Mr. Meek--Musketeer By CLIFFORD D. SIMAK Adventure flamed in Mr. Meek's timorous heart, the surge of battle and singing blades. And so, with a rocket-ship for his steed and a ray-gun for his sword, he sallied forth ... carrying cavalier justice to the resentful shining stars. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Now that he'd done it, Oliver Meek found the thing he'd done hard to explain. Under the calm, inquiring eyes of Mr. Richard Belmont, president of Lunar Exports, Inc., he stammered a little before he could get started. "For years," he finally said, "I've been planning a trip...." "But, Oliver," said Belmont, "we would give you a leave of absence. You'll be back. There's no reason to resign." Oliver Meek shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable, a little guilty. "Maybe I won't be back," he declared. "You see, it isn't just an ordinary trip. It may take a long, long time. Something might happen. I'm going out to see the Solar System." Belmont laughed lightly, reared back in his chair, matching fingertips. "Oh, yes. One of the tours. Nothing dangerous about them. Nothing at all. You needn't worry about that. I went on one a couple of years ago. Mighty interesting...." "Not one of the tours," interrupted Meek. "Not for me. I have a ship of my own." Belmont thumped forward in his chair, looking almost startled. "A ship of your own!" "Yes, sir," Oliver admitted, squirming uncomfortably. "Over thirty years I've saved for it ... for it and the other things I'll need. It sort of got to be ... well, an obsession, you might say." "I see," said Belmont. "You planned it." "Yes, sir, I planned it." Which was a masterpiece of understatement. For Belmont could not know and Oliver Meek, stoop-shouldered, white-haired bookkeeper, could not tell of those thirty years of thrift and dreams. Thirty years of watching ships of the void taking off from the space port, just outside the window where he sat hunched over ledgers and calculators. Thirty years of catching scraps of talk from the men who ran those ships. Men and ships with the alien dust of far off planets still clinging to their skins. Ships with strange marks and scars upon them, and men with strange words upon their tongues. Thirty years of reducing high adventure to cold figures. Thirty years of recording strange cargoes and stranger tales into accounts. Thirty years of watching through a window while rockets, outbound, dug molten pits into the field. Thirty years of being on the edge, the very fringe of life ... but _never_ in it.