Return With Your Space Suit Or On It

RETURN WITH YOUR SPACE SUIT OR ON IT

Eleanore & Christopher Stasheff

"Tell the mothers of Sparta that we stand here, obedient to their will."

The young man stared glumly at the two letters in his hands. His first reaction on opening them had been incredible joy mixed with extreme distress—mixed, that is, because one had filled him with joy while the other had distressed him. They were college acceptance letters. He looked up at his mother sorrowfully.

"Well? What did they say?" she asked eagerly. Then, seeing his expression, she added, "D—did they turn you down, honey?"

"No! They accepted me!" His forehead creased with distress—lots of creases; there was a lot of forehead. His mousy brown hair showed a thin patch at the right temple, where he leaned it on his fist in deep contemplation several hours a day. He had a meek chin and thin, trembling lips; his appearance was so weak that if he stood next to a cup of tea, you would have sworn he hadn't been steeped yet. His warm gray eyes brimmed with sadness. He had a Roman nose—the only prominent thing about him. Obviously meant to be a soldier—at least, that's what his mother said. What else could you be, with a nose like that?

His mother frowned. "Isn't that a good thing?" she asked, worried.

Her son let out a tortured sigh. He knew better than to lie to his mother, but he also had enough common sense not to tell her the truth. An uncomfortable period of silence followed. His mother frowned. Alex sighed. Mother frowned more deeply. Alex sighed more anxiously.

His mother was short, with a heavy figure that she still thought of as trim and fit. Her gray hair was tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were like diamonds—hard and cold. Her skin hadn't wrinkled much—it didn't dare—but as she smiled, he could see the creases at the corner of her mouth, from sneering at him so often. She wore a khaki-green suit with a severe black tie, and no frills, though she gave the impression of longing for brass insignia to decorate her collar. She did wear her Junior Space Scout medals prominently displayed on her left lapel—Swimming, Horseback Riding, and Domination.

Finally, his mother pointed to the other letter. "And the other one?"

The son's eyes grew bright with happiness as he proudly read from the joyous epistle. "Dear Alexander Napoleon MacArthur Grant the First:

"Sir, you have been accepted, with a full twenty-five-thousand-dollar-a-year scholarship, to the Intergalactic Union of Artists' University." He puffed out his chest with pride at the great honor. He looked at his mother expectantly.

"That's... nice, dear," she said with obvious difficulty. Her eyebrows drew close together. "You won't accept it, will you?"

Alexander's face fell. He'd hoped she would be happy for him. He'd hoped she would support him in his choice. "I want to..."

She sighed. It was one of those deep, motherly, well-you've-tried-your-best-to-raise-them-and-now-they're-free-to-get-all-their-superfluous-body-parts-pierced-with-god-knows-what-from-god-knows-where-and-hang-out-with-space-cruising-nobodies-who-will-only-get-their-common-sense-impaired-emotions-in-a-stringy-gooey-lumpy-mess-and-send-them-home-with-nothing-but-a-planet-transporter-ticket-and-the-spare-pair-of-underwear-that-you-managed-to-send-along-with-them sigh.

"It's your choice," she stated, resigned.

Alex's face lit up. "Then I am going to the Intergalactic Union of Artist's University!"

His mother smiled. "I applaud your self-interest and personal determination—even though it may mean disgracing the family name by accepting somebody else's money and letting the whole planet know that our family has financial trouble."

"That's not what I..." Alex began, suddenly feeling guilty, as he had been trained to do at the drop of a shako.

"I mean, I think that it's important for young people these days to know what they want, and to grab it when they have the opportunity."

He smiled sheepishly at her.

"Even if it does mean that you may be starving and desperate," she continued, "and will always feel as though you could have done much better as a soldier, and probably would have been an admiral by now instead of a third-rate nobody peddling portraits on the space stations."

He frowned at the thought of that. His mother persisted.

"But it is your choice and you can always think back on what might have been, and reflect happily on the years you spent with your mother."

