Please forgive a small indulgence. Back to the main story line with the next one, I promise. (Sort of, but not altogether, in response to a challenge from the wonderfully talented Tikatu...)

23: Motivation

Quiet reflections and painkiller dreams…

McConnell AFB, Kansas, many years earlier-

His parents were having another 'adult' party, and John was terribly bored. He'd sat cross-legged in Virgil's crib, trying for some time to strike up a conversation, but all his baby brother wanted to do was smile and chew on his toes. A broad range of possible topics… algebra, world history, basic chemistry, even the weather… had failed to elicit more than a few cheery gurgles. This was disappointing enough, almost, for tears. He'd so wanted someone else to talk to. He'd so hoped that Virgil, too, would be 'smart'. No such luck, though.

With a sigh, the blonde boy placed a teddy bear within his brother's reach, then climbed out of Virgil's crib, hanging from its wooden rail for an instant before dropping to the floor on the other side. Crossing the cowboy-themed room they all shared, John went to the window and stood tip-toe to check the backyard.

Scott was playing some kind of noisy tag game with the other astronauts' kids, breaking off every once in awhile to spin himself insensible. John shook his head disapprovingly.

"That's a gateway drug, you know," he said to no one in particular. "One minute you're spinning, the next you're buying crack on the street."

(He watched the news.)

Not much going on out there he cared to involve himself in. John had learned the hard way to be wary of unrelated children, for some of them were quite aggressive. He decided to check on Rusty instead, incarcerated in the guestroom while visitors smoked, drank and laughed throughout the rest of the house. Scott had Lilly and the Guthrie twins, Virgil had his toes; the dog was alone.

First, though, he went back to the crib and pushed up the bumper pad, so he could stretch a peek at the baby. Reaching between the bars, he touched his brother's chubby, waving arm.

"Virgil, I'm stepping out for a short while to check on the dog. Remember the dog, Virgil? Canis familiaris? D- O- G? Long red hair, good attitude? Anyway, I'll only be a second or so."

His half-glimpsed brother made a rude noise; from which end, John couldn't be certain. Babies.

He pulled his arm free and lowered the bumper pad, with its smiling, rope-twirling cowboys, spotted ponies and gleaming horseshoes. Then he turned and left the room, careful to shut the door behind him.

At the guest room, he paused to listen. The adults were still occupied up front; men drinking and laughing in the den, women whispering and clattering around the kitchen, TV sports coverage interweaving throughout. Good enough.

He entered the carefully decorated chamber (like the formal dining room, officially off-limits to children) and was immediately met by an anxious Irish setter. Rusty's plumed tail swished the air. Brown eyes shining beneath mobile dog-brows, she licked the boy's face. Whined a little, too.

John gave her a long answering hug, not much minding the smell, or drifting hair. Oddly enough, he was only allergic to cats.

"Hi, Rusty," he greeted the big red dog, who sat down with a sudden thump and lifted her left paw in reply. Gravely, he shook hands, adding,

"How are you tolerating confinement?"

Rusty cocked her head to the left, opened her long jaws and yawned. Dog breath.

"Are you hungry?"

As 'hungry' was a sound, like 'food', which frequently led to whirring can openers and under-the-table handouts, Rusty stood up again. Her tail wagged excitedly, bumping mom's dramatic flower arrangement. Long, silky ears lifted a bit, and she licked him again. Sort of disgusting, but he'd put up with a lot, for a friend.

"Okay. I'll go see what I can liberate from the kitchen. You stay here."

She whined again, following him back to the door. Now there were two people waiting for him. At the threshold, John whispered,

"I'll have to stop on the way and collect Virgil, but he sleeps a lot, and he won't eat much. We can sit on the bed and watch television together. Animal Planet."

The thing he liked best about Rusty was, even when she didn't understand, she paid attention. Only Mom and Scott were better listeners.

