R is for Rocket. Ray Bradbury

at the stars much at all.

      “Let’s go to the television carnival,” I said.

      “Fine,” said Dad.

      Mother smiled at me.

      And we rushed off to town in a helicopter and took Dad through a thousand exhibits, to keep his face and head down with us and not looking anywhere else. And as we laughed at the funny things and looked serious at the serious ones, I thought, My father goes to Saturn and Neptune and Pluto, but he never brings me presents. Other boys whose fathers go into space brings back bits of ore from Callisto and hunks of black meteor or blue sand. But I have to get my own collection, trading from other boys, the Martian rocks and Mercurian sands which filled my room, but about which Dad would never comment.

      On occasion, I remembered, he brought something for Mother. He planted some Martian sunflowers once in our yard, but after he was gone a month and the sunflowers grew large, Mom ran out one day and cut them all down.

      Without thinking, as we paused at one of the three-dimensional exhibits, I asked Dad the question I always asked:

      “What’s it like, out in space?”

      Mother shot me a frightened glance. It was too late.

      Dad stood there for a full half minute trying to find an answer, then he shrugged.

      “It’s the best thing in a lifetime of best things.” Then he caught himself. “Oh, it’s really nothing at all. Routine. You wouldn’t like it.” He looked at me, apprehensively.

      “But you always go back.”

      “Habit.”

      “Where’re you going next?”

      “I haven’t decided yet. I’ll think it over.”

      He always thought it over. In those days rocket pilots were rare and he could pick and choose, work when he liked. On the third night of his homecoming you could see him picking and choosing among the stars.

      “Come on,” said Mother, “let’s go home.”

      It was still early when we got home. I wanted Dad to put on his uniform. I shouldn’t have asked—it always made Mother unhappy—but I could not help myself. I kept at him, though he had always refused. I had never seen him in it, and at last he said, “Oh, all right.”

      We waited in the parlor while he went upstairs in the air flue. Mother looked at me dully, as if she couldn’t believe that her own son could do this to her. I glanced away. “I’m sorry,” I said.

      “You’re not helping at all,” she said. “At all.”

      There was a whisper in the air flue a moment later.

      “Here I am,” said Dad quietly.

      We looked at him in his uniform.

      It was glossy black with silver buttons and silver rims to the heels of the black boots, and it looked as if someone had cut the arms and legs and body from a dark nebula, with little faint stars glowing through it. It fit as close as a glove fits to a slender long hand, and it smelled like cool air and metal and space. It smelled of fire and time.

      Father stood, smiling awkwardly, in the center of the room.

      “Turn around,” said Mother.

      Her eyes were remote, looking at him.

      When he was gone, she never talked of him. She never said anything about anything but the weather or the condition of my neck and the need of a washcloth for it, or the fact that she didn’t sleep nights. Once she said the light was too strong at night.