His frown deepened. She went on, relentlessly. "You should do what you want—even if it means ruining all of your mother's dreams and expectations for you. You're a mature young man who is capable not only of choosing your future career, but also of dealing with the guilt that your poor, dead father, who also had high hopes of you becoming an officer, has turned in his grave so much that his coffin is now nine feet down in the ground instead of six."

Guilt-ridden thoughts of suicide flashed through Alex's mind.

"But as I said before, it is your choice. I want you to be happy, and if you're happy starving, then all that matters is that you are happy. Don't dwell on what might have been if you had simply followed your dear old mother's only wish for you. The choice is yours, and I won't try to deter you from your choice—because I'm sure you know what is best for yourself."

She looked as though she could have continued on in that vein for a goodly part of the next century, but Alex interrupted her there.

"I get your point, Mom." He sighed.

Alex wanted so much to be an artist, but he wanted even more to make his mother proud of him, something he had never quite succeeded in doing. He glumly crumpled up the acceptance letter to the Intergalactic Union of Artists' University and shoved it in his pocket to put in his keepsake box. That way, he would always be able to say that he could have gone there. He grimly went to his computer to mail a letter of acceptance back to the Space Academy for Soldiers of the Interplanetary Federation of Republican Astronautical Suns.

Behind him, his mother glowed triumphantly as she sipped her strong, black coffee.

* * *

"You did what?" his mother screamed at him.

Alexander cringed at the volume and intensity of which a small, thirty-nine point nine-nine-nine-nine-nine-nine-nine-nine-nine-year-old woman was capable. He stood facing her in her office, hands behind his back, with a semi-ashamed expression on his face. Secretly, he was glad of what he had done, even if it was a complete accident. Being court-martialed wasn't as bad as he had thought it would be. He was very glad that he wasn't going to be allowed back into the Space Academy for Soldiers of the Interplanetary Federation of Astronautical Suns. He hadn't liked it there. Every morning up at the crack of 0600 hours (since they were in space, there wasn't any dawn). A quick cold shower, then an hour of space aerobics, then another quick, cold shower and a minimal breakfast of tea and toast—no different from what his mother demanded every morning, of course, except that there were never any decent flavors of tea.

After breakfast came classes, a small lunch that tasted like cardboard, more classes, soldier training, an hour of "How to Slice, Dice, Cut, Chop, Shoot, Fire, or Completely Maim an Enemy Without Totally Losing the Entire Contents of Your Stomach," thoughtfully followed by a dinner prepared by a chef with a positive genius for taking fresh, juicy vegetables and succulent cuts of meat and turning them into totally tasteless food. Needless to say, he was really looking forward to going to the Intergalactic Union of Artists' University—that is, if they would still accept him.

"I'm waiting for an answer!" his mother was demanding as his thoughts returned to this planetary orbit. When he didn't reply, she snapped, "Well?!?"

"I—I drew pictures on the back of the Space Fleet's maps," he stammered.

"The Space Fleet maps?!?" she asked, leaning across a couple of yards of polished walnut.

"The Space Fleet maps," he replied. He tried not to meet her cold, calculating eyes. Unfortunately, that put him at attention, and left him looking at the pictures of Alexander the Great, Napoleon Bonaparte, Douglas MacArthur, and Ulysses S. Grant on the battleship-gray wall behind her. He cast a furtive glance to the right, but saw only the glass case with all his father's medals proudly displayed. He switched his gaze to his left, and found himself staring at the floor-to-ceiling bookcase stuffed with leather-bound editions of deep, philosophical works of literature by such geniuses as Sun Tzu, Von Clausewitz, and T. H. Lawrence. A copy of Napoleon's war diary peeked from behind a rare edition of Mein Kampf.

"Maps as in the top-secret-only-allowed-to-be-seen-by-fifty-crack-troops-and-whoever-else-happens-to-wander-into-the-room-during-briefing?" his mother pressed.

