 What isn't true about Charlie?
How can I tell you what it's like to be young and a man and to dream of reaching the stars? And yet, at the same time, to be filled with a terrible, gnawing fear—a fear locked in my mind during the day and bursting out like an evil jack-in-the-box at night. They're going to bring us the metals and minerals that we desperately need. They're going to find new land for our colonists, good rich land that will bear food and be a home for our children. And perhaps most important of all, they'll make other men think of the stars and look up at them and feel humility—for mankind needs humility." Just one, which I'd sent to Charlie Taggart. I remembered how, as a kid, I'd pestered him in the Long Island Spaceport, tagging after him like a puppy, and how he'd grown to like me until he became father, mother, and buddy all in one to me. They expect us to make a new kind of civilization and a better place out of Earth. He was his normal, boyish self again, walking lightly, his blond, curly-haired skull swaying as if in rhythm with some silent melody. Charlie scorned the skin-tight uniforms of the government service and wore a shiny black suit that was a relic of Everson's early-day Moon Patrol. You shook hands and said, softly: "It's a privilege to meet you, Charlie. Charlie gulped helplessly, and Mickey said: "Still going to spend the weekend with us, aren't you, Ben?" A moment later Mickey said, frowning, "What was he talking about, Ben? That's what most of you want, isn't it? Then your last words came back and jabbed me: "That's what Mickey used to want." Charlie was muttering under his breath, smoldering like a bomb about to reach critical mass. They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things, deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, "Only hit Mars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic. We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said: "Charlie is funny, isn't he? Charlie doesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. You kept looking at me until I had to ask: "What are you thinking, Laura?"
 he regretted the life he chose
 he was a great space traveler  he regretted the life he chose  he drugged himself to watch Ben graduate  he was sick with lung-rot