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Edmond Hamilton argues that returning spacemen will experience similar trauma to that of war veterans. And just like we glamorize war in media, the dangers of space travel (both physical and mental) are sanitized by gaudy pulp adventures. The story succeeds as a complex analysis of the tales we tell each other to obfuscate traumatic experiences and give comfort to those suffering loss.
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The Second Mars mission, twenty rickety and cramped rockets, sets off to acquire cheap uranium. Suffering the internal organ-crushing terrors of takeoff, a rocket-splitting landing, Martian disease, isolation, and an abortive mutiny, Sergeant Frank Haddon returns a different man. Like a veteran from a foreign war, Haddon must confront not only his own experiences but also the grieving relatives of his dead companions, who see him as the last connection to their loved ones.
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Retired spacer Old Donegal (“Donny”) lies in his bed dying of cancer: his family “had all known it was coming, and they had watched it come” (7). In his rundown house with his long-suffering wife Martha at his side, he waits for the inevitable release with his magnasoles on his shriveled feet propped up on his bedframe.
Slice-of-Life Realities and The “Real” World Out There
“‘Did you like horror movies when you were a kid?’ asked the psych. And you’d damn well better answer ‘yes,’ if you want to go to space” (17).
In this future, space travel is a dangerous blue-collar occupation (Note 1). After the terror of blasting off dissipates, you spend your time crawling through “dirty mazes of greasy pipe and cable” with the “omniscient accident statistics” flitting through your head (16). Spacers spend the vast majority of the trip soaring “in ominous silence” drinking smuggled booze (17). And if you are one of those statistics and die in space, as happens with Donny’s son-in-law Oley, one’s spouse receives a mere pittance of financial remuneration.
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