"Anything you want. Doctor."
"The point is, Mr. Secretary, I don't want them. This household has no
clocks. Nor calendars. Once I had a large income and a larger ulcer; I now
have a small income and no ulcer. I stay here."
"But the job needs you."
"The need is not mutual. Do have some more meat loaf."
Since Dad did not want to go to the Moon, the problem was mine. I got
down college catalogs I had collected and started listing engineering
schools. I had no idea how I could pay tuition or even eat-but the first
thing was to get myself accepted by a tough school with a reputation.
If not, I could enlist in the Air Force and try for an appointment. If
I missed, I could become an enlisted specialist in electronics; Lunar Base
used radar and astrar techs. One way or another, I was going.
Next morning at breakfast Dad was hidden behind the New York Times
while Mother read the Herald-Trib. I had the Centerville Clarion but it's
fit only for wrapping salami. Dad looked over his paper at me. "Clifford,
here's something in your line."
"Huh?"
"Don't grunt; that is an uncouth privilege of seniors. This." He handed
it to me.
It was a soap ad.
It announced that tired old gimmick, a gigantic super-colossal prize
contest. This one promised a thousand prizes down to a last hundred, each
of which was a year's supply of Skyway Soap.
Then I spilled cornflakes in my lap. The first prize was- "-AN
ALL-EXPENSE TRIP TO THE MOON!!!"
That's the way it read, with three exclamation points-only to me there
were a dozen, with bursting bombs and a heavenly choir.
Just complete this sentence in twenty-five words or less: "I use Skyway
Soap because . . ." (And send in the usual soap wrapper or reasonable
facsimile.)
There was more about"-joint management of American Express and Thos.
Cook-" and "-with the cooperation of the United States Air Force-" and a
list of lesser prizes. But all I saw, while milk and soggy cereal soaked
my pants, was: "-TRIP TO THE MOON!!!"
