Rude Astronauts Read Online Free Page B
Roy intoned.
“No pun intended, of course,” Howie replied, and the three of them chuckled. “Sure, I think about it sometimes. I look at that picture of myself I have on my wall, standing there on the Moon. I look at it when I’m swamped with term papers from the kids. I think, ‘Man, I’d give my right nut to be there again, right now.’” He shrugged. “Then reality sets in. I’m a college teacher. I fly a desk now. I wouldn’t know what to do with a LEM if my life depended on it again.”
“Hmmm.” Dick was quiet for a moment, then he looked over at Roy. “What about you, Eject?”
Roy grinned from ear to ear. “Been a long time since anyone’s called me that.” He picked up his empty bottle. “Anyone want a refill?”
He started to get up, but as if summoned by marital telepathy, the back door opened and Irene walked out, carrying three cold bottles of beer. The three of them looked at her in surprise, and Roy snapped his fingers as she walked up the steps to the deck. Irene gave each man a bottle, bowed from the waist like a harem girl, then faked a swat at Roy’s head before walking back down to the cabin. Roy waited until the back door shut again. “My girl,” he murmured.
“She’s a good woman,” Dick said. There was an unmistakable twinge of sadness and envy in his voice. Roy felt sorry for him. Grace had been with him since he was a teenager hot-rodding F-101s over Edwards Air Force Base, had stuck with him through the Gemini and Apollo years, done the brave-wife-at-home bit for the TV crews when her husband had piloted a LEM to the airless grey surface of the Moon, given him a son … and then, after all those years, split in the middle of the night with a New Age meditation instructor named Hernando. Hell of a note.
Roy sipped his beer, let the cool liquid slide down his throat. “Howie’s got his story, I’ve got mine,” he said. “When I left the bank, there was a going-away party in the office on my last day. You know the routine … big tinsel banner on the wall saying, ‘So long, Roy,’ the secretaries giving you kisses, the champagne, the gold watch and the speech from the CEO, the whole schtick. Well, then, the guy who’s been promoted to my job … practically a kid, your typical Harvard MBA, a yuppie who had just moved over from Paine Webber … glides over to talk with me.”
“Probably looked like Al,” Howie said.
“Yeah,” Roy said, but without laughing. “But without Shep’s qualities. Smug. Shit-eating grin. He’s got my job, ha ha ha. But, y’know, I give him the time and he says the usual stuff about trying to fit into my shoes and carrying the torch …”
Roy took a breath, put his bottle down on the deck. “Then he tries to get funny with the script. He’s grinning at me, and he suddenly says, ‘So, Eject …’”
Dick took a breath. “How’d he know that name?”
“Probably from the Wolfe book, I dunno …”
“Goddamn Wolfe. Bastard started that Right Stuff shit and we’ll never hear the end of it.” Dick took a hit from his beer. “Nobody has the right to call you Eject unless they were there when it happened.”
Roy had once punched out of an X-15 during a flight when its main engine had failed after it was dropped from a B-52. The plane had been lost and Roy had nearly washed out of NASA; the accident had eventually been overlooked when the Apollo team was selected, but the nickname always stuck. “Never mind. So this guys says, ‘So, Eject, what’s next?’ I started to say something about buying this place here, but he doesn’t copy me. He keeps right on talking and …”
Roy stopped, looked off the deck, over the stone chimney of his cabin, at the Moon. A fingernail shaving in the sky; a place where he had once stood. “Well, he says, ‘So … are you heading for the Moon again? If we can open a branch there, let me know.’”
He picked up his beer, but only let it cool his hands. “One look in his face, and I
“No pun intended, of course,” Howie replied, and the three of them chuckled. “Sure, I think about it sometimes. I look at that picture of myself I have on my wall, standing there on the Moon. I look at it when I’m swamped with term papers from the kids. I think, ‘Man, I’d give my right nut to be there again, right now.’” He shrugged. “Then reality sets in. I’m a college teacher. I fly a desk now. I wouldn’t know what to do with a LEM if my life depended on it again.”
“Hmmm.” Dick was quiet for a moment, then he looked over at Roy. “What about you, Eject?”
Roy grinned from ear to ear. “Been a long time since anyone’s called me that.” He picked up his empty bottle. “Anyone want a refill?”
He started to get up, but as if summoned by marital telepathy, the back door opened and Irene walked out, carrying three cold bottles of beer. The three of them looked at her in surprise, and Roy snapped his fingers as she walked up the steps to the deck. Irene gave each man a bottle, bowed from the waist like a harem girl, then faked a swat at Roy’s head before walking back down to the cabin. Roy waited until the back door shut again. “My girl,” he murmured.
“She’s a good woman,” Dick said. There was an unmistakable twinge of sadness and envy in his voice. Roy felt sorry for him. Grace had been with him since he was a teenager hot-rodding F-101s over Edwards Air Force Base, had stuck with him through the Gemini and Apollo years, done the brave-wife-at-home bit for the TV crews when her husband had piloted a LEM to the airless grey surface of the Moon, given him a son … and then, after all those years, split in the middle of the night with a New Age meditation instructor named Hernando. Hell of a note.
Roy sipped his beer, let the cool liquid slide down his throat. “Howie’s got his story, I’ve got mine,” he said. “When I left the bank, there was a going-away party in the office on my last day. You know the routine … big tinsel banner on the wall saying, ‘So long, Roy,’ the secretaries giving you kisses, the champagne, the gold watch and the speech from the CEO, the whole schtick. Well, then, the guy who’s been promoted to my job … practically a kid, your typical Harvard MBA, a yuppie who had just moved over from Paine Webber … glides over to talk with me.”
“Probably looked like Al,” Howie said.
“Yeah,” Roy said, but without laughing. “But without Shep’s qualities. Smug. Shit-eating grin. He’s got my job, ha ha ha. But, y’know, I give him the time and he says the usual stuff about trying to fit into my shoes and carrying the torch …”
Roy took a breath, put his bottle down on the deck. “Then he tries to get funny with the script. He’s grinning at me, and he suddenly says, ‘So, Eject …’”
Dick took a breath. “How’d he know that name?”
“Probably from the Wolfe book, I dunno …”
“Goddamn Wolfe. Bastard started that Right Stuff shit and we’ll never hear the end of it.” Dick took a hit from his beer. “Nobody has the right to call you Eject unless they were there when it happened.”
Roy had once punched out of an X-15 during a flight when its main engine had failed after it was dropped from a B-52. The plane had been lost and Roy had nearly washed out of NASA; the accident had eventually been overlooked when the Apollo team was selected, but the nickname always stuck. “Never mind. So this guys says, ‘So, Eject, what’s next?’ I started to say something about buying this place here, but he doesn’t copy me. He keeps right on talking and …”
Roy stopped, looked off the deck, over the stone chimney of his cabin, at the Moon. A fingernail shaving in the sky; a place where he had once stood. “Well, he says, ‘So … are you heading for the Moon again? If we can open a branch there, let me know.’”
He picked up his beer, but only let it cool his hands. “One look in his face, and I
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