Vietnam and Other Alien Worlds (29 page)

the sullen surly bonds of gravity.

And then in a bar in Cape Kennedy,

a large silent crowd held its beery breath,

watching a flickering screen, where craters

swelled and bobbed and disappeared in sprayed dust,

and Armstrong said “The Eagle has landed,”

(put
that
in your pipe and smoke it, Westy!)

and it was tears and back-slaps and free drinks,

but the next day the Space Junky was where

he'd be for the next seven years, the night

sky hidden by layers of federal

penitentiary.

But iron bars do not

a prison make to a man whose mind is

elsewhere. He was just a little crazy

when he went in—and when he came out

he was the Space Junky, and not much else.

He never missed a launch. When the Shuttle

first flew, he pushed that old Ford from the Cape

to California, to watch a space ship—

a real space ship—come in for a landing.

He watched the silent robot probes go by

every planet save one (well, you can't have

everything), and an asteroid, comets,

countless rings and moons.

In the winter cold

he watched ill fated
Challenger
explode.

Less surprised than most, shook his head, dry-eyed;

he cried years later when it flew again.

The Space Junky saw them lift the Station

piece by piece; saw us go back to the Moon,

from the back of a succession of Ford

station wagons, always old and beat up.

He made enough with cards to get along;

lived pretty well, cooking off a Coleman,

sipping cola, waiting for the next launch.

After some years, they all knew who he was,

engineers, P.I. men, the astronauts

themselves. It was a Russian cosmonaut

who bent over the rusty sands of Mars,

and picked up a pebble for the Space Junky.

They were all sad to find he hadn't lived.

They put the rock in a box with his ashes.

They put the box in low orbit, falling.

It went around the Earth just seven times,

and sketched one bright line in the starry sky

that was his hometown

where he'd not been born

and where he never visited, alive,

but never left.

Time Lapse

At first a pink whirl

there on the white square:

the girl too small to stay still.

After a few years, though

(less than a minute),

her feet stay in the same place.

Her pink body vibrates with undiscipline;

her hair a blond fog. She grows now

perceptibly. Watch…she's seven,

eight, nine: one year each twelve seconds.

Always, now, in the audience,

a man clears his throat.

Always, a man.

Almost every morning

for almost eighteen years,

she came to the small white room,

put her bare feet on the cold floor,

on the pencilled H's,

and stood with her hands palms out

while her father took four pictures:

both profiles, front, rear.

It was their secret. Something

they did for Mommy in heaven,

a record of the daughter

she never lived to see.

By the time she left (rage and something

else driving her to the arms of a woman)

he had over twenty thousand

eight-by-ten glossy prints of her

growing up, locked in white boxes.

He sought out a man with a laser

who some called an artist

(some called a poseur),

with a few quartets of pictures,

various ages: baby, child, woman.

He saw the possibilities.

He paid the price.

It took a dozen Kelly Girls

thirty working hours apiece

to turn those files of pretty pictures

into digits. The artist,

or showman,

fed the digits into his machines,

and out came a square

of white where

in more than three dimensions

a baby girl

grows into a woman

in less than four minutes.

Always a man clears his throat.

The small breasts bud

and swell in seconds. Secret

places grow blond stubble, silk;

each second a spot of blood.

Her stance changes

as hips push out

and suddenly

she puts her hands on her hips.

For the last four seconds,

four months;

a gesture of defiance.

The second time you see her

(no one watches only once),

concentrate on her expression.

The child's ambiguous flicker

becomes uneasy smile,

trembling thirty times a second.

The eyes, a blur at first,

stare fixedly

in obedience

and then

(as the smile hardens)

the last four seconds,

four months:

a glare of rage

All unwilling,

she became the most famous

face and figure of her age.

Everywhere stares.

As if Mona Lisa, shawled,

had walked into the Seven/Eleven…

No wonder she killed her father.

The judge was sympathetic.

The jury wept for her.

They studied the evidence

from every conceivable angle:

Not guilty,

by reason of insanity.

So now she spends her days

listening quietly, staring

while earnest people talk,

trying to help her grow.

But every night she starts to scream

and has to be restrained, sedated,

before she'll let them take her back

to rest

in her small white room.

Editor's Acknowledgments

Our assistant editor was Tim Szczesuil. Boris Friedberg provided valuable assistance with scanning the manuscripts. Our proofreaders were Ann Broomhead, Gay Ellen Dennett, Lisa Hertel, Mark Hertel, Merle Insinga, Rick Katze, Ken Knabbe, Tony Lewis, Rich Maynard, and Sharon Sbarsky. As usual, our final proofreader and copyeditor was the irreplaceable George Flynn. Our contract negotiator was Peggy Thokar. Critical technical assistance and advice were provided by Jim Mann and Mark Olson. Special thanks go to Gay Ellen Dennett for her support and Merle Insinga for her encouragement.

Aron Insinga, Editor

Nashua, NH

December 7, 1992

A Biography of Joe Haldeman

Joe Haldeman is a renowned American science fiction author whose works are heavily influenced by his experiences serving in the Vietnam War and his subsequent readjustment to civilian life.

Haldeman was born on June 9, 1943, to Jack and Lorena Haldeman. His older brother was author Jack C. Haldeman II. Though born in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, Haldeman spent most of his youth in Anchorage, Alaska, and Bethesda, Maryland. He had a contented childhood, with a caring but distant father and a mother who devoted all her time and energy to both sons.