The electronic chime of his wristwatch alarm sounded in Bobby's dreams. A warning panel buzzer from his interstellar exploration ship. Captain Bobby Barnes was at the helm of the pride and joy of the Terran fleet. He was skillfully weaving the huge vessel through a treacherous asteroid belt when his mother's voice came over the warp-drive radio.

"Turn that thing off! It's driving me nuts. Did you hear me?"

Bobby woke to the sound of his mother pounding on the wall in the next room. He reached over and took his watch from the nightstand. A button silenced it. Seven-thirty. He jumped out of bed, fully clothed, and retrieved his thick-lensed glasses from the dresser. Able to see everything clearly now, he looked out the apartment window. The sun was coming up nicely. Not a cloud in the sky. A great summer day.

He tiptoed quietly out of the little room, trying hard not to bother his mother any more. In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator and peered inside. Over the top of a twelve-pack of beer, he eyed the bottle of orange juice. Enough left for one glass. Not enough, but enough to hold him until lunch. After downing the juice and tossing the empty bottle into the trash, he took an old burlap sack from the closet and headed out the back door.

The housing project's grounds were practically deserted at this time of the day; everyone was sleeping one off. The marauding kids that bothered him were still in bed and the winos were still in their hiding places. It was the optimum time to pick up cans from the previous night's parties. He followed the sidewalk down the hill to the large city park just on the outskirts of the project. It was a different place during the day, no police cars and ambulances lighting up the trees with their kaleidoscopes of light. He picked up cans as he walked along the asphalt path. Meant for joggers who never used it, the path ran completely around the big park, and Bobby could cover it all in less than an hour.

Terence Risinger watched the boy cross the courtyard and disappear into the weeds at the far end. Every summer day it was the same; the boy left early in the morning with an empty sack and came home later with the sack bulging from his treasure. Terence took a long drag on his cigarette as he watched the sun begin to peek over the top of the apartment building to his right. His day had begun a long time ago, and he braced himself for the rest of it.

Bobby was the first person at the recycling center as it opened. The attendant saw him standing there as he unlocked the gate.

"Up and at 'em again early, huh son?" the old man greeted Bobby with a grin and his usual salutation.

Bobby smiled and nodded. The man took the sack and emptied the cans onto a scale. On a greasy calculator, he figured Bobby's pay. "That's a pretty good haul you got today, son," he said as he dug in his pocket. "Almost a full pound. That'll come to an even quarter."

He flipped the coin to Bobby, who dropped it as usual. He picked it up and put it carefully into his pocket, then turned around. "See you tomorrow," Bobby said as he waved. The attendant waved back.

Bobby pulled the accumulated change from his pocket and counted it just to make sure. Just like he had figured, he finally had enough. He smiled as he ran down the sidewalk toward the center of town.

It was Heaven. The little hobby shop was filled with the scents that gave Bobby joy: airplane glue, balsa wood, the strange aroma of electricity as it pumped through the model train tracks. The entry bell jingled as he entered the shop and headed toward the back. Nothing new on the plastic model shelves; but Bobby had built all of those he wanted to. Still, he liked to look at the boxes.

Mr. Fleming had not added anything new to his model train diorama of the Santa Fe Station, circa 1867.

"Well, hello there, young man," Mr. Fleming bellowed as he saw his customer bounce up to the counter. "Haven't seen you in awhile. You must be back for that paint assortment, huh?"

Bobby smiled and nodded.

Mr. Fleming smiled, too. He went to the paint and solvent cabinet and unlocked it. Bobby stared intently as Mr. Fleming pulled out a little carton with eight small bottles of model paint. He placed it gently on the counter. Bobby eyed it closely, making sure it was the right assortment. It was.

"That what ya need?" Mr. Fleming asked, knowing full well it was; he had put it aside for the boy the last time he was here.

Bobby nodded vigorously.

"Okay, then," he continued, punching the buttons on his cash register. "With taxes and everything, that comes to three dollars and fifty-seven cents." Mr. Fleming watched the joy fade from Bobby's face.