"Yes, 'maps' as in the top-secret only... yes, those-maps," he replied, slightly agitated. He really hadn't seen what the big deal was. The picture in question happened to be one of his best efforts. He had even asked Captain Baring if he could keep it, which is how the pictures were discovered in the first place. He had honestly thought that the maps on the front side of the paper were just somebody else's sketches, and that they wouldn't mind letting him use the blank side for one of his own. He never dreamed that a harmless drawing could get him court-martialed. That was the problem with the Space Academy—they took everything way too seriously. It was a simple mistake! Anyone could have made it! Of course, it didn't help that it was the seventh top secret, extremely important document that he had drawn on—but it was only on the flip side! He couldn't help it if they left super secret papers just lying around face down in any old debriefing chamber! He tried delicately to explain this to his mother.

"I don't care if you're a spy for the Anti-Federation of Individual Sovereign Totalitarians! I don't care if you're the Easter bunny with an AK-47 and a box of space grenades! No son of mine is going to get thrown out of the Space Academy for Soldiers of the Interplanetary Federation of Republican Astronautical Suns! You're going back there, and this time, you will absolutely refrain from drawing so much as a time table!" his mother shouted.

"B—but mother, I—I've been court-martialed. They w-won't let me back in," Alex whined, trying his best not, to sound as happy as he felt.

"You leave that to me," she declared. She bent down and reached into the bottom drawer of her desk. She pulled out her large volume of the telephone book of all the unlisted mega top-secret numbers that no one but the highest officials and the president were supposed to know. She started thumbing through it and realized that it was last year's copy. She threw it away and opened the top right-hand drawer and pulled out the latest edition that had arrived with the junk mail three weeks ago. Turning to the page headed "Captains" with the last name starting with "B," she found the number in the list and punched it up on her wrist speaker phone.

"May I help you?" a perky feminine voice answered.

"Yes, I'd like to speak to Captain Ove R. Baring, please."

"Who may I say is calling?"

"This is a very heart-broken and concerned mother. I need to speak to him about my poor, dear, sick little lad in the Space Academy."

"On, my," the perky person replied, oozing sympathy. "I'll put you on to him right away. Wait one moment please."

There was a brief silence. Then a gruff basso voice barked, "Hello? What's this about a sick lad in our Space Academy?"

"It's his not being in the Space Academy that's made him sick!" Alex's mother exclaimed. "You see, you've recently court-martialed him."

"Oh, yes?" Captain Baring asked. "And which one is he?"

"Alexander Napoleon MacArthur Grant the First."

"The one who was caught defacing important Federation documents. What about him?"

"I would just like to say that you did him a great injustice! By court-martialing him, you've wrecked all his dreams of becoming a first-rate officer, just like you. He looked up to you, as well I should know, since he told me, his dear mother, all about you. And what was his crime? Drawing on the blank side of a piece of paper! An honest mistake. Haven't you ever felt the creative juices flowing and didn't have any paper handy? Wouldn't you have done the same thing if you were writing to your poor, dear mother? How long has it been since you wrote to her? Does she hear all the wonderful things about you that I do from my son? Does she ever wonder why you're so busy that you don't even send her a postcard, not even a fax, or an e-mail telling her how her brave son the officer is doing? Does she know that instead of writing to her, you're wasting your time court-martialing my son, who only wants to be like you and fulfill all the hopes and dreams that a mother could have for a child?"

Silence. Then Baring's voice returned.

"Yes, madam, I think I can rescind that court-martial. Your son can resume his studies immediately."

His mother turned and looked at Alex with a smug expression. Alex sighed and felt very glad that he hadn't started unpacking yet.

* * *

"I am proud to present the graduating class of 2345!" the Supreme Admiral's voice boomed throughout the auditorium. There was thunderous applause, and many catcalls and whistles. Watching, Alex sighed and wished this was his graduation—but that wouldn't come for another two years.

After the din quieted down a little, the Admiral declared, "Today, these fine young men and women will embark upon proud careers of service to our Federation! This very evening, they will blast off to their first posts as soldiers, becoming fine examples for future generations."

The low murmur rose to another roar of thunderous applause.

In the thirty-third row, Alex groaned inwardly. He had two more years of hell and torment doing something he disliked as strongly as training for a job he absolutely loathed. Why hadn't he gone to the Artists' University? He should have. He would have, if only his mother hadn't expected him to become a Space Corps officer. She was the only reason he was still here. Oh, how he wished that he was at the Intergalactic Union of Artists' University!

