"Robert F. Young - Star Mother" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

noticed with a start. Some of them were blue and some were red, others were yellow . . . green ...
orange . . . .
It grew cold in the April garden, and she could see her breath. There was a strange crispness, a
strange clarity about the night, that she had never known before ... She glanced at her watch, was
astonished to see that the hands indicated two minutes after nine. Where had the time gone? Tremulously
she faced the southern horizon ... and saw her Terry appear in his shining chariot, riding up the
star-pebbled path of his orbit, a star in his own right, dropping swiftly now, down, down, and out of sight
beyond the dark wheeling mass of the Earth . . . She took a deep, proud breath, realized that she was
wildly waving her hand and let it fall slowly to her side. Make a wish! she thought, like a little girl, and she
wished him pleasant dreams and a safe return and wrapped the wish in all her love and cast it starward.
Sometime tomorrow, the general's telegram had said—
That meant sometime today!
She rose with the sun and fed the chickens, fixed and ate her breakfast, collected the eggs and put
them in their cardboard boxes, then started out on her Wednesday morning run. "My land, Martha, I
don't see how you stand it with him way up there! Doesn't it get on your nerves?" ("Yes ... Yes, it
does.") "Martha, when are they bringing him back down?" ("Today . . . Today!") "It must be wonderful
being a star mother, Martha." ("Yes, it is—in a way.")
Wonderful ... and terrible.
If only he can last it out for a few more hours, she thought. If only they can bring him down safe and
sound. Then the vigil will be over, and some other mother can take over the awesome responsibility of
having a son become a star
If only ...
The general's third telegram arrived that afternoon: Regret to inform you that meteorite impact on
satellite hull severely damaged capsule-detachment mechanism, making ejection impossible. Will
make every effort to find another means of accomplishing your son's return.
Terry!—
See the little boy playing beneath the maple tree, moving his tiny cars up and down the tiny streets of
his make-believe village; the little boy, his fuzz of hair gold in the sunlight, his cherub-cheeks pink in the
summer wind
Terry!—
Up the lane the blue-denimed young man walks, swinging his thin tanned arms, his long legs making
near-grownup strides over the sun-seared grass; the sky blue and bright behind him, the song of cicada
rising and falling in the hazy September air
Terry . . .
—probably won't get a chance to write you again before take-off, but don't worry, Ma. The
Explorer XII is the greatest bird they ever built. Nothing short of a direct meteorite hit can hurt it,
and the odds are a million to one ...
Why don't they leave the stars alone? Why don't they leave the stars to God?
The afternoon shadows lengthened on the lawn, and the sun grew red and swollen over the western
hills. Martha fixed supper, tried to eat, and couldn't. After awhile, when the light began to fade, she
slipped into Terry's jacket and went outside.
Slowly the sky darkened and the stars began to appear. At length her star appeared, but its swift
passage blurred before her eyes. Tires crunched on the gravel then, and headlights washed the darkness
from the drive. A car door slammed.
Martha did not move. Please God, she thought, let it be Terry, even though she knew that it
couldn't possibly be Terry. Footsteps sounded behind her, paused. Someone coughed softly. She turned
then
"Good evening, ma'am."
She saw the circlet of stars on the gray epaulet; she saw the stern handsome face; she saw the dark
tired eyes. And she knew. Even before he spoke again, she knew