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
flatimage 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."
