Harlan’s Pin of Home — At the rim of the great spiral, a brass pin ticked in Harlan’s pocket whenever home was near. Read the full story →
At the rim of the great spiral, a brass pin ticked in Harlan’s pocket whenever home was near. He pressed it to his star chart, wanting to mark one pale glow that had drifted beyond the safe lanes, past the blue dust ribbons and the soft hiss of comet crumbs.
He stepped out from his little lookout and crossed the star field. The cold nipped his ears. Once, a pebble of frozen light tore a corner from his chart, and Harlan had to trade his warm mitten to a dust crab for a strip of silver web. “Just until the next turn,” he whispered, though the dark smelled wide and empty as rain on stone.
At last the lost glow blinked beside a smoky cloud. Harlan lifted the brass pin, but it pointed not to the glow—it pointed back through the spiral, through every bright speck and ragged arm, to his own lookout waiting on the rim. He marked the glow with silver web instead and carried the pin home in his bare, chilly hand. Next time you trace the long galaxy arms, see if you can find the small place where Harlan knew he belonged, where the brass pin ticked whenever home was near.
