I Bring Fresh Flowers

                          By ROBERT F. YOUNG

            _A touching tale of an Astronette--and why the
          gentle rain from Heaven has the quality of mercy._

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                    Amazing Stories February 1964.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


You know Rosemary Brooks. You have known her for many years.

It is said that when she was a little girl her favorite poem was
_Barbara Frietchie_, and it is told how she would sometimes poke her
pretty head out of her bedroom window, survey the suburban street with
her blue-sky eyes, and cry, "_Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
but spare your country's flag!_"

Yes, you know Rosemary. You know her very well.

Like all little girls, Rosemary grew up. But Rosemary did not change.
This is not to say that she did not turn into an attractive young lady.
She turned into a most attractive one indeed. Fragilely beautiful, airy
of tread, she should have been the reigning rose of every dance she
went to, but she was not. Rarely did the young men of her acquaintance
ask her to dance, and never did one of them approach her and say,
"Come into the garden, Rosemary, for the black bat, night, has flown."
She did not go to very many dances in any event, and looking back, one
realizes that the few she did attend, she attended primarily to please
her mother. The reason behind Rosemary's wallflowerhood is simple: the
young men of her acquaintance knew that with her, God and the United
States of America came first, and that accompanying her through life,
or even accompanying her home from a dance for that matter, meant being
relegated to a back seat. It is alright for little girls to be Barbara
Frietchies, you see, but not for big ones.

During her short and dedicated life, Rosemary poked her pretty head
out of quite a number of windows. After the Barbara Frietchie window
came the Girl Scouts of America window, and after the Girl Scouts of
America window came the Young Peoples' Civil War Society window, and
after the Young Peoples' Civil War Society window came the Citizens for
Patriotic Progress window. Last of all came the Astronette Training
Center window.

       *       *       *       *       *

Set up by Project Rain Dance in 1969 after prejudice against women
going into space had abated, the Astronette Training Center had for
its purpose the finding, training, and conditioning of six female
pilots for a series of six manned weather-control satellite shots, the
first of which was scheduled to take place some time in February of
'71. After exhaustive screening, one hundred volunteers were accepted.
Fifteen of them passed the exacting physical and psychological tests,
and from the ranks of the fifteen, the six astronettes were chosen.
Incredibly, when one considers her delicateness (and fails to consider
her patriotic fervor), Rosemary not only made the grade but was
selected to accompany the first weather-control satellite to be placed
in orbit.

All of this is history now--faded words on newsprint, old photographs,
a dozen dusty articles in as many magazines--but at the time, it
captured the attention of the whole wide world. It is said that
Madison Avenue nearly went out of its mind trying to circumvent the
regulation that prohibited astronettes from underwriting testimonials
to toothpaste, cosmetics, and cigarettes. This is not to be wondered
at. If Rosemary could have been legally enticed, for example, into
letting her picture appear in a cigarette ad, cigarette consumption
probably would have doubled overnight. It is one thing to be an
obscure Barbara Frietchie and quite another to be a famous one, and
the patriotic devotion shining in a person's eyes can, through the
thaumaturgy of photography and touch-up, be transmuted into a sensual
gleam.

February of '71 arrived at last, as all months must, and a specific
date was set for the launching. Psychological winter had come and gone,
but no singing of birds could be heard. Even as far south as Canaveral,
gray skies were the rule, and gray rain fell intermittently. Countdown
was begun regardless. And then, miraculously it seemed, the skies
cleared, and the day of the launching dawned bright and clear. There
is a photograph of Rosemary standing in her snow-white spacesuit at
the base of the gantry, her space helmet resting in the crook of her
arm. The photograph is in color, and the blueness of her eyes is not
one whit different in shade and texture from the blueness of the sky
behind her. This is as it should be. Looking at her hair, one thinks
of sunrises and sunsets. This is as it should be too. When remembering
Rosemary, it is fitting that one should think of the sun and the sky.
It is equally fitting that one should think of the snow and the rain.
For Rosemary is nothing if she is not all of these things.