The taxes. He hadn't figured the taxes. Nine-year-olds don't worry about taxes. Bobby sighed and placed the box back on the counter. "Sorry, Mr. Fleming, but…"

"Holy smoke!" Mr. Fleming said, "I almost forgot." He slapped his forehead. "The Preferred Customer Discount. You qualify, seeing as you come in so much and all. It's ten percent. Let me figure this again." He pretended to punch more buttons. "Well, says here the actual amount is three dollars and twenty cents. How's that?"

Life filled Bobby's face once more. "I have that!" He took the change from his pocket and carefully counted it as he placed it in front of Mr. Fleming. He had a nickel to spare.

"Oh, yeah," Mr. Fleming said as he put the paint assortment into a bag, "I have a free giveaway this week for paint purchases: a free bottle of thinner and a brush."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding. It's only for Preferred Customers, though; I can't do it with everybody. So go over there and pick out a brush from the low rack while I get your bottle of thinner." Bobby ran to the brush rack and picked out a fine detail brush. Mr. Fleming tossed it into the sack with the tiny bottle of paint thinner.

"Thank you!" Bobby said as he turned and scampered out of the store. Mr. Fleming smiled and waved at the running boy, then went back to his inventory count.

Terence peered out his window as the boy crossed the courtyard in a fast jog, heading toward his building. Classical music played softly from the kitchen as Terence sat there alone and watched the drama of project life unfold in the courtyard. He knew the boy's mother was up and about; he had seen her through her kitchen window. She was probably in there for some ice and aspirin, nursing that hangover again. She'd yell at the boy when he came in, making noise like boys do. Terence took a long drag on his cigarette.

Bobby's mother heard the thunk of the back screen door as it slapped home. "Where have you been?" she yelled when she heard Bobby's footsteps. "You start running with those punks out there and you'll wind up in jail like your dad. And don't bother calling me when it happens; I'll leave you to rot in there. You hear me?" She pried her gaze from the television and peered over her shoulder as Bobby passed behind her and headed to his room. "Whatcha got there? More of your stuff? You sure know how to waste money. Just like your father. Just like him." She turned back to the T.V.

Bobby closed the door to his room softly behind him. He opened his hobby shop bag and emptied the contents on the bed. He took the items and carefully arranged them on a makeshift worktable he had fashioned from old fruit crates he had found near the farmer's market. Beaming, he turned back to his bed and looked up. Above his bed, a half-dozen model rockets hung from the ceiling on fishing line. Some were completed; authentic paint jobs and NASA decals adorned these. The others were in various states of construction. Some waited for parts he would have to buy later when he saved enough money. But only one of his rockets needed paint. He jumped from the bed and went to the closet. He reached in and carefully removed a large cardboard box. Printed across the side in felt tip pen was "TOP SECRET." He carried the box to his worktable and opened it. Inside was his latest and most ambitious project.

The rocket company catalog had suggested this model was "for advanced rocketeers only." Bobby ordered it, anyway, even though he only had a few completed models under his belt. He reached inside and pulled it out: an exact replica of the space shuttle America, complete with booster rockets. He placed it on the workbench, opened his paints and began to work.

When the paint fumes began to make him a bit sick to his stomach, Bobby put the shuttle aside. He stood on his bed and untied one of his completed rockets, the Mark IV Novice. He studied the crude workmanship. Overflows of glue around the fins, the yellow and black paint job full of bubbles and blobs. He marveled at how much his skills had improved. The shuttle had none of those flaws. Feeling the urge of flight, he carried the rocket to the kitchen. The television was off; his mother had left sometime that afternoon. No goodbye. He locked the back door behind him as he went outside.

