Come in Oneonta.
Calling Phil Mooney. Calling Phil Mooney. Come in, Phil. This is Oneonta Spaceport, relaying through the Interplanetary Broadcasting System. Come in, Phil.
“Phil Mooney, calling Oneonta. I’m getting you, Oneonta. Come in, Oneonta. Over.”
Okay, Phil. Now this is it. We should have had you two hours ago, but we’ll make out all right. Your velocity is a little too high. Give it six more units on your Kingston valves. Get that? Over.
“Got it. Six more units on the Kingstons. Over.”
All right now. Switch on your remote control, Phil. We’ll take it from here. Stand by the coordinators. …
It was night, but a blaze of lights illuminated the Oneonta Spaceport. Hundreds of landcars stood on the parking lots, thousands of persons crowded the wire fence which kept all but port personnel from the field itself.
The old space-freighter sank easily to the apron and in seconds the rocket flames died. A surge of humanity ebbed over the field toward the craft.
Phil Mooney opened the pilot-compartment’s hatch and stuck his head out, blinking in surprise at the mob beneath him.
“I don’t know what this is all about,” he began, “but I’ve got a sick kid aboard. There’s supposed to be an ambulance. …”
Police wedged through the crowd, convoying a white-haired, white-jacketed man. He called up to the space-pilot, “We won’t need an ambulance, Mr. Mooney. I’ve already made arrangements for facilities here at the airport for immediate treatment.”
Phil Mooney made his way to the ground and scowled, still obviously startled by the swelling crowd.
“Who in kert are you?” he asked.
The other motioned for two assistants to enter the ship and bring out the child. “I’m Doctor Kern,” he said. “I’ll see. …”
“Doctor Adrian Kern, the radiation expert?” The pilot frowned worriedly. “See here, doctor, the Marshalls were friends of mine, and I’ve taken over the care of little Lillian, but I’m—well, I’m afraid I couldn’t afford to pay you … I mean. …”
The famous doctor smiled at him. “I’ve been retained by the Interplanetary Golden Heart, Phil. You needn’t worry about my fee. Besides,” and he smiled easily, “I’m not going to accept any fee for this case. You see, I was listening to Marsha Malloy singing ‘Love of White Roses’ when your call came through. I believe it was the most poignant experience I have ever been through.”
A girl next to the doctor gushed, “I’m Bunny Davis, Mr. Mooney. The managing editor of our newspaper chain has authorized me to buy your story for five thousand. If you’ll just—”
Phil Mooney blinked. “I—I—”
A heavyset man in a business suit grasped his hand and shook it with fervor, while flashbulbs went off blindingly. “Phil,” he said huskily, as though moved by deep emotion, “as president of the board of directors of Terra-Luna Spaceways, I wish to take this opportunity to offer you a full—”
“Hey! Give us a smile, Phil,” a man on top of a television truck yelled. …
He was headed back for Luna the next day.
They’d been indignant, of course. There was Hollywood, and the television networks, and that Terra-Luna Spaceways guy who wanted to get in on all the publicity by offering him a vice-presidency. And the newspaper editors, and the magazine editors, and all the rest of them.
Approximately a billion persons had been tuned in to the Interplanetary network when the emergency landing instructions had been broadcast to him through that system. A billion persons had sat on the edge of their chairs, tensely, as his ship had been brought in.
He and little Lillian had received more publicity in the past twenty-four hours than anyone since Lindbergh.
And the child would be all right now. Before he’d left, checks totaling over a quarter of a million had come in for her. Donations from all over the Earth and from Mars and Venus and even some from the Jupiter satellites.
And offers of adoption. Thousands of them, from rich and poor—even including Marsha Malloy, the video star who’d been singing that song, “Love of White Roses.”
Yes, Lillian would be all right. He wouldn’t have been able to pay for the medical care she’d needed; but now she had the most capable experts on Earth at her disposal.
They had been indignant when he blasted off again for Luna. They’d wanted to make a hero of him. This leaving on his part they interpreted as modesty—which, come to think of it, would make him all the more of a hero.
Phil Mooney slipped a hand down to his set and flicked it on. He dialed over a dozen different stations. The news programs were all full of him and of Lillian. You’d think, to hear them, that he was the noblest, the most daring, the greatest man since Alexander the Great.
He grinned wryly. One of the reasons he’d been so anxious to leave was to get away before somebody thought to check his set to see what was wrong with it. Why, if anybody had found that it was actually in perfect shape, they’d probably have lynched him.
Yeah. The colonel had been right. In the space-forces you learned to be self-reliant. When you got in a bad spot, you figured it out yourself. You’re on your own; it’s you against everything and everybody. Anything goes.
His grin broadened. Maybe he wasn’t a hero—the way they were all painting him; but at least Lillian was all right now, and no longer penniless the way her parents’ death had left her.
—And he wasn’t doing so badly himself.
This section of New Sante Fe was off my beaten track. I’ve been on Mars a long time and am more than usually familiar with the various centers where we Terrans do our congregating. However, it’d been years since I’d come through here.
I was sitting
