A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a man in the full vigor of youth do--if his heart cries out for a home?
en slid out of their seats, and a hand clamped his shoulder. "Come on, Broken Wing, let's go back to bed."
"My name's Hogey," he said. "Big Hogey Parker. I was just kidding about being a Indian."
"Yeah. Come on, let's go have a drink." They got him on his feet, and led him stumbling back down the aisle.
"My ma was half Cherokee, see? That's how come I said it. You wanta hear a war whoop? Real stuff."
He cupped his hands to his mouth and favored them with a blood-curdling proof of his ancestry, while the female passengers stirred restlessly and hunched in their seats. The driver stopped the bus and went back to warn him against any further display. The driver flashed a deputy's badge and threatened to turn him over to a constable.
"I gotta get home," Big Hogey told him. "I got me a son now, that's why. You know? A little baby pigeon of a son. Haven't seen him yet."
"Will you just sit still and be quiet then, eh?"
What a load of garbage. If you like sad, emotional, in-your-head stories with no plot and no real science fiction, this one's for you. Otherwise, consider it a waste of time.
A very early Walter Miller story, a little heavy on the symbolism of Hogey's final predicament, but like all his stuff character-driven. The story of an drunk ex-spaceman on his way home for the last time.
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