The first silver canister is labeled "Scarlet Seabird" in Mr.
Ross' black, definite handwriting. When I press the button set into the handrail
of the grandstand, there is a sudden flare of rocket and the canister begins to
lift. Slowly at first, and then rapidly faster against the weak Lunar gravity,
it lifts higher and higher. In only a moment, it is just a spark that is lost
against the stars. And then, in eerie silence, it blossoms and blossoms and
blossoms. It seems that the whole sky is covered with shining, glowing scarlet
wings. In my earphones, I hear the indrawn breaths of the other people around
me. High, high above, kilometers wide now, "Scarlet Seabird" flies.
It was all my fault that the bad things happened to Mr. Ross. It was just my
big mouth that did it. I wanted to be a big shot.
It was on the afternoon of the first day at the Lunar Departure Processing
Center when my Aunt Mavril called. She was a reporter for The Washington Post
and I usually just got a Christmas card and a dollar from her. But when they
called me to the telephone in the Departure Center office, her face in the
screen was all smiles and she acted as if I were her very favorite.
"You're going to be the youngest person who ever went to the Moon,"
she said. "Just nine. And so you're News! I'm going to interview you right
now, Chuck."
"You're going to put me in the paper?" I asked, all excited. I was
so excited that I told her all about Mr. Ross, too. I wish so much that I
hadn't.
The second canister is "Wonderful Dragon." It goes up into the
Lunar sky on its tiny rocket engine, trailing sparks of blue and gold, aiming
haphazardly at "Scarlet Seabird" which drifts effortlessly, kilometers
high, slowly, slowly moving higher and higher. High above, so high that we all
thought that it must be defective, "Wonderful Dragon" finally explodes
from a tiny sparkle into enormous bursts of blue and gold that shape into jagged
teeth and claws and spiny tail and forking, furious tongue.
All of the other people going to the Moon were families or were so busy with
their own business that it was just natural that old Mr. Ross and young me
should be friends. So that night, he and I ate dinner together and talked. I
kept quiet about my surprise, though.
"My dad is Vice-Administrator of the Lunar Colony," I said.
"And my mother's a lawyer. And now, finally I'm going to get to go live
with them. On the Moon."
Mr. Ross' face went very young when he smiled. And he smiled a lot-- until
later when he found out what I had done. "When I was your age," he
said, "nobody did anything but snicker when someone said something about
going to the Moon. I guess I snickered, too."
He was a sculptor, working in wood and clay and steel and aluminum and glass
and, I guess, just about anything that had a form within it. And now that he was
eighty-nine, he was going to go live on the Moon.
"They say I'll be able to move around up there just like a kid of
sixty." He looked up at the ceiling of the dining hall as if he could see
through it to the Moon.
"Well, what about your family?" I asked. "Won't they miss
you?"
He looked at me and laughed. "Yeah, well, I guess they will. But not the
right way, I'm afraid."
The dessert was some kind of green, gluey pudding and now Mr. Ross used the
handle of a spoon and worked at it quickly. His hands and arms were very big and
strong looking, but they worked gently and precisely.
"You must not have any family," I said.
"Well, Chuck, I have relatives, you might say."
"Whatever you're doing with that pudding is the best thing I can think
of to do with it, Mr. Ross. It sure isn't worth eating. But you sure have lost
me with what you said."
"I don't want you to be lost." He worked on with the spoon for a
while. Then he said, "I don't have a wife or sons or daughters. I don't
have anybody close. I guess I loved too many times. And none of the loves was
still here when it came time to run away to the Moon. The relatives I've got are
just waiting around for me to die. To get my money."
"I'm still kind of lost," I said.
"You'll understand sometime," he said, sliding his dessert bowl
across to me. Looking up out of it was my own face, done in the green pudding.
I press the button that sets off "Silver Spectacle" and it rises
and, far, far above, throws out kilometers and kilometers of sparkling silver
threads into the dark, airless sky.
We went outside then, into the night, to the gardens around the Departure
Processing Center. The Moon seemed bigger and brighter than ever before.
"They all needed me, "Mr. Ross said. "But they needed what I
had, not what I was. When Nephew Tommy needed braces, or when Jean-Anne had to
go to an analyst, and so on and so on, Uncle Paul was always there with the
cash. Some of it, they even paid back for a little while. Sometimes they even
thanked me."