       *       *       *       *       *

The launching was a good one. The _Rainbow 6_ rode its Saturn booster
like a bird on jet-fire wings, and the bright star of its passage
seemed to linger in the morning sky long after the booster had
fallen away. The television cameras caught the action beautifully,
and the American public, reminded once again that the noblest thing
a person can do is to risk his life for his country, looked on in
awe and admiration. The orbit was a good one too: apogee--203 miles;
perigee--191 miles. Rosemary radioed back that she was A-okay.

She was supposed to complete three orbits, then climb into the escape
capsule, jettison it and herself, re-enter the atmosphere, and
parachute into the Atlantic. There, a task force waited eagerly to pick
her up. Her mission was to orientate the satellite's weather-factor
instruments to the existent cloud patterns and jet streams. Once this
was accomplished, the telemetric readings would, through the medium of
the Main Weather Control Station in Oregon, dictate future weather.
Weather control had been in effect since the middle sixties, but the
telemetric readings of the unmanned weather-control satellites, owing
to faulty orientation, had fallen far short of the one-hundred percent
accuracy needed to make the regulation of rain and sunshine something
more than a half-realized dream, and it was hoped that the present
satellite, given a human boost, would bring the dream to fruition.

One can picture Rosemary high in the sky, faithfully carrying out her
assignment. One can see her sitting there before the instrument panel
of the _Rainbow 6_ looking at dawns and sunsets and stars. One can
see the slow drift of cloud and continent beneath her. Australia now,
and now the vast blueness of the Pacific ... and now the west coast
rising out of mists of distances and air, and beyond it, the vast green
blur of the land that gave her birth. Little Barbara Frietchie riding
on a star.... Far beneath her now, highways wind; rivers run down to
seas. Patternings of field and forest blend into pale blue-greens.
Fresh-water lakes look up at her with blue and wondering eyes. Now the
sea of night drifts forth to meet her. Bravely she sets sail upon the
dark waves in her little silvery ship. Brief night, soft sunrise, new
day.

    _I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
    From the seas and the streams;
    I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
    In their noonday dreams._

Little Barbara Frietchie riding on a star....

Jettisoning took place exactly on schedule. The weather-control
satellite continued on its orbital way, and Rosemary plummeted
earthward in the escape capsule. That much, at least, is known. But
what took place during re-entry--whether the retro rockets failed to
fire, whether the attitude controls malfunctioned, or whether the heat
shield proved to be defective--is not known and never will be known.
All that is known is that Rosemary became a falling star.

The nation mourned. The whole wide world mourned. Project Rain Dance
was discontinued. It would have been discontinued in any event, for
Rosemary had obviated any further need for it. She had done her job
well, Rosemary had, and in the doing of it, she had placed the weather
in the palm of mankind's out-stretched hand.

       *       *       *       *       *

That spring, the rains were soft and warm and the flowers grew
riotously upon the face of the earth. Grass knew a greenness it had
never known before, and trees dressed each day in lovelier and lovelier
dresses. The rains fell in the cities and on the plains. In valleys and
in little towns. On fields and forests and lawns. And when the land had
drunk its fill, the sun came out as warm and as bright as Rosemary's
hair, and the sky turned as blue as her eyes.

Yes, you know Rosemary, and you are in love with her in a way. If you
are not, you should be. She is the sun coming up in the morning and
the sun going down at night. She is the gentle rain against your face
in spring. She is the snow falling on Christmas Eve. She is every
glorious rainbow you see in the rain-washed sky. She is that pattern
of tree-shade over there. Each morning, when you are lying fast asleep
in your trundle bed, she tiptoes into your room, her golden sandals
soundless on the bedroom floor, and wakes you with a golden kiss.
Sunlight is her laughter, her voice the patter of the rain--Soft you
now!--she speaks:

    _I am the daughter of the earth and water,
    And the nursling of the sky;
    I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
    I change, but I cannot die...._