Captain Bahadur Torrance received the news as befitted a Lodgemaster in the Federated Brotherhood of Spacemen.
He heard it out, interrupting only with a few knowledge-able questions. At the end, he said calmly, “Well done, Freeman Yamamura. Please keep this to yourself till further notice. I’ll think about what’s to be done. Carry on.
But when the engineer officer had left the cabin-the news had not been the sort you tell on the intercom-he poured himself a triple whiskey, sat down, and stared emptily at the viewscreen.
He had traveled far, seen much, and been well rewarded.
However, promotion being swift in his difficult line of work, he was still too young not to feel cold at hearing his death sentence.
The screen showed such a multitude of stars, hard and winter-brilliant, that only an astronaut could recognize individuals. Torrance sought past the Milky Way until he identified Polaris. Then Valhalla would lie so-and-so many degrees away, in that direction. Not that he could see a type-G sun at this distance, without optical instruments more powerful than any aboard the Hebe G.B.
But he found a certain comfort in knowing his eyes were sighted toward the nearest League base (houses, ships, humans, nestled in a green valley on Freya) in this almost uncharted section of our galactic arm. Especially when he didn’t expect to land there, ever again.
