by M. D. Whaleb
Willy eyed the wall clock: five and a half minutes to go.
“Enough on that topic,” the woman speaker said. “Another question?”
A hundred hands shot in the air. Willy was about to point to a girl, then realized she lived just down the street, and might recognize his voice.
He pointed to another girl with frizzy hair in a middle row.
“Excuse me for asking this, sir, but... I mean...what happens when you barf in space?”
“You mean like this?” Willy said.
Peter pinched Willy’s leg really hard, and whispered, “I’ll kill you.”
“Just kidding!” said Willy. Everyone laughed.
The woman speaker pointed to a boy in a side seat.
“What happens if you’re out on a space walk and your butt itches? How do you scratch it?”
Four minutes to go. Willy couldn’t think of an answer.
Just then he felt Squeaky rolling around his feet. “Hamsters. We keep hamsters inside our space suits, so when we itch, they can go there and scratch us with their claws.”
People nodded as if this made sense. A few kids raise their phones to take photos.
Just in time Willy put his hand in front of the visor. What if people enlarged the pictures and recognized his face?
“No photos, please, children. You might blind the astronauts,” said the woman.
“Speaking of which, I’ve just been told that lift-off to the Moon is in fifteen minutes! Let’s thank Commander Tom Major with a big round of applause.”
A man tugged Willy’s arm and said, “Let’s go, Commander. You’ve got a rocket to catch.”
Willy thought, What have we gotten ourselves into?
CHAPTER 5
The EMU Lab
A skinny guy with thick black-rimmed glasses introduced himself as Mister Chan. He led them through a long white hallway that seemed to go on forever.
Peter moaned and groaned about all the walking.
“No fair,” he whispered. “Time to switch places again.”
“What’d you say, Commander?” Chan said.
Willy belched his words, hoping it sounded deeper than his little kid voice.
“Urp! You go ahead, Mister Chan. I need to tie my shoes.”
“Space suits don’t have shoelaces,” Peter whispered.
“Shut up,” Willy said.
“Huh? I didn’t say anything,” Chan said. “But okay, I’ve got to get to my station. You know the way: end of the hall, turn right, take the elevator.”
They waited for Chan to leave, then Willy told Peter, “Turn left.”
They slipped through a door into a dark room.
“What are we going to do?” Willy panted.
They both climbed out of the space suit, then Peter switched on the light.
“Whoa!” Willy and Peter said at the same time.
A sign on the wall said:
EXTRAVEHICULAR MOBILITY UNIT (EMU) EXPERIMENTAL LAB
EMU must be what they called space suits. The room was full of them.
Some were super-tall; others had big round mid-sections, maybe for pregnant astronauts. Some looked like they were straight out of futuristic comic books.
“I don’t believe this,” Peter said. “Look!”
He pointed to a space suit—that is, EMU—with four skinny legs.
“This must be for space dogs,” Peter said. “Can you imagine chasing a ball in zero gravity?”
“Or spraying an interstellar fire hydrant,” Willy said.
But the greatest thing they found was in a side closet: half a dozen kid-sized suits.
Willy tried on the smallest one. It was a still a little big, but he could see fine through the helmet.
“Hey, this one fits me perfect,” Peter said, examining the buttons and controls on his suit.
“Wait a second,” Willy said. “We need to talk.”
Willy shivered, maybe from fear, or maybe because the room was ice cold. He wiped his runny nose, then licked the snot from his space glove.
“If we go out there, we’re in huge trouble. First, we knocked out two astronauts. We could go to jail for that.”
Peter nodded. “True.”
“And these space suits. We could get life sentences for stealing government property.”
“Uh huh.”
“And if we actually go into space, that’s driving a spaceship without a license. Add hard labor. Or worse.”
Peter nodded again. “Could be.”
“Or we might lose control of the ship and get lost in space, drifting through empty blackness until we starve to death or run out of oxygen. Or get smashed into by an asteroid and explode.”
Peter nodded once more.
“And if we stay on Earth, then we have to watch our sister play a sheep.”
“Eeuw,” Willy said, strapping on his helmet.
“Moon, here we come!”
CHAPTER 6
Having A Blast
The hallway was empty; the coast was clear. Willy grabbed the hamster. Peter took their bag of snacks.
They ran down the corridor as fast as they could—which wasn’t very fast in full space suits—then around the corner, into the elevator, and pressed the button for the top platform.
When they got out, people were too busy checking computers to notice two very short astronauts dashing across the platform into the waiting space capsule.
Peter tripped on the way in. Corn chips scattered everywhere.
“Quick! Close the hatch!” Willy said.
It took both of them to push the heavy door closed and lock the handle. Safe at last! Or were they?
The seats were way too big for them, and the controls on all three sides of them were too far to reach. Anyway, who could tell what all those buttons and dials and little monitors, flashing numbers, and graphs were even for?
“Maybe there’s an instruction manual somewhere,” Peter said.
“Maybe we should leave,” Willy said.