Terence saw the boy walk through the courtyard, rocket in hand. He moved the rocket in arcs around him as he made engine noises. Terence eyed the rocket closely. Soon there was nothing before his eyes but that toy. The courtyard faded away. His palms began to sweat and his heart raced. Suddenly, he was in the jungle. Along a sloppy trail he walked, the stench of rotting vegetation filling his nose. Footsteps in the muck followed him, the rest of his patrol. The quiet of the foliage was shattered by the onslaught of enemy gunfire. Green tracer bullets ripped through the air past him. Instinctively, he began to run toward the ambush as his training had taught him to do. He dove to the ground again and again, firing his weapon each time, then dashing to another position. The roar of fort automatic rifles filled the jungle as bullets ripped through the plants. Birds and monkeys screamed in protest. Men screamed in pain behind him. Terence caught the image of the enemy soldier as he raised above a low rise fifty yards away. Terence fixed on the soldier as he shouldered a weapon and aimed it toward him. Fixed in the optical sight of the enemy's RPG rocket launcher, Terence watched the scene unfold in slow motion. He turned to run, to find some cover. He slipped in the mire and fell. He turned back to the enemy and saw the spark of the rocket's igniter. With a deafening crack, the Russian-made projectile left the launcher and streaked toward him. In a split-second of absolute terror, Terence watched as the rocket sped toward him and impacted the ground just a few yards away. He remembered how strange the jungle looked as he flew through the foliage as if a giant hand had slapped his body. He landed face-first in the mud, a dozen shards of white-hot steel burning in his body. He tried to run but couldn't feel his legs. Pain shot through him, and an involuntary scream rose into the canopy.

Terence lay there an hour, his blood mingling with the mud. But the enemy vanished as quickly as they had come, and his brothers pulled him from the mud and put him on an evacuation helicopter. Electric jolts of pain racked him as they flew to safety. The chaos of the hospital enveloped him as he was thrown into an operating room. As they cut off his clothes, he remembered grabbing a young doctor by his collar and pulling him close.

"Please kill me."

"Please don't," Bobby pleaded to the teenager as the youth threw his rocket to the ground and stepped on it. Terence snapped back to his world, only to see three of the local thugs take turns punching the rocket boy. Without thinking, he slapped the control arm of his wheelchair. The chair jerked as the motor engaged, propelling the chair toward his back door. He threw open the door and raced outside.

The three punks turned their attention away from Bobby as they heard Terence approach. The bearded para wheeled maniacally toward them. "The Psycho!" one of them shouted. The three stared at Terence for a moment; none had ever seen him outside before.

"Leave the boy alone," Terence growled. He knew his reputation, even though he didn't deserve it. But it was good to have a reputation in this place. "Or I'll kill all of you. And your families."

The youths dropped Bobby and took off in a dead run across the courtyard. Terence pushed the lever and rolled over to the injured boy. He leaned over and picked up Bobby's glasses.

"You okay, kid?"

The humiliation evident on his face, Bobby sat up. Blood ran from his nose and began to dribble onto his NASA T-shirt. He accepted his glasses from Terence.

"Yeah, I'm okay." He put the glasses on; they were bent. He thought of what his mother would do when she saw them. He began to sob.

"You shouldn't come outside when they're around; you should know better than that by now. You're lucky this time."

Bobby quit sobbing and stared at The Psycho. It was nearly a hundred degrees outside, but the guy was wearing a green army jacket, the same one he always wore. Cold blue eyes peered out through a mane of scraggly hair and an unkempt beard.

"I'm sorry," Bobby managed to mumble.

Terence turned and motored to his apartment, muttering under his breath. Bobby watched the wheelchair disappear into the back door.

"Thanks, " Bobby said as the door slammed shut. He gathered the pieces of his rocket and thought about what had just happened. The abuse was something he was used to: a day in the life of a nerd in the projects. But to see The Psycho, well, that was an extraordinary event. Like the punks, Bobby had never seen him outside before. He only saw his bearded face as he stared out over the courtyard, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Everyone was deathly afraid of him. Stories drifted through the complex about this crazy man. He had killed a hundred people in Vietnam. He had a place full of guns and bombs and was ready to kill everyone around. He had been in the crazy house for shooting someone when he came back from the war. But for some reason, Bobby wasn't afraid of him. In fact, The Psycho's cold, steely gaze actually gave the boy a feeling of comfort, like he was some sort of guardian angel sent there to protect him. After what happened today, Bobby thought that maybe he was…

He carried the pieces of the model back to his room, where he cleaned the blood from his face and changed shirts. A few twists with a pair of needle-nose pliers straightened his bent glasses; at least enough so his mother wouldn't notice. He dumped the pieces of his prize Mark IV Novice into a box labeled "SPARE PARTS."

He walked to the kitchen, now dark and cool as the sun was going down. He looked for a light in The Psycho's apartment, but the blinds were drawn.

