Wanderlust by Alan E. Nourse

Somehow George Barlow had sensed that something was wrong the moment his son drove into the barnyard that evening. He had been waiting impatiently for Tad's return all afternoon; the men needed those tractor bolts before they could do the mowing. But George had felt the uneasiness, quite suddenly, deep in his chest when he heard the boy's three-wheeler chugging up the rutted country road from town.

He sat quietly, waiting, stroking old Snuffy behind the ears. He heard the little motor-car pop into silence as Tad drove it into the garage; then there was a long silence. George waited several minutes before running a hand through his tawny hair. "What's that boy doing out there, anyway?" he growled.

Florence Barlow glanced up through the kitchen window. "He's gone up on the ridge," she said. "He's just standing up there, looking down the valley." She turned back to the stove, pushing back an unruly whisp of graying hair.

George sat back in his chair, puffing his pipe, the uneasiness growing. Tad was usually back from town hours earlier. The oats had to be cut this week—the shipment of Venusian taaro was due from the next Rocket, and they had to have a field free for it. But still, he knew it was more than the tractor bolts that bothered him.

Then suddenly the door burst open and Tad was there, filling the room with his broad shoulders, whistling tunelessly to himself. A cool east breeze followed him in the door, and with it an aura of excitement. Tad's sunbaked hair was wild from the ride through the wind, his sharp eyes sparkling:

"Dad! The Rocket landed this afternoon. Out at Dillon's Landing. It's three weeks early this time!"