They could sneak out without anyone noticing. Or hide in a closet and wait for the real astronauts. His guts twisted with fear. Or maybe it was just some gas.
His butt blew a little trumpet blast.
A voice crackled from a speaker. “What’s that you just said, mission crew?”
“Uh, nothing,” Willy said, coughing a little to disguise his voice.
A face appeared on a video screen. It was Mister Chan, the man who’d escorted them in the hall!
“Didn’t see you enter the capsule,” Chan said. “You guys strapped in?”
Willy and Peter looked at each other and gulped.
“Uh, booger that,” Peter said.
“I think the word’s Roger,” Willy whispered.
The hamster started squeaking and rolling around the floor.
“What’s that noise?” Chan said.
“Nothing,” Peter said. “The chair’s squeaking, needs oil.”
“How come you’re both sitting so low in your seats?” Chan said.
Another voice came on: “Booster clamps clear. Ready to commence final countdown. Ten...”
Willy pressed back in his seat. He couldn’t believe what was happening. A couple hours ago he’d been lying on the living room couch, eating and farting and watching TV.
“Nine...”
And now he was inside a real space rocket about to fly all the way to the Moon. No way out now; might as well have fun.
“Wait a sec,” Chan said.
“Eight...”
Something moved in front of Willy. A little camera above the control panel seemed to be zooming in on them.
“Seven...”
Willy’s whole body tingled with excitement. No, actually, it tingled because he had to pee. Real bad. He twisted in his seat.
“Six...”
He could hold it in. Sure. He’d held it in a million times in school. Only wet his pants once—No, don’t think about that!
“Five...”
“What the—??” C
han said.
“Four...”
On the monitor, Chan’s face turned white. “Commander Major is here right next to me. Then who the heck—”
“Three...”
“—are these kids?” The engine noise roared louder. The space capsule shook. Willy squeezed his knees together.
“Two...”
“Stop the countdown! Terminate launch!” Chan screamed.
“One...”
“What do you mean it’s too—”
With a powerful lurch, the rocket began to move.
Willy was squashed back in his seat as though he weighed a thousand pounds.
He felt an electric thrill course through his body.
He also felt warm liquid run down his leg and pool inside his space suit boots.
CHAPTER 7
Space Boogers
Willy couldn’t believe it — they were up in space, floating in zero gravity!
Of course, so were a couple hundred nacho corn chips and some little black pellets which looked suspiciously like hamster poop.
They drifted through the air, devouring the chips with bean dip, while Chan interrogated them from Mission Control.
“Who the heck are you? How am I supposed to explain this to Mission Control leaders? I mean, how did you even get inside the space capsule?”
“You led us there,” Peter said.
He told the story—well, the part of the story where Chan brought them from the auditorium and led them to the elevator. “Want us to explain to your supervisor?”
“Oh, you are in deep, deep trouble,” Chan said.
“Actually, you’re in deep trouble.”
Willy and Peter laughed and gave each other a high five, which sent them sailing to opposite sides of the capsule.
Willy switched off the speakers, leaving Chan with his mouth flapping and fist waving in silence.
Now that they’d finished all the corn chips and bean dip, it was time to run the experiment that the whole world was waiting to see. They took positions side-by-side at the back of the capsule.
Willy’s gut rumbled.
Peter’s belly gurgled.
“Ready for countdown?” Peter said.
“Roger that,” Willy replied.
They pulled down their pants and counted:
“Three...
Two...
One...”
FFFFFF—blooooooorp-p-p!
Willy jetted through the air, spewing dense green butt fumes, on a straight collision course with the windshield.
Just in the nick of time, he tightened one butt cheek, making a sharp left turn past the main control panel.
Peter zipped overhead, leaving a gray-yellowish trail behind him.
Willy spun downward into a twisting loop, farting a perfect green figure-8 in the air before he ran out of fart power. In the zero-gravity environment, he kept smacking heads with Peter.
They gagged at the stench. That was a lot of fart for such a small place.
“Maybe we should open a window.” Willy plugged his nose to hold back a sneeze. This gave him another idea for an experiment.
Willy sniffed and snorted and cleared his throat until his whole head felt like it was filled with mucus, then waited a minute to let the snot thicken.
“Watch this,” he told Peter.
Pressing one nostril, he blew out the other. Gooey yellow boogers flowed from his nose while Willy spun through the air.
A long stringy worm of snot spelled out his name in perfect cursive letters:
“Awesome,” Peter said.
The tail of the Y stuck to a circuit panel. Sparks flew. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Willy positioned himself in front of the W, and slurped the whole thing into his mouth, until every slimy string was gone.
“Eeeuw!” Peter said.
“I second that Eeeuw!” Chan’s voice said. He must have remotely turned the sound back on. “You guys do realize that you’re on live video for the entire planet to see, right?”
“Of course,” Peter said. “We’re doing this in the name of science.”
“I just spoke to the top brass. You guys are in deep, deep doo-doo. Now, sit down and pay attention so we can teach you how to pilot this thing. I want you back on Earth alive, so I can beat your smelly little butts.”
