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years since I've laid a hand on you—but this is the first time I ever wanted to give you a thrashing.”
    I thought he was going to do it. I waited and I had made up my mind that if he touched me he was going to get die surprise of his life. But he didn't come any nearer; he just closed the door between us.
    After awhile I took another shower that I didn't need and went to bed. I must have lain there an hour or more, thinking that Dad had wanted to hit me and wishing that Anne were around to tell me what to do. Finally I switched on the dancing lights and stared at them until they knocked me out.
    Neither one of us said anything until breakfast was over and neither of us ate much, either. Finally Dad said, “Bill, I want to beg your pardon for what I said last night. You hadn't done or said anything to justify raising a hand to you and I had no business thinking it or saying it.”
    I said, “Oh, that's all right.” I thought about it and added, “Iguess I shouldn't have said what I did.”
    “It was all right to say it What makes me sad is that you could have thought it. Bill, I've never stopped loving Anne and I'll never love her any less.”
    “But you said—” I stopped and finished, “I just don't get it.”
    “I guess there is no reason to expect you to.” George stood up. “Bill, the ceremony is at fifteen o'clock. Will you be dressed and ready about an hour before that time?”
    I hesitated and said, “I won't be able to, George. I've got a pretty full day.”
    His face didn't have any expression at all and neither did his voice. He said, “I see,” and left the room. A bit later he left the apartment. A while later I. tried to call him at his office, but the autosecretary ground out the old stall about “Would you like to record a message?” I didn't. I figured that George would be home some time before fifteen hundred and I got dressed in my best. I even used some of Dad's beard cream.
    He didn't show up. I tried the office again, and again, got the “Would-you-like-to-record-a-message?” routine. Then I braced myself and looked up the code on Mrs. Kenyon.
    He wasn't there. Nobody was there.
    The time crawled past and there was nothing I could do about it. After a while it was fifteen o'clock and I knew that my father was off somewhere getting married but I didn't know where. About fifteen-thirty I went out and went to a show.
    When I got back the red light was shining on the phone. I dialed playback and it was Dad: “Bill I tried to reach you but you weren't in and I can't wait. Molly and I are leaving on a short trip. If you need to reach me, call Follow Up Service, Limited, in Chicago—we'll be somewhere in Canada. We'll be back Thursday night. Goodbye.” That was the end of the recording.
    Thursday night—blast-off was Friday morning.
3.    Space Ship Bifrost
    Dad called me from Mrs. Kenyon's—I mean from Molly's—apartment Thursday night. We were both polite but uneasy. I said yes, I was all ready and I hoped they had had a nice time. He said they had and would I come over and we would all leave from there in the morning.
    I said I hadn't known what his plans were, so I had bought a ticket to Mojave port and had reserved a room at Hotel Lancaster. What did he want me to do?
    He thought about it and said, “It looks like you can take care of yourself, Bill.”
    “Of course I can.”
    “All right. We'll see you at the port. Want to speak to Molly?”
    “Uh, no, just tell her hello for me.”
    “Thanks, I will.” He switched off.
    I went to my room and got my kit—fifty-seven and fifty-nine hundredths pounds; I couldn't have added a clipped frog's hair. My room was bare, except for my Scout uniform. I couldn't afford to take it, but I hadn't thrown it away yet.
    I picked it up, intending to take it to the incinerator, then stopped. At the physical exam I had been listed at one hundred thirty-one and two tenths pounds mass in the clothes I would wear for blast off.
    But I hadn't