He was silent then and I finally said, "I wish that hadn't been just
pudding. Maybe after we get to the Moon, you'll do one that'll last longer than
just green pudding."
Mr. Ross laughed and messed up my hair. "Eternal Art. That's what
everyone always wants."
"Well, there's nothing wrong with eternal, is there? Why don't you do a
great big thing on one of the Moon mountains, Mr. Ross?"
He laughed again. "I used to think about doing just that. But now I like
the pudding things better."
"I'll try to understand that, too," I said.
"Colors, 1945" goes up as I press another button. It expands
across the black sky like a million rainbows. Colors I never heard of or thought
of drift and float.
"A long time ago, I decided it," Mr. Ross said. "I was with
friends, out on the beach in the summer, drinking wine and saying good things
and thinking good things and looking at the Moon. And I decided that, someday I
was going to take all my money and turn everything I could into money and use it
to run away to the Moon and live there for as much longer as I had and then be
buried there. Tommy's braces and Mary Ellen's college and all of those things
would just have to take care of themselves. I decided that it was my money, and
I'd spend it on myself, no matter how guilty it might make me feel."
"I'm glad you're my friend," I said. "I'm glad I don't have to
go to the Moon by myself."
"After we get to the Moon, I'll make something for you out of something
just a little more eternal than green pudding, Chuck. Maybe it'll even be
eternal enough so that someday you can use it to help you get something you want
very, very much."
I didn't understand.
"Well, the last year and a half has been just one big garage sale,
Chuck. I've sold things I thought I never could part with. But now my last art
show's all put together and finished and my ticket's paid for and I'm on my way.
I'm on my way."
"Won't you miss your relatives just a little?"
He just laughed. "I hope you'll never really understand that."
"Wonderful Dragon," high and far away, is fading, tattering
away. The incredibly thin film has unfurled and scattered brilliant light for
many minutes. Now it is pulling apart, ending. I press the button for
"Flamingo Summer, 1976," but I don't see its little rocket engine
flame and lift because there are tears in my eyes and when you cry in an
air-suit, you just have to wait a while. Finally, though, I can see again, and I
watch the flamingo arc across the Lunar skies.
And the next day, I begin to understand about Mr. Ross' family.
Each morning of the five days it took at the Lunar Departure Processing
Station was filled with all kinds of medical tests. Finally, I got through for
the day and went racing through the living area to the shop where there were
newspapers for sale.
Mr. Ross was sitting in the lobby and I saw the headlines of the newspaper he
held before I saw his face.
YOUNGEST AND OLDEST
LUNAR-BOUND TOGETHER
the headlines said. And there were big pictures of Mr. Ross and me from the
Departure Center's files.
"We're in the papers," I yelled.
And then Mr. Ross looked at me. For a long time, he looked at me. And then he
smiled. Only this time the smile didn't make him look young and new. It was a
different kind of smile.
"Yes, we are, Chuck," he said, folding the newspaper and reaching
out to mess up my hair. "We're in the papers. We waited too long to run
away and now we're in the papers."
That afternoon, his relative came. With lawyers. Mr. Ross went away with
them, looking very, very old. A little later, I watched as his crates were
unloaded from the Moonship and stored away.
"Shimmering Star" is next. It rockets up from the dead floor of
the Moon and lifts gossamer blue and yellow and silver brilliances over the sky.
"It's what they call 'incompetence,'" my mother said, explaining it
to me after I was on the Moon. "It's a legal term used for when someone
isn't able to take care of his business any longer. For when an old person
starts doing silly, senile things."
"Going away to the Moon isn't incompetent," I said, angry that I
was crying where someone could see me.
"Red and White Dreams" goes up now, as I touch the ignition
button. "Scarlet Seabird" has disappeared into tattered, drifting
mists. "Wonderful Dragon" is a shimmering after-image.
My allowance was five dollars a week. A real letter to Earth cost almost a
dollar a page.
Dear Aunt Mavril,
This was all my fault. I shouldn't have
blabbed about Mr. Ross so you'd put him in the
papers and his relatives would find him. But
isn't there anything somebody can do? This
postage is going to cost me a lot of money,
but here's what happened and what Mr. Ross
really wanted...
