CHAPTER 2
First I went sky-high with excitement . . . then as far down with depression. I didn't win contests—why, if I bought a box of Cracker Jack, I'd get one they forgot to put a prize in. I had been cured of matching pennies. If I ever—
"Stop it," said Dad.
I shut up.
"There is no such thing as luck; there is only adequate or inadequate preparation to cope with a statistical universe. Do you intend to enter this?"
"Do I!"
"I assume that to be affirmative. Very well, make a systematic effort."
I did and Dad was helpful—he didn't just offer me more meat loaf. But he saw to it that I didn't go to pieces; I finished school and sent off applications for college and kept my job—I was working after school that semester at Charton's Pharmacy—soda jerk, but also learning about pharmacy. Mr. Charton was too conscientious to let me touch anything but packaged items, but I learned—materia medica and nomenclature and what various antibiotics were for and why you had to be careful. That led into organic chemistry and biochemistry and he lent me Walker, Boyd and Asimov—biochemistry makes atomic physics look simple, but presently it begins to make sense.
Mr. Charton was an old widower and pharmacology was his life. He hinted that someone would have to carry on the pharmacy someday—some young fellow with a degree in pharmacy and devotion to the profession. He said that he might be able to help such a person get through school. If he had suggested that I could someday run the dispensary at Lunar Base, I might have taken the bait. I explained that I was dead set on spacing, and engineering looked like my one chance.
He didn't laugh. He said I was probably right—but that I shouldn't forget that wherever Man went, to the Moon, on Mars, or the farthest stars, pharmacists and dispensaries would go along. Then he dug out books for me on space medicine—Strughold and Haber and Stapp and others. "I once had ideas along that line, Kip," he said quietly, "but now it's too late."
Even though Mr. Charton was not really interested in anything but drugs, we sold everything that drugstores sell, from bicycle tires to home permanent kits.
Including soap, of course.
We were selling darned little Skyway Soap; Centerville is conservative about new brands—I'll bet some of them made their own soap. But when I showed up for work that day I had to tell Mr. Charton about it. He dug out two dust-covered boxes and put them on the counter. Then he phoned his jobber in Springfield.
He really did right by me. He marked Skyway Soap down almost to cost and pushed it—and he almost always got the wrappers before he let the customer go. Me, I stacked a pyramid of Skyway Soap on each end of the fountain and every coke was accompanied by a spiel for good old Skyway, the soap that washes cleaner, is packed with vitamins, and improves your chances of Heaven, not to mention its rich creamy lather, finer ingredients, and refusal to take the Fifth Amendment. Oh, I was shameless! Anybody who got away without buying was deaf or fast on his feet.
If he bought soap without leaving the wrappers with me he was a magician. Adults I talked out of it; kids, if I had to, I paid a penny for each wrapper. If they brought in wrappers from around town, I paid a dime a dozen and threw in a cone. The rules permitted a contestant to submit any number of entries as long as each was written on a Skyway Soap wrapper or reasonable facsimile.
I considered photographing one and turning out facsimiles by the gross, but Dad advised me not to. "It is within the rules, Kip, but I've never yet known a skunk to be welcome at a picnic."
So I sold soap. And I sent in wrappers with slogans: "I use Skyway Soap because—
—it makes me feel so clean."
—highway or byway, there's no soap like Skyway!"
—its quality is sky-high."
—it is pure as the Milky Way."
—it is pure as Interstellar Space."
—it leaves me fresh as a rain-swept sky."
And so on endlessly, until I tasted soap in my dreams.
Not just my own slogans either; Dad thought them up, and so did Mother and Mr. Charton. I kept a notebook and wrote them down in school or at work or in the middle of the night. I came home one evening and found that Dad had set up a card file for me and after that I kept them alphabetically to avoid repeating. A good thing, too, for toward the last I sent in as many as a hundred a day. Postage mounted, not to mention having to buy some wrappers.
Other kids in town were in the contest and probably some adults, but they didn't have the production line I had. I'd leave work at ten o'clock, hurry home with the day's slogans and wrappers, pick up more slogans from Dad and Mother, then use a rubber stamp on the inside of each wrapper: "I use Skyway Soap because—" with my name and address. As I typed, Dad filled out file cards. Each morning I mailed the bunch on my way to school.
I got laughed at but the adults most inclined to kid me were quickest to let me have their wrappers.
All but one, an oaf called "Ace" Quiggle. I shouldn't class Ace as an adult; he was an over-age juvenile delinquent. I guess every town has at least one Ace. He hadn't finished Centerville High, a distinction since Mr. Hanley believed in promoting everybody "to keep age groups together." As far back as I remember Ace hung around Main Street, sometimes working, mostly not.
He specialized in "wit." He was at our fountain one day, using up two dollars' worth of space and time for one thirty-five-cent malt. I had just persuaded old Mrs. Jenkins to buy a dozen cakes and had relieved her of the wrappers. As she left, Ace picked one off my counter display and said, "You're selling these, Space Cadet?"
"That's right, Ace. You'll never find such a bargain again."
"You expect to go to the Moon, just selling soap, Captain? Or should I say 'Commodore'? Yuk yuk yukkity yuk!" That's how Ace laughed, like a comic strip.
"I'm trying," I said politely. "How about some?"
"You're sure it's good soap?"
"Positive."
"Well, I'll tell you. Just to help you out—I'll buy one bar."