To make matters worse, George, his only friend here in the Space Corps, was graduating today. After this week, Alex wouldn't see him again for who knew how long? The thought heightened his feelings of dread. He would be coming back to this godforsaken college/ritual-torture compound for the next two years, and he wouldn't even have a friend to share the agony! And he had to spend the summer with his mother. He would never have said directly which fate was worse—only that the Space Academy would almost seem fun when he came back in the fall.

He was still dwelling glumly on his past, present, and hopeless future when George came up to him, his brand-new ensign's bars gleaming on his collar and a very lovely young woman on his arm.

"Hi, Alex!" He thumped Alex on the arm.

"Hi, George!" Alex tried to sound as excited as his friend looked—but his eyes were all for the young woman standing next to his friend. "Uh—might I have the pleasure?"

"What did you have in mind?" she returned with a gleam in her eye.

Ah, her eyes! They were like two perfectly formed dewdrops that were quietly resting on the pale pink rose of her face. Her cheeks were flushed with happiness, glowing like a midsummer's dawn. Her dark blonde hair reminded him of fresh, pure honey, the kind that makes bears drool. Her tall, slender figure reminded him of a dancing breeze playing in a field of flowers. All of a sudden he felt a strange urge to paint a scenic lunar park.

"Uh… Alex, this is my younger sister..."

"I'm your only sister," she chuckled.

"But you're still younger then I am, and that makes you my younger sister."

"Pay no attention to this decrepit old man!" she laughed. "I'm Laura Shellard."

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Alexander," he said shyly.

"Oh, go on, Alex! Tell her your full name! I really think it's neat," George said, grinning.

Alex squirmed uncomfortably, suddenly very shy and embarrassed, but manfully replied, "My full name is Alexander Napoleon MacArthur Grant the First."

"That's quite a name," Laura said, round-eyed. "I take it your father liked historical war heroes?"

"My mother named me, actually…"

"Oh."

"Laura's a student at the Intergalactic Union of Artists' University. You always told me you wanted to go there instead of here, so I've always wanted to get you two together." George suddenly looked up, waved, then turned back to say, "Old Hurley's signaling to me—and he's got a beautiful blonde in convoy. Will you two excuse me a minute?" He didn't wait for an answer, of course—just slipped away to leave Laura arid Alex alone (well, as alone as they could be in the middle of a graduation crowd).

As for Alex, the minute that George had mentioned that most sacred of universities, his heart had skipped a beat. A Vaseline-like film covered his eyes, creating a hazy effect. It blocked out all sights but Laura. Suddenly, he became nervous and shy again. He had never talked to a girl alone before—except his mother, but she didn't count. He couldn't think of anything bright to say.

"So you're an artist?" he asked at last.

"Yes," she replied. "And you're an artist too?"

"Yah."

Why did I have to say that? They both thought to themselves. Of all the stupid things to say! I must sound so stupid!

"Do you wanna..." they both began, then giggled and chuckled at each other. Laura gestured for Alex to speak first.

"Do you wanna go get something to drink?" he asked her, smiling sheepishly.

"Sure!" she chimed, her voice pure music. They walked off to the concession stand hand in hand.

* * *

"You have got to stop letting your mother rule your life!" Laura whispered fiercely to Alex.

A year had passed, and they had just finished dinner at his mother's. It had been a bland-but-relatively-good meal, and Laura had had about all she could take—but not of the main dish. Thankfully, Alex's mother had just gone to the kitchen to bring out desert, leaving Laura a few minutes to speak to Alex alone.

"I've tried," Alex sighed, "but every time I take control, my mother lays a big guilt trip on me. I'm powerless against her."

"Don't talk rubbish. If you want to gain control of your own life, I'll help you."

He squirmed in his seat.

"Look, Alex," Laura said reasonably, "you love me. I love you. She's not coming on our honeymoon. It's as simple as that."