Dear Senator Pyrimen,
My name is Charles Burke and I'm the
youngest person on the Moon and I hope you'll
read my letter yourself and help...
Dear Mr. President,
I am the youngest person on the Moon and I
hope you can take time from your busy day to
read my letter and maybe do something to help
Mr. Ross...
"Running and Playing" goes into the Lunar sky now. It's all
yellow and red streamers, lifting and playing and shimmering.
Dear Mr. Hardesty,
My father says you own the biggest magazine
in the world. I hope you'll listen to my problem.
I'm the youngest person on the Moon and I only say
that so that maybe it will attract your attention,
like human interest, so something can be done for
my friend, Mr. Ross. I wrote to the President and
a lot of senators and everybody, but it just seems
that nobody cares...
"Blue Winter Storm" rockets into the dark sky, lighting it with
jagged clouds and electrical snowfall.
She came to our apartment in the evening, almost six months after I got to
the Moon.
"You're Charles Burke," the bright, pretty, dark-haired lady said,
while behind her a man fiddled with a camera and meters and wires and dials.
"I'm Ilona Mosher with the Columbia Broadcasting System," she said,
turning her smile toward my mother and father. "With your permission, I
want to interview Chuck. About Paul Ross."
"My letters finally worked!" I yelled happily.
"Letters?" Ilona Mosher sad, puzzled. "I don't know about any
letters. But I do know that you're the youngest person on the Moon and that you
were a friend of Paul Ross. He was a very well-known artist and, now that he's
dead, we want to do a story on your friendship. An old, old man and a
young..."
"What did you say?" I shouted at her.
"Twilight Thought" is the next canister. It is a warm mixture of
beiges and greens and dusky, burnt oranges. It's not bright and toy-like like
most of the others. But it is beautiful against the dark sky.
The judge pounded for quiet. "In view of all the unusual publicity which
has surrounded this case of the probate of the estate of Paul Ross, I am going
to ask a favor of the attorneys."
After talking with them in a low voice, the judge said, "Because of the
youth of the young man who has made such a long journey to come here as a
'friend of the court,' the attorneys have agreed that I may talk with him
myself, in my chambers for a time. Court will be in recess for thirty
minutes."
"Autumn Unicorn" flies out into the airless sky. It is all
scintillating whites and pearls, with golden hooves and silver horn and red, red
mouth and eyes of glowing green.
I wished that I were back on the Moon again when the judge said he was ready
to announce his decision. My mother had told me again and again what would
happen.
I hated the smiling faces of Mr. Ross'relatives who were
about to get his money. Money they were going to get just because they had said
he was a crazy old man.
And sure enough, the judge said, "Under the laws of this state, the
court has no choice but to find that the estate of Paul Ross is to be divided
among his nearest surviving relatives, his three nephews and two nieces."
There was hubbub in the courtroom. The relatives all smiled and hugged each
other. The newsmen worked their cameras and recorders.
The judge pounded his gavel.
"This court is not used to such uproar," he said, when he could be
heard. "We'll have no more of it until I have finished."
I wished I were gone.
"It is within the province of this court to direct that the estate first
settle the debts of the deceased before the settlement to the heirs, and to
honor the last wishes of the deceased."
The nieces and nephews shrugged.
The show is almost over now. Even if it's a year late, this is Mr. Ross'
show. He wanted it. He planned it. He built the little rockets and fitted their
interiors with all their beauty and fineness.
Now I send off "Spring Rain" and the sky fills with sparkling
electrical droplets.
There is just one more canister left and there are tears in my eyes again.
The relatives. Surely, they're watching this from Earth. Everyone else is. I
hope they're finally realizing that Mr. Ross was more than just Tommy's braces
and those other things they wanted.
The crates of canisters weighed a lot. But there was still a lot of money
left after their shipping charges were paid. Mr. Ross had planned to use that
money to live on.
The last canister is marked "Friendship." There are so many
tears in my eyes now that I have to feel for the button that sets it off.
I think how the judge smiled when I told him how much Mr. Ross had wanted to
be buried on the Moon.
The lead-lined casket and vault were very, very heavy and wonderfully
expensive to ship.