A plunger. But this might be the winning wrapper. "Sure thing, Ace. Thanks a lot." I took his money, he slipped the cake into his pocket and started to leave. "Just a second, Ace. The wrapper. Please?"
He stopped. "Oh, yes." He took out the bar, peeled it, held up the wrapper. "You want this?"
"Yes, Ace. Thanks."
"Well, I'll show you how to get the best use out of it." He reached across to the cigar lighter on the tobacco counter and set fire to it, lit a cigarette with it, let the wrapper burn almost to his fingers, dropped it and stepped on it.
Mr. Charton watched from the window of the dispensary.
Ace grinned. "Okay, Space Cadet?"
I was gripping the ice-cream scoop. But I answered, "Perfectly okay, Ace. It's your soap."
Mr. Charton came out and said, "I'll take the fountain, Kip. There's a package to deliver."
That was almost the only wrapper I missed. The contest ended May 1 and both Dad and Mr. Charton decided to stock up and cleaned out the last case in the store. It was almost eleven before I had them written up, then Mr. Charton drove me to Springfield to get them postmarked before midnight.
I had sent in five thousand seven hundred and eighty-two slogans. I doubt if Centerville was ever so scrubbed.
The results were announced on the Fourth of July. I chewed my nails to the elbows in those nine weeks. Oh, other things happened. I graduated and Dad and Mother gave me a watch and we paraded past Mr. Hanley and got our diplomas. It felt good, even though what Dad had persuaded me to learn beat what I learned at dear old Center six ways from zero. Before that was Sneak Day and Class Honeymoon and Senior Prom and the Class Play and the Junior-Senior Picnic and all the things they do to keep the animals quiet. Mr. Charton let me off early if I asked, but I didn't ask often as my mind wasn't on it and I wasn't going steady anyhow. I had been earlier in the year, but she—Elaine McMurty—wanted to talk boys and clothes and I wanted to talk space and engineering so she put me back into circulation.
After graduation I worked for Mr. Charton full time. I still didn't know how I was going to college. I didn't think about it; I just dished sundaes and held my breath until the Fourth of July.
It was to be on television at 8 p.m. We had a TV—a black and white flat-image job—but it hadn't been turned on in months; after I built it I lost interest. I dug it out, set it up in the living room and tested the picture. I killed a couple of hours adjusting it, then spent the rest of the day chewing nails. I couldn't eat dinner. By seven-thirty I was in front of the set, not-watching a comedy team and fiddling with my file cards. Dad came in, looked sharply at me, and said, "Take a grip on yourself, Kip. Let me remind you again that the chances are against you."
I gulped. "I know, Dad."
"Furthermore, in the long run it won't matter. A man almost always gets what he wants badly enough. I am sure you will get to the Moon someday, one way or another."
"Yes, sir. I just wish they would get it over with."
"They will. Coming, Emma?"
"Right away, dearest," Mother called back. She came in, patted my hand, and sat down.
Dad settled back. "Reminds me of election nights."
Mother said, "I'm glad you're no longer up to your ears in that."
"Oh, come now, sweetheart, you enjoyed every campaign."
Mother sniffed.
The comics went back where comics go, cigarettes did a cancan, then dived into their packs while a soothing voice assured us that carcinogenous factors were unknown in Coronets, the safe, Safe, SAFE smoke with the true tobacco flavor. The program cut to the local station; we were treated to a thrilling view of Center Lumber & Hardware and I started pulling hairs out of the back of my hand.
The screen filled with soap bubbles; a quartet sang that this was the Skyway Hour, as if we didn't know. Then the screen went blank and sound cut off and I swallowed my stomach.
The screen lighted up with: "Network Difficulty—Do Not Adjust Your Sets."
I yelped, "Oh, they can't do that! They can't!"
Dad said, "Stop it, Clifford."
I shut up. Mother said, "Now, dearest, he's just a boy."
Dad said, "He is not a boy; he is a man. Kip, how do you expect to face a firing squad calmly if this upsets you?"
I mumbled; he said, "Speak up." I said I hadn't really planned on facing one.
"You may need to, someday. This is good practice. Try the Springfield channel; you may get a skip image."
I tried, but all I got was snow and the sound was like two cats in a sack. I jumped back to our local station.
"—jor General Bryce Gilmore, United States Air Force, our guest tonight, who will explain to us, later in this program, some hitherto unreleased pictures of Federation Lunar Base and the infant Luna City, the fastest growing little city on the Moon. Immediately after announcing the winners we will attempt a television linkage with Lunar Base, through the cooperation of the Space Corps of the—"
I took a deep breath and tried to slow my heartbeat, the way you steady down for a free-throw in a tie game. The gabble dragged on while celebrities were introduced, the contest rules were explained, an improbably sweet young couple explained to each other why they always used Skyway Soap. My own sales talks were better.
At last they got to it. Eight girls paraded out; each held a big card over her head. The M.C. said in an awe-struck voice: "And now . . . and now—the winning Skyway slogan for the . . . FREE TRIP TO THE MOON!"
I couldn't breathe.
The girls sang, "I like Skyway Soap because—" and went on, each turning her card as a word reached her:
"—it . . . is . . . as . . . pure . . . as . . . the . . . sky . . . itself!"
I was fumbling cards. I thought I recognized it but couldn't be sure—not after more than five thousand slogans. Then I found it—and checked the cards the girls were holding.
"Dad! Mother! I've won, I've won!"