tried the radio. They waited, but there was no reply from any base.

"It must have taken out the radio too. We aren't receiving."

"Guess you aren't joking this time."

"I wish I were."

The young man pressed a button on the wall. Motors whirred as a long arm extended from the rocket's trunk. There was a mirror on the end of the arm so that they could see any part of the vessel. He slowly tilted the mirror to pan over the forward section of the rocket.

"Looks all right so far," he said. But as the aft section came into view, they paled in unison. The exhaust jet was smashed like an empty can hit by a hammer.

For a moment, they were silent.

"Well, we're not going anywhere with that," the old man pointed out.

"I'll see what I can do," said the young man, manipulating the controls. A weak flame sputtered from the jet, then sighed out like a candle at the end of its wick. The rocket shuddered slightly. They were unlikely to get back on course that way.

"I'll go out and inspect the damage," said the pilot, climbing into his space suit and exiting the airlock. Presently he returned, and as soon as he removed his helmet, the old man knew that the situation was desperate. He asked anyway.

"How is it?"

"I'm sorry, sir. It's damaged beyond repair. And worse, the antenna is gone. We can't send out a distress call. To think that we'd end up...." He stopped. The old man said nothing. The clock ticked on, unperturbed. With each second the rocket drifted farther from Earth. There was nothing they could do to stop it.

"Well, I know when to fold," the old man said, as though to himself. "The stars are callin' me back. I was a fool to think I could ever go home."

"It's a real shame, you being all set to finally go home and relax after all your work out here."

"Nah, I've lived enough. Why, between the vacuum and the cold I've been lucky to last this long. Most of my colleagues just disappeared into space. It's no surprise that I end up going the same way. Now you, you're young. That's the real shame, that you got caught up in all this just 'cause I wanted to go home."

"Can't help that — it's my job, you know. And I accepted the risks when I decided to be a space pilot," the young man pointed out.

They fell silent. The life seemed to seep out of the cabin air. Nothing lay ahead of them — neither the warm, bustling Earth the old man remembered, nor the unknown planets the young man longed to discover.

Nothing at all awaited them but infinite void, and then death.

"Well," said the old man, "what now? What does everyone do, times like these?"

"In meteor crashes, most people die from the impact. Cases like ours are pretty rare, I think. So... I don't really know either."

"All right. Well, at least we had that much luck."

"In training, they told us to take the hibernation pills and wait for rescue. They should be around here somewhere...." He felt around below the seat. "Ah, here they are."

"But no one's coming to rescue us," said the old man.

"It's not something to get our hopes up for," agreed the young man. "Without radio, trying to find us out here would be like trying to chase a fish in the sea."

"So it would. So I'm in no big hurry to get to sleep that I won't ever wake up from. How about poker? I brought my money."

The young man laughed. "Good one. You're probably the first person ever to think of poker after surviving a meteor crash. 'fraid I don't know how to play, though."

"Ahh, what good are ya... well, I'm going to have a drink. Wouldn't want what's left of this stuff to go to waste."

The old man fished a bottle out of his baggage, and had a sip. Meanwhile, the young man took out a small typewriter, fed some paper in, and began to type.

"Whatcha writing?" asked the old man curiously.

"I just remembered that we have a little rocket for emergency communication. I'm going to send a message to Earth."

"I know about the comm rocket, but it won't do any good. It'll take three days to get to Earth, and even if they send someone right away, it'll take 'em another three days to get here. And all that time we'll be drifting even farther off course, in we don't even know what direction. They wouldn't find us."

"I agree. This isn't a distress call; it's a will. If you want to leave a message for anyone, I'll put it in for you," said the young man as he continued to type.

"Nope, I don't have any relatives. But I'm curious about your will. If you don't have any objection, can I see it? Who are you sending it to?"

"Parents. There; it's done. Have a look." He handed the paper to the old man.

Dear Mom and Dad,
My rocket has been hit by a meteor. It doesn't look like anyone is going to rescue us. I wish I could see you one more time. But please don't be too sad. I've wanted to go into space since I was a kid, and I made it. Even if I die out here, I'm satisfied. Take care. I love you. Goodbye.

The old man finished reading the letter and handed it back. He watched the young man as he opened the comm rocket and put the letter in.

"You're going to send it like that?"

"Yes, why?"

"You didn't sign your name."

"Better this way, I think."

"How come?" asked the old man with a doubtful expression.

"Lots of young people have died in space accidents," the pilot began.

"Well, yeah, of course they have. My friends, colleagues, subordinates — most of them died in space. What does that have to do with it?"

"I bet their parents haven't quit wondering what happened to their sons. When they look up on a clear night, they probably say, you know, 'Did he think of us at the end?' So this comm rocket is for them. Maybe it'll comfort them all a little bit. There's no point in signing a name."

"I see..." The old man nodded slowly. "It's a good idea, but what about your parents? Don't you think they'd rather know for sure that it was from their son?"

"No, it's all right," the young man laughed.

"It's not all right! Think of it from their point of view. You can't just leave them like that!"

"Really, it's all right — you see, I'm an orphan."

The old man shut up for a moment, then burst out laughing himself.

"Got me yet again, didn't ya! That was the best joke yet. Here, let me help."

"All right, what do you want to add?"

"Add this: 'P.S.: I am including the money I saved from my salary.'"

They put the nameless will and the old man's money into the comm rocket and launched it toward Earth. Through the window, they watched the rocket's tail of light. "I hope it gets there all right."

The tail of light receded toward the small blue Earth, finally disappearing from view. The old man looked at the empty bottle in his hand.

"Well, there's nothing left to drink, and it doesn't look like any more good jokes are on the way. Might as well take the hibernation pills."

They got back in their seats and swallowed their hibernation pills. The young man flipped a switch on the control panel; the cabin lights went out, and the temperature began to drop.

"Ah, I'm gettin' sleepy. You know, I've come to think of you a bit like a son," the old man muttered in the starlit dimness.

"And I've come to think of you like... nah, enough jokes. You don't know how you'd think of a son, and I don't know how I'd think of a father."

Then, as if out of nowhere, they spoke in unison:

"Goodbye."