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fly.”
    â€œIt will fly,” he said, looking at it.
    â€œRocket ships cost millions. Have you millions?”
    â€œIt will fly,” he repeated steadily. “Now, go to the house, all of you. I have phone calls to make, work to do. Tomorrow we leave! Tell no one, understand? It is a secret.”
    The children edged off from the rocket, stumbling. He saw their small, feverish faces in the house windows, far away.
    Maria had not moved. “You have ruined us,” she said. “Our money used for this—this thing. When it should have been spent on equipment.”
    â€œYou will see,” he said.
    Without a word she turned away.
    â€œGod help me,” he whispered, and started to work.
    Through the midnight hours trucks arrived, packages were delivered, and Bodoni, smiling, exhausted his bank account. With blowtorch and metal stripping he assaulted the rocket, added, took away, worked fiery magics and secret insults upon it. He bolted nine ancient automobile motors into the rocket’s empty engine room. Then he welded the engine room shut, so none could see his hidden labor.
    At dawn he entered the kitchen. “Maria,” he said, “I’m ready for breakfast.”
    She would not speak to him.
    At sunset he called to the children. “We’re ready! Come on!” The house was silent.
    â€œI’ve locked them in the closet,” said Maria.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” he demanded.
    â€œYou’ll be killed in that rocket,” she said. “What kind of rocket can you buy for two thousand dollars? A bad one!”
    â€œListen to me, Maria.”
    â€œIt will blow up. Anyway, you are no pilot.”
    â€œNevertheless, I can fly this ship. I have fixed it.”
    â€œYou have gone mad,” she said.
    â€œWhere is the key to the closet?”
    â€œI have it here.”
    He put out his hand. “Give it to me.”
    She handed it to him. “You will kill them.”
    â€œNo, no.”
    â€œYes, you will. I feel it.”
    He stood before her. “You won’t come along?”
    â€œI’ll stay here,” she said.
    â€œYou will understand; you will see then,” he said, and smiled. He unlocked the closet. “Come, children. Follow your father.”
    â€œGood-bye, good-bye, Mama!”
    She stayed in the kitchen window, looking out at them, very straight and silent.
    At the door of the rocket the father said, “Children, this is a swift rocket. We will be gone only a short while. You must come back to school, and I to my business.” He took each of their hands in turn. “Listen. This rocket is very old and will fly only one more journey. It will not fly again. This will be the one trip of your life. Keep your eyes wide.”
    â€œYes, Papa.”
    â€œListen, keep your ears clean. Smell the smells of a rocket. Feel. Remember . So when you return you will talk of it all the rest of your lives.”
    â€œYes, Papa.”
    The ship was quiet as a stopped clock. The airlock hissed shut behind them. He strapped them all, like tiny mummies, into rubber hammocks. “Ready? he called.
    â€œReady!” all replied.
    â€œBlast-off!” He jerked ten switches. The rocket thundered and leaped. The children danced in their hammocks, screaming. “We’re moving! We’re off! Look!”
    â€œHere comes the Moon!”
    The moon dreamed by. Meteors broke into fireworks. Time flowed away in a serpentine of gas. The children shouted. Released from their hammocks, hours later, they peered from the ports. “There’s Earth!” “There’s Mars!”
    The rocket dropped pink petals of fire while the hour dials spun; the child eyes dropped shut. At last they hung like drunken moths in their cocoon hammocks.
    â€œGood,” whispered Bodoni, alone.
    He tiptoed from the control room to stand for a long moment, fearful, at the airlock door.
    He pressed a button. The airlock door swung