hree years had gone by since he last had been aboard a spaceship, and
that had been the _Valhalla_. His childhood and adolescence now seemed
like a hazy dream to him, far in the back of his mind. The _Valhalla_,
with his father and Steve and all the friends of his youth aboard, was
three years out from Earth--with seven years yet to go before it reached
Procyon, its destination.

Of course, the Crew had experienced only about four weeks, thanks to the
Fitzgerald Contraction. To the _Valhalla_ people only a month had passed
since Alan had left them, while he had gone through three years.

He had grown up, in those three years. He knew where he was heading,
now, and nothing frightened him. He understood people. And he had one
great goal which was coming closer and closer with each passing month.

Blastoff day was the fifth of September, 3879. The orbit Alan finally
settled on was a six-day trip at low acceleration across the
40,000,000-odd miles that separated Earth from Venus.

At the spaceport he handed in his flight ticket for approval, placed a
copy of his intended orbit on file with Central Routing Registration,
and got his field clearance.

The ground crew had already been notified that Alan's ship was blasting
off that day, and they were busy now putting her in final departure
condition. There were some expressions of shock as Alan displayed his
credentials to the ground chief and climbed upward into the control
chamber of the ship he had named the _James Hudson Cavour_, but no one
dared question him.

His eyes caressed the gleaming furnishings of the control panel. He
checked with the central tower, was told how long till his blastoff
clearance, and rapidly surveyed the fuel meters, the steering-jet
response valves, the automatic pilot. He worked out a tape with his
orbit on it. Now he inserted it into the receiving tray of the autopilot
and tripped a lever. The tape slid into the computer, clicking softly
and emitting a pleasant hum.

"Eight minutes to blastoff," came the warning.

Never had eight minutes passed so slowly. Alan snapped on his viewscreen
and looked down at the field; the ground crew men were busily clearing
the area as blastoff time approached.

"One minute to blastoff, Pilot Donnell." Then the count-down began,
second by second.

At the ten-seconds-to-go announcement, Alan activated the autopilot and
nudged the button that transformed his seat into a protective
acceleration cradle. Hi