Bobby finished his can hunt at the usual time the next day. It would be a few more weeks of collecting before he had enough for another trip to the hobby store. In the interim, he would fill his hours with research and daydreaming at the library. The city was well into mid-morning by the time he reached the building, an old deco structure of marble and limestone. In its shadow the air was cool and breezy. The big brass door required a heavy push with both hands. The checkout lady smiled as he went past; he shyly looked down at his shoes.

The main room was icy cold as Bobby hit the stairs and headed down to the basement level. In this area was the Technology and Science section, a place where Bobby found new ideas. As he passed one of the huge support pillars, something caught his eye. A poster taped to the marble.

ROCKETRY EXPO

WHEN: SATURDAY, JULY 4 10AM

WHERE: RIVER PARK, WEST OF MAIN STREET

WHO: YOU!!!!

HOW: REGISTER NOW AT ANY LIBRARY OR PARKS BRANCH OFFICE

FREE ** FREE ** FREE ** FREE ** FREE ** FREE

GRAND PRIZE: 3-DAY TRIP TO NASA IN HOUSTON!

OTHER PRIZES, TOO! ASK FOR A COPY OF CONTEST RULES.

Bobby's heart began to pound. He knew that the city's rocketry club sponsored an annual show, but it was usually in a park on the rich part of town. But this year it would be in the park next to the projects, in his own back yard.

He turned and dashed up the stairs to the checkout counter.

"I need to register for the rocket show!" he said breathlessly to the checkout lady.

"I thought about you when I put up those signs; you and all your rocket and space books," the lady said as she reached under the counter. She pulled out an application and a pencil. "Go over there and fill that out; I'll give you a copy of the rules when you bring it back to me."

"Okay!" Bobby squealed as he ran to the table. The lady smiled. In a few minutes it was done, and he handed the document back to her. She handed him a copy of the rules.

"Thanks!" he said as he darted away, reading the rules as he ran.

"Good luck, spaceman!" she shouted after him.

Bobby walked toward home on autopilot, reading the rules as he went. Rules 1 through 5 were okay; he met the requirements. At rule 6 he stopped dead in his tracks. An invisible pin pricked him, and he felt his hope and joy begin to leak from him like helium from a balloon.

"All rockets must be functional. Each must be fired successfully on the day of the contest. Rockets that are not airworthy will not be included in the judging."

Bobby's heart sank. He had never fired one of his rockets before.

Terence watched the boy on his back porch, waiting on his mother to return from wherever it was she went every day. At dusk she finally arrived, wobbly as usual. The boy stood up and greeted her. The woman's slurred voice carried across the courtyard to Terence's window.

"A twelve-volt battery? That again? We've been through this a hundred times; I'm not buying you a battery. They cost too much. Especially for something as stupid as those rockets of yours."

"But it takes one to fire the rocket motors, mom," Bobby pleaded. "The rules for the contest say I have to launch the rocket before it can get into the contest. I already built a launch pad, and I even have a pack of rocket motors. All I need is the battery. Please?"

The woman pushed past him and entered the kitchen. The boy followed her. Terence watched her through the window as she put a twelve-pack into the refrigerator, removing one before she closed the door. She rubbed the can across her forehead as she looked down at her boy and patted his head.

"Okay. I'll get you one." Bobby put his arms around her and hugged her tightly.

"Thanks, mom. Let's go tomorrow and get it, okay?"

"Tomorrow? No way," she said as she chuckled. "I don't have that kind of money right now. You'll have to wait until I get paid first."

"But the contest is next Saturday," Bobby explained as he pushed his glasses further up his nose.

"That's fine; I get paid on Friday. We'll go get it after I get off work, okay?"

"Great!" Bobby beamed.

"Now go on and play; mommy's got a headache." She patted Bobby on the head and sat in her chair by the TV. Bobby ran to his room. Terence watched the woman flick on the TV as the warm night air began to creep through his window screen.

"Yeah, right," he muttered as he reached for the blinds. "He'll get a new battery like I'll get a new pair of legs." Suddenly, the light flicked on in the kid's room. Terence took his hand from the cord and watched as the boy went to his closet and took out a box. The kid bent over out of sight and then stood up with a model space shuttle. Terence squinted to get a better focus on the model; it was fantastic.

"Mind your own business," he growled to himself as he dropped the blinds.

