square slid away, revealing a lighted wallsafe filled with leatherbound scrapbooks and an assortment of personal treasures. He selected two volumes and an old-style pen, went with them to the couch.
Sidney sat down pensively, stacked both volumes on the coffee table and opened the cover of the top one slowly. A handwritten title had been scrawled across the yellowing first page in large, childish script:
MY PILOT LOG, VOLUME ONE
Property of Captain Sidney Malloy American Federation Space Patrol
He turned the page, read his fantasy: “I joined the Space Patrol as a lad often, assuming the duties of cabin boy on the Star Class Destroyer AFSP Nathan Rogers. Within six months, my leadership abilities became so apparent that I was promoted to Captain and given command of the ship.”
He looked away, smiling as he thought, Did I really write this?
Sidney continued reading: “My first assignment: seek and recapture the escaped arch-criminal Jed Laredo. Laredo is wanted for detonating a powerful ice bomb following his escape from the asteroid colony at LaGrange Six. Twelve-thousand inhabitants perished in the explosion. He is believed to be hiding near an abandoned mining base at Agarratown on the Celtian planet of Redondo. . . . ”
He flipped the ensuing pilot log pages, read the successful and heroic conclusion of his fantasy mission. Other fantasies followed, entered meticulously beside blueprints and specifications on a variety of spacecraft.
In one sense, the space scrapbooks seemed childish to him now, but still he felt the longings he had experienced as a youth. The exploits were not real . . . he had always known this . . . but the adventures contained a spirit of hope . . . a certain innocence and naiveté concerning his future. This morning, as he prepared to write about his confused ego pleasure dream of the prior evening, Sidney still had hope . . . but it was not so bright and untarnished as it once had been.
He sighed, placed Volume One to one side and opened the next scrapbook, his fourteenth. Flipping to a blank page, he began writing: “While patrolling the Signus XX-4 Quadrant in the Summer of 2605, I received urgent word . . .”
How can I get this down? he wondered, rubbing the pen thoughtfully against his lower lip. Those strange, maddening voices. . . .
Interrupted by the doorchime, Sidney mentoed his new singing wrist digital. A sultry female voice sang to him cheerfully in a sing-song tone: “A.M., ten-forty-one-point-three-four.”
Wonder who’s there? he thought, welcoming the interruption. He replaced the volumes in the wallsafe and reseated the panel.
As Sidney opened the hall door, Bob Hodges, his tall and thickly-muscled downstairs neighbor, rolled in without an invitation. “Hi Sid,” he said cheerily. “How ya doin’?” Hodges was puppy-friendly, thoughtless but well-meaning.
Sidney regrouped his thoughts and returned the greeting. Then he led the way down a woodgrain linoleum hallway to the living room module.
“How about a little video?” Hodges asked, seeing the videodome as they entered the room.
Sidney grunted in affirmation, rolled directly into the videodome without another thought and sat in his favorite bucket seat, one of four inside. He sank into the videodome chair, consumed by the billowing softness of authentic Corinthian vinyl. Mentoing a channel selector to the left of his seat, Sidney watched a green button on the selector depress.
“Have to make sure you watch enough home video,” Hodges said, laughing. “Hear you had a recent visit from those folks at the Anti-Cheapness League.”
Sidney heard the videodome door slide shut. An overhead light dimmed. “It was nothing,” he answered matter-of-factly. ‘They were investigating a faulty videodome report. Someone did a line test seconds after one of my dome circuits blew. With no repair order in on my set, they were concerned that it might have been down for several days.”
“Oh,” Hodges said.
Sidney sat down pensively, stacked both volumes on the coffee table and opened the cover of the top one slowly. A handwritten title had been scrawled across the yellowing first page in large, childish script:
MY PILOT LOG, VOLUME ONE
Property of Captain Sidney Malloy American Federation Space Patrol
He turned the page, read his fantasy: “I joined the Space Patrol as a lad often, assuming the duties of cabin boy on the Star Class Destroyer AFSP Nathan Rogers. Within six months, my leadership abilities became so apparent that I was promoted to Captain and given command of the ship.”
He looked away, smiling as he thought, Did I really write this?
Sidney continued reading: “My first assignment: seek and recapture the escaped arch-criminal Jed Laredo. Laredo is wanted for detonating a powerful ice bomb following his escape from the asteroid colony at LaGrange Six. Twelve-thousand inhabitants perished in the explosion. He is believed to be hiding near an abandoned mining base at Agarratown on the Celtian planet of Redondo. . . . ”
He flipped the ensuing pilot log pages, read the successful and heroic conclusion of his fantasy mission. Other fantasies followed, entered meticulously beside blueprints and specifications on a variety of spacecraft.
In one sense, the space scrapbooks seemed childish to him now, but still he felt the longings he had experienced as a youth. The exploits were not real . . . he had always known this . . . but the adventures contained a spirit of hope . . . a certain innocence and naiveté concerning his future. This morning, as he prepared to write about his confused ego pleasure dream of the prior evening, Sidney still had hope . . . but it was not so bright and untarnished as it once had been.
He sighed, placed Volume One to one side and opened the next scrapbook, his fourteenth. Flipping to a blank page, he began writing: “While patrolling the Signus XX-4 Quadrant in the Summer of 2605, I received urgent word . . .”
How can I get this down? he wondered, rubbing the pen thoughtfully against his lower lip. Those strange, maddening voices. . . .
Interrupted by the doorchime, Sidney mentoed his new singing wrist digital. A sultry female voice sang to him cheerfully in a sing-song tone: “A.M., ten-forty-one-point-three-four.”
Wonder who’s there? he thought, welcoming the interruption. He replaced the volumes in the wallsafe and reseated the panel.
As Sidney opened the hall door, Bob Hodges, his tall and thickly-muscled downstairs neighbor, rolled in without an invitation. “Hi Sid,” he said cheerily. “How ya doin’?” Hodges was puppy-friendly, thoughtless but well-meaning.
Sidney regrouped his thoughts and returned the greeting. Then he led the way down a woodgrain linoleum hallway to the living room module.
“How about a little video?” Hodges asked, seeing the videodome as they entered the room.
Sidney grunted in affirmation, rolled directly into the videodome without another thought and sat in his favorite bucket seat, one of four inside. He sank into the videodome chair, consumed by the billowing softness of authentic Corinthian vinyl. Mentoing a channel selector to the left of his seat, Sidney watched a green button on the selector depress.
“Have to make sure you watch enough home video,” Hodges said, laughing. “Hear you had a recent visit from those folks at the Anti-Cheapness League.”
Sidney heard the videodome door slide shut. An overhead light dimmed. “It was nothing,” he answered matter-of-factly. ‘They were investigating a faulty videodome report. Someone did a line test seconds after one of my dome circuits blew. With no repair order in on my set, they were concerned that it might have been down for several days.”
“Oh,” Hodges said.
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