R is for Rocket (3 page)

    "Yes," I said.

    "Thinking?"

    A pause.

    "Yes."

    He said, "You're — You're not
waiting
any more, are you, Chris?"

    I knew what he meant. I couldn't answer.

    I said, "I'm awfully tired, Ralph."

    He twisted back and settled down and said, "That's what I thought. You're not
waiting
any more. Gosh, but that's good, Chris. That's good."

    He reached out and punched me in the arm-muscle, lightly.

    Then we both went to sleep.

    It was Saturday morning. The kids were yelling outside. Their voices filled the seven o'clock fog. I heard Old Man Wickard's ventilator flip open and the zip of his para-gun, playfully touching around the kids.

    "Shut up!" I heard him cry, but he didn't sound grouchy. It was a regular Saturday game with him. And I heard the kids giggle.

    Priory woke up and said, "Shall I tell them, Chris, you're not going with them today?"

    "Tell them nothing of the sort." Jhene moved from the door. She bent out the window, her hair all light against a ribbon of fog. "Hi, gang! Ralph and Chris will be right down. Hold gravity!"

    "Jhene!" I cried.

    She came over to both of us. "You're going to spend your Saturday the way you always spend it — with the gang!"

    "I planned on sticking with you, Jhene."

    "What sort of holiday would
that
be, now?"

    She ran us through our breakfast, kissed us on the cheeks, and forced us out the door into the gang's arms.

    "Let's not go out to the Rocket Port today, guys."

    "Aw, Chris — why not?"

    Their faces did a lot of changes. This was the first time in history I hadn't wanted to go. "You're kidding, Chris."

    "Sure he is."

    "No, he's not. He means it," said Priory. "And I don't want to go either. We go
every
Saturday. It gets tiresome. We can go next week instead."

    "Aw . . ."

    They didn't like it, but they didn't go off by themselves. It was no fun, they said, without us.

    "What the heck— we'll go next week."

    "Sure we will. What do you want to do, Chris?"

    I told them.

    We spent the morning playing Kick the Can and some games we'd given up a long time ago, and we hiked out along some old rusty and abandoned railroad tracks and walked in a small woods outside town and photographed some birds and went swimming raw, and all the time I kept thinking — this is the last day.

    We did everything we had ever done before on Saturday. All the silly crazy things, and nobody knew I was going away except Ralph, and five o'clock kept getting nearer and nearer.

    At four, I said good-bye to the kids.

    "Leaving so soon, Chris? What about tonight?"

    "Call for me at eight," I said. "We'll go see the new Sally Gibberts picturel"

    "Swell."

    "Cut gravity!"

    And Ralph and I went home.

    Mother wasn't there, but she had left part of herself, her smile and her voice and her words on a spool of audio-film on my bed. I inserted it in the viewer and threw the picture on the wall. Soft yellow hair, her white face and her quiet words:

    "I hate good-byes, Chris. I've gone to the laboratory to do some extra work. Good luck. All of my love. When I see you again — you'll be a man."

    That was all.

    Priory waited outside while I saw it over four times. "I hate good-byes, Chris. I've gone . . . work. . . . luck. All . . . my love. . . ."

    I had made a film-spool myself the night before. I spotted it in the viewer and left it there. It only said good-bye.

    Priory walked halfway with me. I wouldn't let him get on the Rocket Port monorail with me. I just shook his hand, tight, and said, "It was fun today, Ralph."

    "Yeah. Well, see you next Saturday, huh, Chris?"

    "I wish I could say yes."

    "Say yes anyway. Next Saturday — the woods, the gang, the rockets, and Old Man Wickard and his trusty para-gun."

    We laughed. "Sure. Next Saturday, early. Take — Take care of
our
mother, will you, Priory?"

    "That's a silly question, you nut," he said.

    "It is, isn't it?"

    He swallowed. "Chris."

    "Yeah?"

    "I'll be waiting. Just like you waited and don't have to wait any more. I'll
wait
."

    "Maybe it won't be long, Priory. I hope not."

    I jabbed him, once, in the arm. He jabbed back.

    The monorail door sealed. The car hurled itself away, and Priory was left behind.

