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He wanted to look at his wife again. To do so, he went to the edge of the galaxy. But it wasn't his fault that she was jealous of his ... Seeing Eye By A. BERTRAM CHANDLER ILLUSTRATOR BERNICLAU HE DID not need the Skipper's voice, blaring through the speaker on the bulkhead of his cabin, to tell him what was happening. He knew it all so well; the slow descent through the atmosphere, the controlled slide down the long, telescoping column of incandescent gases, the occasional brief bursts from the steering jets to correct pitch and yaw. He could hear it all, could feel it all—the thunder of the rockets, the high whine of the gyroscopes, the sobbing of the pumps. He could hear it all and could feel it all; in his mind's eye he could see it all—the great, gleaming needle that was the ship, the huddle of buildings in the desert, directly beneath her, that was the spaceport, the officers at their stations in control room and engine room, the passengers in their cabins, strapped in their acceleration couches. Abruptly, the bellowing voice of the rockets was stilled and, less than a second later, there was the slight jar of landing. The ship rocked slightly, her structure complaining as the three vanes that were also her landing gear took the weight of her. "You may leave your couches," said the voice from the speaker. "You may leave your couches. The vessel is now berthed at Port Woomera. Passengers will muster in the Main Lounge, to pass Immigration and Customs, in ten minutes." Home is the spaceman, he thought, home from the stars. But I'm
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