Christmas Tree BY JOHN CHRISTOPHER
The skipper cushioned us in nicely. I had my eyes on the dial the whole time and the needle never got above four and a half G’s. With a boat like the Arkland that was good; I’ve known a bad pilot to touch seven G’s on an Earth landing. All the same I didn’t feel so hot. Young Stenway was out of his cradle before the tremors had stopped. I lay still a moment while he stood over me, grinning:
“Break it up, Joe. Dreaming of a pension?”
I got up with a bounce and landed him a playful clip that rocked him back into his own cradle. There was normal gravity underneath us; the feeling of rightness you know in your bones and muscles no matter how long you’ve been away. It was good to feel myself tough still.
“So this is Washington. What day is it?” Stenway asked. “You revert to type quick, kid. How should I know what day it is? I’m only a visitor.”
He grinned, flushing a little, and went over to the multiple calendar. I saw him fingering it, his face screwed up.
. . .
