A LONG WAY BACK By BEN BOVA ILLUSTRATED by SUMMERS _He held the future of the world in his numbed hands. And from 22,500 miles out, he made the gamble._ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Tom woke slowly, his mind groping back through the hypnosis. He found himself looking toward the observation port, staring at stars and blackness. _The first man in space_, he thought bitterly. He unstrapped himself from the acceleration seat, feeling a little wobbly in free fall. _The hypnotic trance idea worked, all right._ The last thing Tom remembered was Arnoldsson putting him under, here in the rocket's compartment, the old man's sad soft eyes and quiet voice. Now 22,500 miles out, Tom was alone except for what Arnoldsson had planted in his mind for post-hypnotic suggestion to recall. The hypnosis had helped him pull through the blastoff unhurt and even protected him against the vertigo of weightlessness. _Yeah, it's a wonderful world_, Tom muttered acidly. He got up from the seat cautiously, testing his coordination against zero gravity. His magnetic boots held to the deck satisfactorily. He was lean and wiry, in his early forties, with a sharp angular face and dark, somber eyes. His hair had gone dead white years ago. He was encased up to his neck in a semi-flexible space suit; they had squirmed him into it Earth-side because there was no room in the cramped cabin to put it on. Tom glanced at the tiers of instrument consoles surrounding his seat--no blinking red lights, everything operating normally. _As if I could do anything about it if they went wrong._ Then he leaned toward the observation port, straining for a glimpse of the satellite. The satellite. Five sealed packages floating within a three-hundred foot radius of emptiness, circling the Earth like a cluster of moonlets. Five pieces sent up in five robot rockets and placed in the same orbit, to wait for a human intelligence to assemble them into a power-beaming satellite. Five pieces orbiting Earth for almost eighteen years; waiting for nearly eighteen years while down below men blasted themselves and their cities and their machines into atoms and forgot the satellite endlessly circling, waiting for its creators to breathe life into it. _The hope of the world_, Tom thought. _And little Tommy Morris is supposed to make it work ... and then fly home again._ He pushed himself back into the seat. _Jason picked the wrong man._ * * * * * "Tom! Tom, can you hear me?" He turned away from the port and flicked a switch on the radio console. "Hello Ruth. I can hear you."