    I stepped out at the Port. It was a five-hundred-yard walk down to the Administration building. It took me ten years to walk it.

    "Next time I see you you'll be a man — "

    "Don't tell anybody — "

    "I'll wait, Chris — "

    It was all choked in my heart and it wouldn't go away and it swam around in my eyes.

    I thought about my dreams. The Moon Rocket. It won't be part of me, part of my
dream
any longer. I'll be part of
it.

    I felt small there, walking, walking, walking.

    The afternoon rocket to London was just taking off as I went down the ramp to the office. It shivered the ground and it shivered and thrilled my heart.

    I was beginning to grow up awfully fast.

    I stood watching the rocket until someone snapped their heels, cracked me a quick salute.

    I was numb.

    "C. M. Christopher?"

    "Yes, sir. Reporting, sir."

    "This way, Christopher. Through that gate."

    Through that gate and beyond
the
fence . . .

    This fence where we had pressed our faces and felt the wind turn warm and held to the fence and forgot who we were or where we came from but dreamed of who we might be and where we might go . . .

    This fence where had stood the boys who liked being boys who lived in a town and liked the town and fairly liked school and liked football and liked their fathers and mothers . . .

    The boys who some time every hour of every day of every week thought on fire and stars and the fence beyond which they waited. . . . The boys who liked the rockets
more.

    Mother, Ralph, I'll see you. I'll be back.

    Mother!

    Ralph!

    And, walking, I went beyond the fence.

He stopped the lawn mower in the middle of the yard, because he felt that the sun at just that moment had gone down and the stars come out. The fresh-cut grass that had showered his face arid body died softly away. Yes, the stars were there, faint at first, but brightening in the clear desert sky. He heard the porch screen door tap shut and felt his wife watching him as he watched the night.

    "Almost time," she said.

    He nodded; he did not have to check his watch. In the passing moments he felt very old, then very young, very cold, then very warm, now this, now that. Suddenly he was miles away. He was his own son talking steadily, moving briskly to cover his pounding heart and the resurgent panics as he felt himself slip into fresh uniform, check food supplies, oxygen flasks, pressure helmet, space-suiting, and turn as every man on earth tonight turned, to gaze at the swiftly filling sky.

    Then, quickly, he was back, once more the father of the son, hands gripped to the lawn-mower handle. His wife called, "Come sit on the porch."

    "I've got to keep busy!"

    She came down the steps and across the lawn. "Don't worry about Robert; he'll be all right."

    "But it's all so new," he heard himself say. "It's never been done before. Think of it — a manned rocket going up tonight to build the first space station. Good Lord, it can't be done, it doesn't exist, there's no rocket, no proving ground, no takeoff time, no technicians. For that matter, I don't even have a son named Bob. The whole thing's too much for me!"

    "Then what are you doing out here, staring?"

    He shook his head. "Well, late this morning, walking to the office, I heard someone laugh out loud. It shocked me, so I froze in the middle of the street. It was
me,
laughing! Why? Because finally I really
knew
what Bob was going to do tonight; at last I
believed
it. Holy is a word I never use, but that's how I felt stranded in all that traffic. Then, middle of the afternoon I caught myself humming. You know the song. 'A wheel in a wheel. Way in the middle of the air.' I laughed again. The space station, of course, I thought. The big wheel with hollow spokes where Bob'll live six or eight months, then get on back. Walking home, I remembered more of the song. 'Little wheel run by faith, Big wheel run by the grace of God.' I wanted to jump, yell, and flame-out myself!"

    His wife touched his arm. "If we stay out here, let's at least be comfortable."

    They placed two wicker rockers in the center of the lawn and sat quietly as the stars dissolved out of darkness in pale crushings of rock salt strewn from horizon to horizon.

    "Why," said his wife, at last, "it's like waiting for the fireworks at Sisley Field every year."

    "Bigger crowd tonight . . ."

    "I keep thinking — a billion people watching the sky right now, their mouths all open at the same time."

    They waited, feeling the earth move under their chairs.

    "What time is it now?"

    "Eleven minutes to eight."

    "You're always right; there must be a clock in your head."

