"Yeah, I have!" growled Astro. "I got one that'll make your life look
like a spaceman's dream. At least you _know_ about your father. And you
lived with your mother. I didn't have _anything--nothing_! Did you hear
that, Manning? I didn't even have a pair of shoes, until I found a kid
at the Venusport spaceport one day and figured his shoes would fit me. I
beat the space gas out of him and took his shoes. And then they were so
tight, they hurt my feet. I don't know who my father was, nothing about
him, except that he was a spaceman. A rocket buster, like me. And my
mother? She died when I was born. Since I can remember, I've been on my
own. When I was twelve, I was hanging around the spaceport day and
night. I learned to buck rockets by going aboard when the ships were
cradled for repairs, running dry runs, going through the motions, I
talked to spacemen--all who would listen to me. I lied about my age, and
because I was a big kid, I was blasting off when I was fifteen. What
little education I've got, I picked up listening to the crew talk on
long hops and listening to every audioslide I could get my hands on.
I've had it tough. And because I _have_ had it tough, I want to forget
about it. I don't want to be reminded what it's like to be so hungry
that I'd go out into jungles and trap small animals and take a chance on
meeting a tyrannosaurus.
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