A horrified look came over Alex's face, and a terrible image into his mind—his mother wearing a wreath of plastic flowers at a Hawaiian luau.

"Did she say she wanted to?" he asked.

"No, but she will!"

Alex blanched. His mother and Laura would be in each others company for quite a while. That thought was even more unsettling. Somehow he had always associated Laura and his mother with hydrogen and oxygen, and himself the flame that triggered the explosion—or more likely, the pig on the spit. It would be a rather messy and unhappy honeymoon. He wondered how to solve the problem diplomatically.

"I don't know what to do," he admitted.

"Oh, come on. If you don't issue a Declaration of Independence some day, you'll never be free. Don't you realize that she'll never let you go? She has a deep-seated need to control you."

"I just don't know how," he said glumly.

"Quit the Space Academy, for starters! You don't want to be an officer. You want to be an artist. If you quit now, you can still go to the Artists' University instead, and never be a soldier. If you finish at the Space Academy and take your commission, though, you'll always be an officer."

"Well... um... I ... er..."

"Things are going to change anyhow after we're married," Laura pointed out.

"Alex!" his mother called from the kitchen. "Would you come and help me with this cake?"

Laura put a hand on his arm and called back. "I'll come and Help you, Mrs. Grant."

"Thank you just the same, but I'd rather Alex helped me."

Laura sighed. Alex got up. He gave her an apologetic look as he walked into the kitchen.

"Close the door behind you," his mother told him. He meekly crossed the barrier into one of her domains. It seemed that every room in this god forsaken place bore her rigid trademark. The walls were painted a drab khaki green, a color that provoked a most unpleasant sensation of nausea when one was cooking. There was no bright color anywhere else in the room, except, of course, for the refrigerator. Alex had tried very hard to turn the refrigerator into a display wall for his art. After all, that was its main function, wasn't it? His mother had quickly agreed that it was a good idea. But she took down his pastoral landscapes and replaced them with pictures of military battles and long-forgotten generals such as Polidimes, and what's-his-name who fought in… um… well, you know, one of those World War thingies. This only added to the distress one felt while making dinner.

Everything on the shelves stood neatly in its place, the cabinets themselves looking like frightening guards. Even the pots and pans above the stove hung stiffly at attention. He had always wanted to add a warning over the door to this room—something like, "Lose all contents of your stomach, ye who enter here."

"Now, Alex," his mother began, "I know you haven't been very well lately, but that's no excuse for your lack of taste."

Uh oh, here it came. He could feel the perspiration dampen his brow. He felt like he was lined up in front of a firing squad. "What?" he asked, trying to sound innocent.

"That... girl." She shuddered.

He almost asked for a cigarette and a blindfold.

"What about Laura?"

"Why couldn't you have chosen a nice girl from the Space Academy? One who was in training with you? Never mind. It's your choice and I shouldn't intrude. I know that you're old enough now that you'd be able to spot a no-good girl on your own. I'm not saying that's what she is. I'm only warning you that there are women out there who will take you for all you've got, then dump you or cheat on you. Be careful, son. Make sure that you find a nice girl who will remind you of your mother."

Then it hit Alex. He had! That was the problem: Laura was too much like his mother! And, now that she had latched on to him, he'd never be able to shake her off.

Just like his mother.

Suddenly he felt as if they were playing tug-of-war, using him as the rope. How could he get out of this mess and be free at last?

He'd have to go somewhere neither of them could control him. But where? He shrugged and followed his mother back into the dining room. He'd have plenty of time to think of something before graduation.

This was a moment Alex had waited for all his life. He felt a mixture of anxiety and happiness course through his veins. All of the torment, pain, and suffering he had endured in the past four years were coming to a close. At the end of this tunnel of torture there was a light.

The light, however, was more like a danger beacon than an all-clear. He knew with certainty that it was leading to a future of which he was definitely, clearly, and dreadfully uncertain. But he also knew it would get him away from them. And that was what he wanted more than anything, whatever the cost.

He was graduating.