John could be quite sneaky, when he wanted to be. Given an assignment like this one (escape detection while acquiring food) he used his small size to fullest advantage, creeping unnoticed to the kitchen. Unfortunately, there wasn't much food to be had.

The women were pulling a tray of little spinach-things out of the oven, drinking red wine, talking about Aunt Lydia's possible pregnancy and… well… discussing their husbands. A lot. Even his adored mother mentioned things about dad that he'd frankly rather not have learned. She saw him, too. Her blue eyes widened with annoyance as Lucinda Tracy stabbed a finger toward the back of the house, mouthing,

'Go!'

Fine. Rusty hated spinach, anyway, and greens disrupted Virgil's digestion. He'd seek sustenance elsewhere.

John backed out of the kitchen. Maybe his father wouldn't notice if he snuck in and stole a handful of potato chips or some of those tooth-picked hot dogs.

Very, very quietly indeed, the small boy slunk from the kitchen to the breakfast nook (where a lone female astronaut sat reading a thick book) and out to the den.

The big screen TV was on, but the men weren't paying attention. Instead, Jeff Tracy, Uncle Pete, Mr. Guthrie and Mr. Mullane stood in a loose circle, tossing back drinks, talking loudly and gesturing with cigarette-laden hands.

The food trays lay on a wrought-iron coffee table; party meatballs, hot dogs, fudge brownies and an untouched vegetable platter. The French doors were open, letting air in and smoke out, and everyone present was distracted, listening, now, to his father. So far, so good.

John crept cautiously from the threshold to the side of a big, crushed-velvet sofa. There he watched a bit, studying the situation further. His dad and Uncle Pete had a saying: plan the flight, and fly the plan.

Next step, under the coffee table. Then, reach up, lift a few items and fade away.

In the midst of Dad's joke (which everyone but Mr. Guthrie nearly wet themselves laughing at) John began the third phase of his strategic foray: the coffee table. Five quick steps and he dove underneath with racing heart, objective achieved.

(Many years later, Penelope would show him the refuge of her lonely childhood, a clubhouse of sorts beneath an ancient, elaborately carved table, in a long hall hung with moldering tapestries.)

Under cover and congratulating himself, John peered up through iron curlicues and smoked glass at the targeted food. Also at Uncle Pete, who gave him a wink and a sudden, gap-toothed grin.

Shifting his cigar from hand to mouth, Pete McCord reached under the table and snatched forth the startled boy.

"Looks like we got us a spy, gentlemen. Out to steal NASA secrets, Kiddo?"

"No, Sir."

Hoisted by the astronaut before a circle of semi-drunk men, John gazed first at his father. How much trouble was he in, this time?

By the miracle of Coors and good company, Dad was pleased to be forgiving. He only laughed, reached over, and mussed the boy's white-blond hair.

"He's a Tracy," his father boasted (three sons already and working like mad on the next…) "Probably going to join the space corps, himself!"

Uncle Pete shifted John into a casual side-carry, telling him,

"Hold this," and giving the boy his beer while he transferred the half-smoked cigar back to his hand. Then, still laughing, "What say, Junior? Gonna join the next candidate group?"

Very solemnly, the boy nodded.

Over the next several hours, John was handed around their boozy circle, listening raptly to wild stories and emergency procedures, hearing descriptions of spaceflight and the distant, deadly moon. Memorably, he was launched once by Uncle Pete, narrowly missing the ceiling fan and getting caught in midair by his laughing father. There he stayed, pretending to drowse against Dad's broad shoulder while actually not missing a single, vital thing. Not the scents, the hoarse voices, the cold beer bottles and coarse jokes, the way hands banked, swooped, wavered and dove in imitation of planes and spacecraft; nothing. The afternoon flew, and some day, so would John.

His mother finally broke the spell, putting him to bed in the guestroom with Rusty, a couple of hotdogs, and a soft kiss.

Yeah. He became an astronaut; class of 2061.