Willy thought maybe that was a good idea—not the butt beating, but the part about returning alive. Once he and Peter settled into their seats, the lesson began.
Chan cleared his throat. “Okay, let’s start with Newton’s Laws of Motion.”
“Sounds like school,” Willy said, sticking his finger in his throat.
“Newton tootin’!” Peter said. He cut a loud, sharp fart.
“This is going to be one long trip to the Moon,” Chan said.
CHAPTER 8
School’s Out
Willy thought that flying an actual space capsule would be like living inside a real-life computer game, except without evil alien starships.
But by day two, Willy and Peter both realized that space travel was actually pretty boring. It was mainly sitting, or floating, around (though Willy was still a teeny bit worried about evil aliens).
And speaking of games, despite all the computer equipment on board, there wasn’t a single one, not even a lousy tile-matching app! Unless they were on the computer that the hamster destroyed when he chewed a wire somewhere.
In fact, the only one who seemed to be enjoying himself was Squeaky, spinning around everywhere in his hamster ball.
Peter spent his time picking scabs off his leg and making them into little solar systems. But Willy had nothing to do except study.
Between the lessons from Mission Control and the science experiments they were supposed to do in space, it was feeling a bit too much like school. Chan even ordered Willy to sit in the corner after he threw spitwads at the camera.
But the worst part was the food. It took only one day to polish off all the good stuff: brownies, chocolate pudding cake, some cookies, and candy-coated peanuts.
Which left them now with the gross desserts like bread pudding, plus a whole lot of stuff that no self-respecting kid would eat, like cauliflower. Bleh!
“Dude, I’m hungry,” Willy said.
“Me too,” Peter said.
“Me three,” Willy said. “Let’s look one more time.”
But all they found was the same as before: vacuum-packed sliced carrots. How disgusting can you get? Creamed spinach that looked like frog vomit.
Tofu? Who were they kidding? Not even grownups ate that glop!
“Look at this. What’s it remind you of?” Peter squeezed out a packet of meatloaf in front of his mouth so it looked like he was puking.
“Yuck! You’re disgusting,” Willy said.
“And you’re gonna eat it!” Peter rolled up the meat and pitched it at Willy.
Willy grabbed a sausage and batted the meat ball away. It bounced off the main dashboard and splattered all over the ceiling.
Willy tore open a package of beef ravioli and flung them one at a time at Peter, who fought back with shrimp cocktail, then strangled a package of mashed potatoes and green beans until it burst.
Half the mess got stuck in Willy’s hair, while the rest was sucked into an air filter.
Willy returned fire with candied yams, laughing each time a gooey orange blob stuck to the walls with a squishy floomp.
“Hold on, we gotta video this,” Willy said. He turned on his phone camera, and the intergalactic food fight resumed.
By the time they heard the hysterical voice from Mission Control, half the spacecraft’s food decorated the walls and instrument panels. Peter stuck his finger through a lump of scrambled eggs to press the call answer button.
“What in blazes are you doing?” Chan demanded.
“Um, just sorting out lunch.” Peter showed him the one promising thing they’d discovered: bean enchiladas, which looked great until they saw the label: Reduced flatulence.
“What’s th
at about?” Peter asked.
“Use your brain,” Chan said. “That’s so you don’t suffocate the rest of the crew.”
“What’s the point of eating beans, then?”
Willy was exhausted. He leaned back in his seat and felt a lump on his back. It was cold slab of marinated chicken. The control panel in front of him was like a painter’s palette of multi-colored goop.
“Maybe we ought to clean up this mess,” he said.
“Where we gonna put it?” Peter said.
“Didn’t you see the garbage chamber? We just shoot it outside.”
Willy’s job was to scrape sticky, slimy mush and lumps and blobs off the windows.
Without thinking, he licked some off his fingers. Whoa! Tuna casserole mixed with pea soup and raspberry yogurt didn’t taste too bad!
“Try this,” he told Peter.
“Good stuff,” Peter said. “Try what I got over here.”
They made sandwiches of waffles and beef stroganoff and butterscotch pudding.
“This is rather decent,” Willy said.
Their stomachs had a different opinion. Willy’s guts twisted as if someone was wringing out a rag inside him. Peter sounded like a thunderstorm was raging in his belly.
“Lunch over, gentlemen,” said Chan. “Time to study orbital vector physics. For that I’ve brought in a specialist from Mission Control, Professor Fanny Frankentush.”
Her hair was chimpanzee color. She had tiny eyes and a tight, puckered mouth.
“Good afternoon. I hope you young men are having an excellent learning experience up in space.”
“We sure are,” Peter said. “Want to see the Moon?”
She gave a pinched little smile. “Certainly.”
Peter pulled down his pants and pointed his naked butt at the camera.
“Very funny,” the lady professor said. “If you’ll kindly open your text—”
PFFTHWLOOOORT!
An explosive fart shot Peter across the space capsule. It was answered by a juicy, disgusting THWEEEP-P-P-P-BLARRRRGH from Willy, spinning him like a pinwheel through the air.