Friday, or as Bobby was calling it, "T-minus twenty-four," arrived quickly. He had nearly finished the prize of his fleet. He was pasting on the last decal as he looked at his clock. Nine o'clock.

"Oh, no," he said, getting up and looking into the dark apartment. His mother should have been home hours ago. He went to the window and looked outside, hoping to see her on the sidewalk. She wasn't there. He felt like crying, but took a deep breath instead and went to his room. Hope fueled his energy as he put the final touches on his model. Terence watched the boy look out his window again. His mother still hadn't returned as she promised. Terence saw her meet a man out in the courtyard earlier in the afternoon. She left with the guy while the kid worked in his room. She obviously had more important things to do.

He turned from the window and maneuvered through the tiny apartment. In the old days, he would have paced. He had not felt this way in many years. The pain of the young boy seemed to travel into him like osmosis, crossing the courtyard and entering his soul. It ripped into his heart, through the hard shell in which he had encased himself. From the wound poured emotions and feelings that had been deeply buried inside, feelings he thought had died in that jungle so many years before…

At nine the next morning, Terence looked out his window and saw the rocket boy sitting on the rear steps. In his lap was a big cardboard box. Barely able to see over it, the boy peered intently at the sidewalk in the direction from which his mother usually came home. Terence looked there, too. No one was there. In his own lap, Terence clutched a box of his own. He gripped the little yellowed box tightly. Inside the boy's box and his were dreams. Dreams of the past and dreams of the future.

At nine-thirty, Bobby had given up hope. He choked back a sob and stood up with his precious box. He decided to walk down to the contest, anyway, even though he wouldn't be allowed to compete. At least he would be able to see the other boys fly their rockets. As he crossed the courtyard, he glanced over at The Psycho's window. It was vacant. Today, even his guardian angel seemed to have deserted him.

The rocketeers were arriving in small groups as Bobby walked to the big clearing that had been roped off for the contest. He didn't know why he did it, but he fell in line behind the others. At a table, a man asked his name and he gave it to him. The man found Bobby's name on a list and handed him a sticker with the number 38 written on it.

"Put this on your shirt, kid," the man said as he looked behind Bobby. "You here with anybody? You have to have an adult with you for the launch."

Bobby turned red. He glanced around and saw all the other boys and girls with their parents.

"Uh, yes," he stammered, "My dad's still at the car. He'll be here in a minute."

"Okay, just make sure he signs up when he gets here." Bobby nodded and quickly walked away.

Feeling as if every eye in the park were watching him, he scanned the grounds for a place to sit where no one could see him. He saw a large oak that bordered the edge of the clearing. With his head down, he made a beeline for the tree. He put the box on the ground and sat next to it, his arm resting on the cardboard. In the clearing, boys and their fathers were setting up their launchers. He marveled at the variety of the entries; every conceivable design and color was out in that field. But there wasn't one shuttle. In his heart, he knew that his rocket could match the craftsmanship and beauty of any of them. But no one would see it. A voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Whatcha got?" the boy said as Bobby turned to see who it was. "Let me see."

Bobby shyly opened the box without a word. "Wow!" the other boy said. "Hey, dad; come look at this!" The boy's father walked up and looked into the box at Bobby's beloved shuttle.

"Hey, looks good," the man said as he put his arm around his son, "but you don't intend to launch that thing, do you?"

Bobby just shrugged.

"I read where those models were prone to crash and burn; they're too top heavy." The duo walked toward the clearing. Bobby could hear the boy giggling as the man whispered something in his ear.

Crash and burn.

"Perfect," Bobby uttered as he closed up the box. He could be back at his apartment before anything started.

"Don't close up yet," a deep voice boomed. Bobby looked up to see the source of the comment. Sitting proudly in his wheelchair just a few feet away was a large man dressed in khaki pants and a Hawaiian shirt. He was clean-shaven all over; even his head was nearly bald. On top of his head was a dark green beret with a strange yellow crest on front. Bobby peered into the man's face. Something about the man's eyes was familiar.

"Psycho?" Bobby asked quietly.

The man laughed. "Yeah, that's me. But call me Terence, okay?" He held out a big hand to Bobby. Bobby shook it. "I hear you have a battery problem."

