THE CASTAWAY
By GEORGE DANZELL
Who was this bearded castaway of space?
Some said he was Jonah. Others thought
him a long-lost, mad scientist. But
Lieutenant Brait knew him by a name
that was old when the world was young.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1940.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
There was an ad in the classified columns of this week's SpacewaysWeekly. It asked for information concerning the whereabouts of one"Paul Moran, last known to have taken off from Long Island Spaceportfor parts unlogged." Captain McNeally drew the notice to my attention.He said, "Look at this, Brait. Wasn't Moran the chap we picked up inthe asteroids? It seems to me I remember—"
"You should," I told him. "You see his name twice every shuttle,engraved on cold steel. And you can be thankful for that. But I don'tthink he'll answer this ad. I don't think they'll ever hear from him."
"That," scoffed the Shipper, "is nonsense! Do you realize what thismeans, Brait? This ad was inserted by the Government Patent Office.There's a fortune waiting for Mr. Moran back on Earth, when he seesthis—"
"A fortune waiting," I said softly, "when and if he ever sees it. But Iwonder, Skipper. I wonder."
We were about three thousand miles north, west and loft of Cereswhen we first sighted him. I remember that well, because I was onthe Bridge, and our Sparks, Toby Frisch, had just handed me a freeclearance report from the space commander of that planetoid.
I read it and chuckled. I said, "Sparks, this bit of transcription isa masterpiece. Nobody expects a radioman to be good-looking or havebrains, but blue space above, man, your spelling and grammar—"
"Leave my relatives," said Sparks stiffly, "out of this. Is the messageO.Q. or ain't it?"
"Yes," I told him, "with a light sprinkling of no. Sometimes I wish wehad a good operator aboard the Antigone. Like one of those Donovanbrothers, for instance."
"Them guys!" sniffed Sparks. "Too wise for their britches, both of 'em.I'm a bug-pounder, not a joke-book. If it's smart cracks you want, whydon't you buy an audio?"
It was at this point that Lt. Russ Bartlett, First Mate of our ship,who had been shooting the azimuth through the perilens, turned andwaved to me excitedly.
"Brait, take a look! Quick! There's a man down below! On one of theminor asteroids!"
I said, "A joke, Bartlett? You'd better check the alignment of thatperilens. That's the Man in the Moon you see."
Gunner McCoy, Bartlett's staunchest friend and admirer, looked up fromthe rotor port, wrinkled his leathery, space-toughed cheeks into afrown, and squirted mekel-juice at a distant gobboon.
"Mebbe you better look, Mr. Brait," he said. "If Russ says there's aman there, then there's a man there."
So I looked. And to look was to act. I cut in my intercommunicatingunit and bawled a stop hypo order to Chief Lester in the engine roombelow. Bartlett was right. There was a single, bulger-clad figuresprawled on the craggy rock of a tiny asteroid hurtling beneath us. Aman who lay there quietly, did not rise, did not wave, gave no sign ofnoticing our approach even when I dropped the Antigone down towardthe spatial island.
Bartlett, peering through the duplicate lens, said, "Dead, Brait. Hemust have cracked up. He's not moving."
But there was no wrecked spaceship anywhere around. I said, "We'll