He had never felt as proud, or as cocky, sneaky, and smart, as he did when he walked across that stage and received his laser and official uniform and joined the ranks of the Space Corps. Only three more hours, he thought to himself. He didn't care that he would soon be leaving on a top-secret mission that would carry him light-years away from his own planet, approach the speed of light, and not return for forty years, Earth time. Forty years if he was lucky—but he'd still only be thirty-one!

Of course, he might never return. Either way, though, he wouldn't have to put up with his mother and his fiancée any longer. He smiled to himself as the audience burst into thunderous applause for the graduating class of 2347. Soon, a voice inside his head whispered. Very soon.

* * *

Alex thought his graduation party wasn't going very well. But then, again, there were only three people present: Laura, himself, and his mother. Oh, other people had stopped by, and it had been fun for a while, but they hadn't stayed very long. No one wanted to remain in the same room with Laura and his mother, with Alex sitting back as a referee. Alex had always thought that putting Laura and his mother in an almost-empty parlor was like slamming the two halves of a critical mass of U-235 together. The result would be something similar to the Big Bang, only it would end Alex's universe instead of starting it. The tension was achieving nuclear proportions.

So Laura and his dear mother were making polite conversation, all the while clearly wanting to kill one another. They were each being blatantly obvious as they asked him to perform tasks for them, vying for control over him. Another fifteen minutes, just fifteen minutes left to endure, he thought.

"Alex, darling, would you pour me some more tea?" Laura asked sweetly.

"Oh my. I feel so tired. Alex, my dear son, could you refill my tea cup?" his mother asked tenderly.

"After you fill mine," Laura demanded sweetly.

All of this annoyed Alex. He had, at first, dreaded these "conversations," but now he was just plain sick of them.

"I believe I have seniority." His mother fixed her with an icy stare.

"But I asked first." Laura returned her stare one equally as frigid.

It almost seemed like a game. Each woman was trying to win control of him. He suddenly had the irresistible urge to hold up score cards.

"I am his mother."

Not much originality, Alex gave her a five.

"I'm his girlfriend and future wife!"

Alex almost corrected Laura then, but it wasn't yet time to speak up.

"My son has better taste than to marry you!"

A hit, a very palatable hit! Number nine on the Richter scale, or the Grant scale, or the whoever-thought-up-the-idea-of-score-cards scale.

"How dare you talk to me that way!"

That only merited a four for Laura: lack of originality.

"How dare you raise your voice at me! You should show respect to your elders!"

Alex was becoming very bored with the catfight. They couldn't even think up creative insults!

"I'm simply asking him for more tea. Darling, will you please refill my cup?" Laura demanded, trying to e sweet, but she sounded as though her voice had been rubbed across a cheese grater—the same implement that was shredding Alex's nerves.

"I'm waiting for my tea, son," his mother frigidly demanded.

Once again, Alex knew how the mouse felt when the cats were fighting over it. He hated the thought of being controlled by whoever won this contest of wills. The feeling made him want to hit something, to prove to them that he was not the meek little plaything they sought to manipulate.

"That's it! That's the last straw!" he shouted in frustration. "I've had it with you two!" He turned on his heel and stalked off to his room.

Both women waited in shocked silence for him to return. For the first time in their entire acquaintance, neither said a word.

Finally Alex emerged. Two large suitcases and a small shoulder bag followed behind him on robot wheels. Laura and Alex's mother were stunned.

"You—you're leaving me?" Laura wailed.

"He's leaving me! His dear old mother!" his mother snapped.

"Quiet, both of you!" Alex shouted.

Both women stared, shocked into silence again.

"I didn't want to tell you like this, but I can see that I have to. Please don't try to stop me. I'm a grown man, and I can make my own decisions."

His mother opened her mouth as though she was about to question that.

"Don't interrupt!" Alex shouted.

Amazingly, she stayed silent.

"I've decided to accept a top-secret mission," Alex continued. "It will take me far away so fast that I won't be back for at least forty years—and there's always the possibility that I won't come back at all. I wish I could tell you more about my mission, but I can't—it's classified."

His mother beamed proudly. His fiancée-to-hopefully-be gasped and looked very distraught.