Confused, Bobby looked down at the box.

"Well, yeah. I don't have one."

"That could be a problem," Terence confirmed. "But like all problems, kid, there are solutions." Terence spun his wheelchair around and pointed over his shoulder. Bobby followed his lead and looked at the bottom of the chair. Twin car batteries.

"I've got two of them. 24 volts, kid. All the juice you need." Bobby stood there with his mouth open, not knowing quite what to do. Terence spun back around. "You got the rest of the stuff?" he asked the boy. Bobby nodded. "Well, let's go."

Terence motored toward the clearing. Bobby grabbed the box and ran after him. As they passed the crash-and-burn father and son team, the father quipped, "You had better go last, kid; we don't want that thing to blow up the park."

Terence glared at the man and said, "Kiss off, bozo, or that rocket won't be the only thing in orbit around here." The man stood in disbelief as they went past. Terence stopped just a few feet from them and directed Bobby to set up the launcher. "This looks like a good spot," he said as he stared at the man. "As good a place to die as any." He smiled maniacally at them. They picked up their launcher and went away. Bobby giggled.

From his box, he lifted the shuttle and placed it gingerly on the ground. Heads turned. Underneath it was a piece of plywood covered in sheet metal. A long welding rod jutted up from the center. Underneath were four large wood screws to sink into the ground.

"Nice launcher," Terence commented.

"Thanks." Bobby carefully slipped the shuttle's guide tubes onto the rod. The rocket stopped on a washer that Bobby had soldered a few inches from the pad.

A man with a megaphone started calling out instructions.

Bobby hurriedly inserted the igniters into the shuttle's main engines. He pulled the igniter wires to a wooden block that projected from the pad and wrapped the leads carefully around two wing nuts. From the box he pulled two long wires with alligator clips on each end.

"All participants must stand outside the clearing until it is your turn to launch," the megaphone man said.

"Okay, kid," Terence said as Bobby let the wires fall to the ground. "Let's go wait our turn."

One by one, the megaphone man called out numbers. A team would go out into the clearing and hook up their battery. After hooking up their wires, the main rocketeer would flip the switch. With a loud whoosh the rocket would slip into the blue sky, flying to a pre-determined height. The rocket motors would then backfire, pushing out the contents of the main tube: a parachute. As the spent rocket drifted slowly to earth, the next team would go to their launcher and set up. Once the rocket was recovered, the next team got their signal to launch.

"Team thirty-eight," the megaphone man called.

"Looks like we're on, kid," Terence said as he looked at the sticker on Bobby's shirt. "You ready?" Bobby nodded nervously. "Don't be afraid," Terence said as he smiled, "it's gonna fly to the moon."

Bobby watched the crowd as they approached the launcher. Some of them must have read the same thing Mr. Crash-and-burn had read about the shuttle model; many of them backed away from the clearing. Some fathers put their sons behind them.

"Bunch of sissies," Terence muttered as he turned the chair around and backed close to the launcher. "Hook me up."

Bobby grabbed the wires and hooked a clip to each battery post. He put his finger on the firing button and knelt next to the wheelchair. He looked up at Terence. Terence winked.

"Go ahead, kid. Let 'em see what you got."

Bobby took a deep breath and pushed the button. The dual rocket motors ignited instantly with a whoosh ten times as loud as any other contestant. A huge pillar of orange flame shot from the oversized model as it left the launch pad, a bit more slowly than the others. Whistles and applause rang out as the rocket arced its way into the sky, leaving a white exhaust cloud behind it. Terence let out a howl. Bobby gasped. At the apex of its flight, the model separated neatly in half as the engines backfired. A trio of huge red, white and blue parachutes popped open. On the line that connected them to the shuttle, an American flag waved. The crowd went wild.

As the model drifted down slowly, Bobby turned to Terence. Tears were streaming down the big man's face.

"Beautiful, man. Beautiful."

Bobby unhooked the clips and jumped onto Terence's lap, holding up his fists in triumph. They wheeled across the clearing toward the shuttle's drop point. Rocketeers slapped their backs and high-fived them as they went past.

Finis

Copyright 1986, 2003 - David L. Kilpatrick

All Rights Reserved. No duplication or use without express written consent of the author.