    "I can't be wrong, tonight. I'll be able to tell you one second before they blast off. Look! The ten-minute warning!"

    On the western sky they saw four crimson flares open out, float shimmering down the wind above the desert, then sink silently to the extinguishing earth.

    In the new darkness the husband and wife did not rock in their chairs.

    After a while he said, "Eight minutes." A pause. "Seven minutes." What seemed a much longer pause. "Six . . ."

    His wife, her head back, studied the stars immediately above her and murmured, "Why?" She closed her eyes. "Why the rockets, why tonight? Why all this? I'd like to know."

    He examined her face, pale in the vast powdering light of the Milky Way. He felt the stirring of an answer, but let his wife continue.

    "I mean it's not that old thing again, is it, when people asked why men climbed Mt. Everest and they said, 'Because it's there.' I never understood. That was no answer to me."

    Five minutes, he thought. Time ticking . . . his wristwatch . . . a wheel in a wheel . . . little wheel run by . . . big wheel run by . . . way in the middle of . . . four minutes! . . . The men snug in the rocket by now, the hive, the control board flickering with light. . . .

    His lips moved.

    "All I know is it's really the end of the beginning. The Stone Age, Bronze Age, Iron Age; from now on we'll lump all those together under one big name for when we walked on Earth and heard the birds at morning and cried with envy. Maybe we'll call it the Earth Age, or maybe the Age of Gravity. Millions of years we fought gravity. When we were amoebas and fish we struggled to get out of the sea without gravity crushing us. Once safe on the shore we fought to stand upright without gravity breaking our new invention, the spine, tried to walk without stumbling, run without falling. A billion years Gravity kept us home, mocked us with wind and clouds, cabbage moths and locusts. That's what's so really big about tonight. . . it's the end of old man Gravity and the age we'll remember him by, for once and all. I don't know where they'll divide the ages, at the Persians, who dreamt of flying carpets, or the Chinese, who all unknowing celebrated birthdays and New Years with strung ladyfingers and high skyrockets, or some minute, some incredible second in the next hour. But we're in at the end of a billion years trying, the end of something long and to us humans, anyway, honorable."

    Three minutes . . . two minutes fifty-nine seconds . . . two minutes fifty-eight seconds . . .

    "But," said his wife, "I still don't know why."

    Two minutes, he thought.
Ready? Ready? Ready?
The far radio voice calling. Ready.'
Ready! Ready!
The quick, faint replies from the humming rocket.
Check! Check! Check!

    Tonight, he thought, even if we fail with this first, we'll send a second and a third ship and move on out to all the planets and later, all the stars. We'll just keep going until the big words like immortal and forever take on meaning. Big words, yes, that's what we want. Continuity. Since our tongues first moved in our mouths we've asked, What does it all mean? No other question made sense, with death breathing down our necks. But just let us settle in on ten thousand worlds spinning around ten thousand alien suns and the question will fade away. Man will be endless and infinite, even as space is endless and infinite. Man will go on, as space goes on, forever. Individuals will die as always, but our history will reach as far as we'll ever need to see into the future, and with the knowledge of our survival for all time to come, we'll know security and thus the answer we've always searched for. Gifted with life, the least we can do is preserve and pass on the gift to infinity. That's a goal worth shooting for.

    The wicker chairs whispered ever so softly on the grass.

    One minute.

    "One minute," he said aloud.

    "Oh!" His wife moved suddenly to seize his hands. "I hope that Bob . . ."

    "He'll be all right!"

    "Oh, God, take care . . ."

    Thirty seconds.

    "Watch now."

    Fifteen, ten, five . . .

    "Watch!"

    Four, three, two, one.

    "There! There! Oh, there, there!"

    They both cried out. They both stood. The chairs toppled back, fell flat on the lawn. The man and his wife swayed, their hands struggled to find each other, grip, hold. They saw the brightening color in the sky and, ten seconds later, the great uprising comet bum the air, put out the stars, and rush away in fire flight to become another star in the returning profusion of the Milky Way. The man and wife held each other as if they had stumbled on the rim of an incredible cliff that faced an abyss so deep and dark there seemed no end to it. Staring up, they heard themselves sobbing and crying. Only after a long time were they able to speak.