Alex tried to explain. "I volunteered so that I can get away from anyone's control except my own. It will be my choice to follow their rules, and my choice to live, return, or die, not yours…" He looked at Laura, then at his mother. "...or yours."

They both harrumphed. His mother would have been more upset at his filthy language (imagine saying that she had tried to control him!), but she was far too happy that he was going off on an important mission—and so soon! Never mind what he said, he had done it for her, not for his girl friend.

Alex wanted to get this over with quickly; the Space Patrol would be there any minute to pick him up and take him to the launching site. But he knew he wouldn't see either of them for years, possibly never, so he resolved to say what he felt in a manner that would be acceptable to all of them.

Not that it mattered if it was acceptable. This was it. This was good-bye.

First he turned to Laura. "Laura, you were a good friend and I loved you dearly, but I need someone who won't try to control me. You deserve someone better."

Laura started to cry bitterly.

Alex turned to his mother. "Mother, you were a good mother. You had high hopes for me and always pushed me to do your best. You deserved a better son."

His mother's eyes filled with tears that threatened to brim over and break rule #435, paragraph 3, line 7, "Thou shalt not cry when thy son threatens to leave thee for another space ship."

Outside, a horn honked loudly. Alex started towards the door. His mother reached out, gently stopped him, and turned him to look into her eyes, so full of pride they could burst. Her smile was so broad and genuine, so full of emotion, that it frightened him.

"Come back with your space suit, or on it, son!" she whispered to him.

She didn't whisper it softly enough, though. "It's your fault he's going on this stupid mission!" Laura screamed at her.

"My fault? I'm proud that he's going on this mission!" Her face took on that horrible I-told-you-so look, the kind of gleeful expression that will drive even an accountant to homicide. "Besides, you heard him—he chose to do it! How is it my fault?"

"You were the one who forced him to go to that stupid Space Academy!" Laura lashed out, trying to blame everyone and everything for her anger and sense of loss.

"Stupid! How dare you! I suppose he would have been better off at that sorry excuse for a professional training school for artists!"

"Yes, he would have been! At least he would have been happy!" Laura retorted.

"Happy? How could he be happy with shameless hussies like you throwing themselves all over him?!?" His mother's face did a fantastic impression of a granite rock. It became so tight with rage and anger that Alex could have played tiddlywinks on it.

"Hussy? Hussy? I'll show you a hussy!" Laura screeched so high his mother's tea cup broke. Laura threw caution, not to mention a priceless picture of General Lee, to the winds.

Alex walked briskly out the door with his suitcase caravan following him all the way. He couldn't wait to get on board that spaceship.

It took both his girl friend and his mother a few minutes to realize that he was leaving.

"Wait, son! You forgot to kiss your poor, dear, old mother good-bye!"

"You also forgot to lass your sweet and wonderful girl friend good-bye!"

Alex continued through the corridor, heading to the loading dock at the end of it.

"I don't think he forgot to kiss you," his mother sneered at Laura.

"What?" she demanded, genuinely hurt.

"He should be more concerned with kissing his mother good-bye!"

"Like hell he should!"

"Don't swear in my home!" his mother gasped.

It was rather like one of those movies where the hero rides off into the sunset with hauntingly beautiful music echoing in the background, Alex thought. Unfortunately, this kind of background noise was not quite what he had pictured.

"It won't be much of a home, now that your son has dumped you!"

"He did not dump me! It was you he couldn't stand! He's sacrificing my love in order to be rid of you!"

"Don't fool yourself! You're nothing but an old hag! It's me he'll miss!"

He heard the crash of porcelain but refused to turn around. It was not his place to worry about either of them, ever again.

"That was a priceless heirloom!" His mother hurled the words like a harpoon.

"Do you know what I think of your priceless heirloom?!?" Laura catapulted back.

Alexander Napoleon MacArthur Grant the First slipped gratefully into the Space Patrol ship and headed for the certain life of the unknown without either his sweet-talking girl friend or his space Spartan mother, setting his foot on the first step of his new life, bound for glory, independence, and blessed peace and quiet.

THE END