Graveyard of Dreams
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Reviews for Graveyard of Dreams
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- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Short classic scifi with outdated and laughable technological concepts but still manages to pack a wallop with its understanding of human nature and economics.
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Graveyard of Dreams - H. Beam Piper
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Graveyard of Dreams, by Henry Beam Piper
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
Title: Graveyard of Dreams
Author: Henry Beam Piper
Release Date: April 3, 2006 [EBook #18109]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRAVEYARD OF DREAMS ***
Produced by Greg Weeks, Tom Owens, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine February 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the copyright on this publication was renewed.
Graveyard
of Dreams
By H. Beam Piper
Despite Mr. Shakespeare,
wealth and name are both dross compared with
the theft of hope--
and Maxwell had to rob
a whole planet of it!
Standing at the armor-glass front of the observation deck and watching the mountains rise and grow on the horizon, Conn Maxwell gripped the metal hand-rail with painful intensity, as though trying to hold back the airship by force. Thirty minutes--twenty-six and a fraction of the Terran minutes he had become accustomed to--until he'd have to face it.
Then, realizing that he never, in his own thoughts, addressed himself as sir,
he turned.
I beg your pardon?
It was the first officer, wearing a Terran Federation Space Navy uniform of forty years, or about ten regulation-changes, ago. That was the sort of thing he had taken for granted before he had gone away. Now he was noticing it everywhere.
Thirty minutes out of Litchfield, sir,
the ship's officer repeated. You'll go off by the midship gangway on the starboard side.
Yes, I know. Thank you.
The first mate held out the clipboard he was carrying. Would you mind checking over this, Mr. Maxwell? Your baggage list.
Certainly.
He glanced at the slip of paper. Valises, eighteen and twenty-five kilos, two; trunks, seventy-five and seventy kilos, two; microbook case, one-fifty kilos, one. The last item fanned up a little flicker of anger in him, not at any person, even himself, but at the situation in which he found himself and the futility of the whole thing.
Yes, that's everything. I have no hand-luggage, just this stuff.
He noticed that this was the only baggage list under the clip; the other papers were all freight and express manifests. Not many passengers left aboard, are there?
You're the only one in first-class, sir,
the mate replied. About forty farm-laborers on the lower deck. Everybody else got off at the other stops. Litchfield's the end of the run. You know anything about the place?
I was born there. I've been away at school for the last five years.
On Baldur?
Terra. University of Montevideo.
Once Conn would have said it almost boastfully.
The mate gave him a quick look of surprised respect, then grinned and nodded. Of course; I should have known. You're Rodney Maxwell's son, aren't you? Your father's one of our regular freight shippers. Been sending out a lot of stuff lately.
He looked as though he would have liked to continue the conversation, but said: "Sorry, I've got to go. Lot of things to attend to