Free 400 Boys and 50 More by Marc Laidlaw

from the case while Walter Cronkite described the leg of the lunar excursion module.
    The screen showed static.
    “Hope this clears up,” said his dad.
    Cronkite said that they were looking at the lunar surface now. Crestfallen, Jeff peered at the fuzzy image. There was no stunning landscape of sharp horizons and vast craters, no Earth floating moonlike in star-prickled space.
    “It has to get better,” he said.
    “You wish,” said Uncle Lou, crossing to the front door and going out.
    “Jeff,” said his dad, “could I get you to hold the camera?”
    As he stood, his innards lurched from carbonation.
    The screen door squealed, and Mab bounded inside. She leapt onto Jeff, bathing him in slobber while he called for help.
    “Hey, watch the camera!”
    Lou came back in, pulled Mab away, and thrust her outside.
    Eddie, giggling, said, “I don't want to watch the stupid old moon. Isn’t there a game on?”
    “Why don’t you look?” said Uncle Lou.
    “Lou,” said Maddy, “this is the moon.”
    The screen was a flurry of black and white; color TV made no difference. Walter Cronkite’s voice gave way to the faraway hiss of the astronauts. Neil Armstrong said—
    “If you want a better car, go see Cal!”
    Eddie had changed the channel by remote control.
    “Hey!” Jeff shouted.
    “Leave it on the moon,” said their dad. “This is history. ”
    “Yeah,” said Jeff.
    “Well, they're not doing anything yet,” said Jeff’s mother. “It won’t hurt for a minute.”
    Eddie wandered from the TV, oblivious to the condition he had created.
    “Go see Cal, go see Cal, go see Cal!”
    Jeff's dad reached for the knob.
    Lou said, “Wait a minute, Bill. Let's see what this is.”
    “It's a commercial.” Disbelief was plain in his voice. He shook his head and turned back to the moon.
    Jeff saw Maddy lay a hand on Lou's arm and look into his face.
    “Get me another beer,” he said.
    “Get it yourself,” she said.
    “I'm close,” Jeff’s mother said, and ducked into the kitchen.
    The picture wavered like a tapestry of lunar snow and glare, but Jeff was determined to figure it out. He thought he could see ghosts moving in the snow. Then the image settled, and he saw reruns of the Apollo 11 liftoff: a black-and-white torch blasting ramparts aside, flaring high, and dwindling into blue sky. Animated illustrations showed the rocket’s stages parting in flight; the relative distance of the moon; the ship’s orbital path and the loop of its planned return, a dashed infinity sign.
    “What sort of pictures do you think you'll get, Bill?” Lou said.
    “I don’t really know.”
    “Can’t imagine they’ll come out.”
    “Uncle Lou,” Eddie said, “can we see your Vee-nam pictures? You always say you’ll show us your chopper.”
    “Not now.”
    “Why not?” said Maddy. “I’ll get them.”
    He caught her arm, repeating, “Not now. Not with all this.” He gestured with his fresh beer. “It’s bad enough as it is.”
    She drew away from him and went into the kitchen. Jeff watched her open the fridge and stare inside, her face pale. Reaching for a beer, she glanced over, saw him watching her, and smiled.
    “Tuna sandwich, Jeff?” she called.
    “Please.”
    She brought in a foil triangle and sat next to him on the sofa while he unwrapped it.
    “When I go to Mars I'll get you to make my lunches,” he said, chewing.
    “It’s a deal.”
    “And when I get there I’ll send a message to you.”
    “Really? What will you say?”
    “I don’t know. ‘We did it.’”
    She laughed. He offered her half of his sandwich.
    “Your Uncle Lou doesn’t think we should waste energy sending people into space.”
    “Christ,” said Lou.
    “He says we should take care of our problems on Earth before we take off for the moon.”
    “I guess,” said Jeff, saddened. He looked at his uncle, who was watching TV with a surly smile.
    “I don't think he believes in stars anymore.”
    “That's like not believing in