A Time to Die

Heroes are not brave men; they are the fortunate victims of circumstance. They perform an act in life for which one usually pays with that life. But they do it with an unusual outcome. They do not die. So they are heroes. Captain Robert Kingsford returned alive from the first expedition to Aldebaran IX. He returned alone. He also commanded the second expedition. I was, or perhaps I should say, still am executive officer on this second expedition. If there is ever a third expedition here, Kingsford will not be the commander. This time he did not become a hero. He became a very stupid, very dead man.

I finished my fourth tour of duty in S Force about nine years ago. The third and fourth tours, as you know if you are familiar with S Force, were voluntary. Two is the limit they figure a man should spend in deep space on assigned duty. By the third, if he has not achieved a command, or rank at the least, he might be somewhat loathe to spend three years on a cruise not of his own choosing. After my fourth tour I sat for exams and got my captain's papers, so I signed on for a two-tour contract with an outfit operating Star Class Scouts out of Alpha Centauri X. By the end of this contract, I'd had it with space, and I settled down to a nice life of ease. You know, fishing and a house by the sea in the tropics, and a boat. That, of course, is where I made my mistake. You don't break the habits of over twenty years merely by putting some idle wishes into fulfillment. I reflect on it now because that idiotic notion about retirement is probably why I am here. That, and the determination of Captain Robert Kingsford to be a hero again, with remaining witnesses to bear him out.

I spend so much talk on myself at this point, incidentally, because I have lots of time in which to do this. Time to do anything I please, as if there was anything to do beside this. Except for the periods of hiding, of course. The hiding isn't bad, either. One gets used to it.

I've done this thing, this writing it all down, though it is on slates with a sharp stone as a stylus, about fifteen times. I've never found traces of the other times I've written it, and somehow I feel it should all be down. In the beginning, just to express one's thoughts, even in writing, was enough. After a while, however, you sort of want to talk with someone, even if there is no one to talk with. I guess I've told myself this thing about a hundred times, in addition to the writings. It's changed a bit with the tellings. Also, I've never quite finished it. So actually, I'm creating the epic saga of a race. A race of which I am the sole member, and with no heirs apparent.