THE CASTAWAY By GEORGE DANZELL Who was this bearded castaway of space? Some said he was Jonah. Others thought him a long-lost, mad scientist. But Lieutenant Brait knew him by a name that was old when the world was young. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1940. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] There was an ad in the classified columns of this week's _Spaceways Weekly_. It asked for information concerning the whereabouts of one "Paul Moran, last known to have taken off from Long Island Spaceport for parts unlogged." Captain McNeally drew the notice to my attention. He said, "Look at this, Brait. Wasn't Moran the chap we picked up in the asteroids? It seems to me I remember--" "You should," I told him. "You see his name twice every shuttle, engraved on cold steel. And you can be thankful for that. But I don't think he'll answer this ad. I don't think they'll ever hear from him." "That," scoffed the Shipper, "is nonsense! Do you realize what this means, Brait? This ad was inserted by the Government Patent Office. There's a fortune waiting for Mr. Moran back on Earth, when he sees this--" "A fortune waiting," I said softly, "when and if he ever sees it. But I wonder, Skipper. I wonder." * * * * * We were about three thousand miles north, west and loft of Ceres when we first sighted him. I remember that well, because I was on the Bridge, and our Sparks, Toby Frisch, had just handed me a free clearance report from the space commander of that planetoid. I read it and chuckled. I said, "Sparks, this bit of transcription is a masterpiece. Nobody expects a radioman to be good-looking or have brains, but blue space above, man, your spelling and grammar--" "Leave my relatives," said Sparks stiffly, "out of this. Is the message O.Q. or ain't it?" "Yes," I told him, "with a light sprinkling of no. Sometimes I wish we had a good operator aboard the _Antigone_. Like one of those Donovan brothers, for instance." "Them guys!" sniffed Sparks. "Too wise for their britches, both of 'em. I'm a bug-pounder, not a joke-book. If it's smart cracks you want, why don't you buy an audio?" It was at this point that Lt. Russ Bartlett, First Mate of our ship, who had been shooting the azimuth through the perilens, turned and waved to me excitedly. "Brait, take a look! Quick! There's a man down below! On one of the minor asteroids!" I said, "A joke, Bartlett? You'd better check the alignment of that perilens. That's the Man in the Moon you see." Gunner McCoy, Bartlett's staunchest friend and admirer, looked up from the rotor port, wrinkled his leathery, space-toughed cheeks into a frown, and squirted mekel-juice at a distant gobboon. "Mebbe you better look, Mr. Brait," he said. "If Russ says there's a man there, then there's a man there."