Andre Norton (ed) by Space Pioneers

against him.
    "Hold tight, Honey!" he whispered
as he closed his eyes against the lights in the tractor. T . . . I'm a little
tired."

UST-RED deserts cover the long-dead planet of Mars. Here civilization once might have ruled, but it has long since vanished. However, there are native sons of Terra who have not altogether lost contact with that life of wilderness and raw nature which first molded Mankind. Joe Whiteskunk, Indian, in his own way met the challenge of Mars—and won.

     
    RAYMOND Z. GALLUN
     
    My twin brother Frank and I were just back on
the ranch from college. Dad was dead, leaving us free. Magazines were full of
diagrams of space-ships and living quarters for other worlds. There was recruiting
ballyhoo on the television. At night we could sometimes see the fire-trails of
rockets, outward bound from nearby White Sands, New Mexico. It became like
drums beating in our blood.
    "They need lots of young engineers like
us, Dave," Frank said to me. He was leaning against the corner of the
house. It was evening. "On the moon now—then gosh knows where."
    "Sure,"
I answered, feeling both excited and sad. "The only question is , what do we do with Joe?"
    Just then Joe Whiteskunk was fixing a fence
not a hundred yards off. With the deliberation of a rivulet
washing away a mountain—as usual. Joe, who had come
from Oklahoma with our Dad long ago. Joe, who might
have made an oil-fortune if a slicker hadn't cheated him of his claim. Joe, who resembled gnarled mahogany. Sixty-five years old, he was, if a day. He
didn't know exactly himself.
    Frank
is no guy to beat around the bush. "Got to tell him what we mean to
do," he said.
    So we did. I began it with,
"Look, Joe . . ."

For awhile he didn't seem to have heard. He
just kept on working at that fence. But at last he said, "I go too."
    I
won't say that I was exactly surprised. I figured I knew Joe. Maybe he thought
the Moon was something like Texas or California.
    "You've got to know something special,
Joe," I said patiently. "Like Dave, here. He knows all about
air-conditioning."
    Joe's
face remained as deadpan as if he were a wooden Indian rather than a real one.
"I know plenty special," he answered after a moment. "Hunt—track—new place—good. Plenty game."
    Something
in the glint of his black eyes told me that he was way back in his youth.
    Frank
busted out laughing. So did I . But there was a faint
lump in my throat, made up of all my memories of Joe White-skunk. Teaching me
to ride and to shoot, not by long-winded explanations but by example—or perhaps
more by letting me be part of him. It's kind of hard to explain.
    So I
didn't want to say good-by to Joe. I knew that my brother didn't, either. We
wanted to postpone it as long as possible. Besides we were a little worried
about what might happen to him, left alone.
    Combine all this with a certain residual
kid-prankishness. We weren't above hazing Joe—letting his abysmal innocence
lead him on—in this case toward the inevitable moment when his own ignorance
must put a harmless and disgruntling end to his sudden urge to go where we
went.
    My
brother Frank winked at me—such a wink as one Katzen-jammer kid might give to
the other. "Sure, Joe," he said, sober as a judge, "you come
along with us. You hunt and track while we dig holes in all those
mountains."
    Joe seemed not even to
realize that he was being kidded.
    So the next morning we drove into White Sands
with him. There, in the offices of Unified Lunar Enterprizes, Frank and I knew
beforehand just about what we'd have to write of ourselves in the application
blanks they gave us. We had our specialties. My fine was minerals and mining.
    We were sure of ourselves. We were in step
with the exciting imperialistic rhythm that had seized the world. The outward thrusting, the adventure, the military significance,
the dangerous industries that could be developed on the Moon, far away from the
densely populated Earth.
    Yep,
to Frank and me they gave the glad