As I finished removing my suit (it was covered with dust, and my oxygen tanks were empty), I put my head close to Eva-Lynne’s. “Did he-?”

“I was listening,” she said, finishing my question. We had no time for further conversation, because Sampson snapped, “Let’s go back there!”

I was angry, but I strapped in. In fact, I tried to reassure Eva-Lynne. “It might be nothing,” I said, whispering.

Sampson finished his checklist, and with twenty seconds’ warning, punched the engine start button. With a dull drone, it started up-

Then died. Now the warning lights flashed. “Dammit.” It was the first time I had heard Sampson use profanity. “We’ve got fuel, but we’ve got a leak in the line that runs to the main engine.” Which meant we didn’t have enough energy to get off the surface of the Moon.

I looked at Eva-Lynne; it was her turn to see panic in my face. For a moment she seemed lost. Then that disturbing, yet attractive knowing look appeared on her face, and she leaned close to me. Her hair, stirred by small breezes from the ventilation fans, surrounded me, caressing me. I forgot about the stale odor of the Quicksilver interior as I inhaled perfume.

And felt her warm breath on my neck and her hand on my chest. Her lips brushed my ear. I think I mumbled a syllable of protest. “Sshh,” she said. Then: “Colonel, why don’t you step inside the airlock.”

Sampson didn’t hesitate. With a look on his face that combined disgust and hope, he crawled past us and into the chamber, dogging the hatch.

My straps seemed to unbuckle themselves. Eva-Lynne’s under-garment removed itself, as did mine. I took her in my arms, feeling her breasts against me, her mouth on mine.

Moments later, I fumbled for the tiller, and faster than any rocket, we fired off the Sea of Storms.

That is the inside story of the first human flight to another world. This is, as far as I know, the only record of it. None of the support team talked. I don’t believe many of them knew what our true destination was.

I never saw or heard from Tominbang again, though the relay station was fully operational. Did he survive to make his transactions?

Sampson is now a major general, first chief of the new Space Command. He’ll never talk, at least not until he’s safely retired. He was mortified at witnessing my love-making with Eva-Lynne. (He wouldn’t meet our eyes on the flight home.) An association with our highly-illegal operation would also be bad for his military career, which is going great. He took the lessons he learned from Quicksilver and applied them to a revamped vehicle called the Hornet, which flies into orbit without the need of an assist from a horny deuce.

Nor will you find Eva-Lynne or Cash Mitchell on Paregrine’s Perch telling tales of that first flight to the Moon. Not as long as Warren Skalko lives. Skalko never forgets.

Nevertheless, I am forever grateful for my small role in a secret history. I not only found Eva-Lynne, I learned the truth of her life-long lesson, the one she almost imparted to me on the hillside above Tehachapi-Kern Airport:

Sex trumps all.

FOUR DAYS IN OCTOBER by John J. Miller

MONDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1969: OFF DAY

TOMMY DOWNS kept a straight face as he showed Sister Aquilonia the Ebbets Field press pass his father had obtained for him. It was hard not to smile, but he knew the Sister would deem him insufficiently serious if he did, and deny him leave from school.

Sister Aquilonia, his ninth grade English teacher at Sanguis Christi and the faculty advisor to the school newspaper, The Weekly Gospel, was obviously impressed by the pass, but still needed some convincing to sign him out of school for the day. Tommy didn’t know how he knew that, he just did. He was, he frequently told himself, a good judge of character. It helped when he was hot on a story.

“Well…” Sister Aquilonia stroked her vermillion chin. She used to be a Negro, until the wild card virus had turned her a striking orangey-reddish. Some of the boys said that it had changed her body in other interesting ways, but it was impossible to tell for certain because of her voluminous habit. She did, Tommy noted, smell rather sweet, but he wasn’t sure if that was her actual odor, or some kind of perfume. Nuns, he knew, generally didn’t use perfume, but neither did he remember her smelling so nice before. He thought of complimenting her on it, but something told him not to.

“I gotta get to Ebbets today, Sister,” Tommy pressed his case. “I gotta take advantage of this opportunity. My Dad went through a lot of trouble to get me the pass.”

Tommy’s father was a salesman for a Cadillac dealership over in Manhattan. He was a real wheeler dealer. He knew how to get a little sugar for himself when he closed the deal, or in this case, for his son. Even though Tommy was only in the ninth grade there was no doubt that he was going to be a reporter when he grew up, and he was already working hard to establish his credentials. The Weekly Gospel was only his first step, as he saw it, on his way to journalistic immortality.

“No doubt,” Sister Aquilonia agreed.

Tommy knew he almost had her. “Think of it. I bet I’m the only reporter on a high school paper with a Series press pass. The Gospel will have an exclusive: Inside the World Series through the eyes of Thomas Downs.”

The idea of covering the Series appealed to him largely because it meant four days away from school, four days of freedom untrammeled by nuns and uniforms and kids mostly bigger than himself. Not that Tommy wasn’t a Dodger fan. There was hardly a boy breathing in the city who wasn’t a Dodger fan that summer. Cellar dwellers for as long as Tommy could remember, the Dodgers had somehow catapulted themselves out of the basement and had taken the National League East Division crown. Then they’d beaten the vaunted Milwaukee Braves in the first ever Divisional Series, and, as National League champions, were facing the heavily favored American League champs, the Orioles, in the World Series. They’d already split the first two games in Baltimore. The next three were scheduled Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday for the Dodgers old park in Flatbush, a thirty minute subway ride from Sanguis Christi, in Queens.

“Well…” The nun considered options with agonizing deliberation. “Okay.” Tommy suppressed any signs of glee as Sister Aquilonia scribbled on a release form, tore it off the pad, and handed it to him. “Here’s a pass for the day-good for noon. That should give you plenty of time to get over to Brooklyn and run down your story.”

Tommy hid his disappointment. Only noon? He’d miss less than half the day? Well, he philosophized, that was better than nothing. Knowing he had to stay on the nun’s good side, he pasted a smile on his face. “Thanks, Sister. I’ll get a good story, you’ll see.”

“I’m counting on it.”

“I won’t let you down,” Tommy said, as he pushed open the classroom door and went into the corridor beyond. Let’s see, he thought, first period study hall. The penguin’s note will let me report late. No need to hurry.

Study hall was in the cafeteria. He didn’t hate it, but it was boring. You had to sit there for almost an hour, being quiet, at least pretending you were doing something. He went down the silent, empty corridor, his footsteps echoing loudly. At the intersection he showed his pass to the hall monitor, almost contemptuously. There was no lower form of life at Sanguis Christi than hall monitors. They were all brown noses.

The monitor checked his pass, waved him on. He went down the hall, past the second floor boy’s bathroom. Dare he go in, he wondered? Sometimes you could kill some time with the guys, but sometimes it wasn’t the best place to be, all depending on who was hanging. A sudden urge to pee decided him, and he pushed open the heavy door and ducked inside.