by David Klass
“I’ll take that,” she murmurs. She glances at her watch. “Gotta go. School tomorrow. Bye.”
She kisses me one last time, then hops off the swing and walks away quickly, toward her house.
I watch her fade into the darkness. I listen to her light footsteps walking across her porch. The screen door shuts and she is gone.
I tilt my head back and look up at the Milky Way. There are roughly one hundred billion stars in the galaxy, many of them larger and brighter than the Earth’s sun. Orbiting those stars are an even greater number of planets, with far more interesting geological and aquatic features than can be found anywhere on Earth. And populating those planets are a nearly infinite number of life-forms. In the Galactic Confederation we list more than ten thousand member species, all of them more peaceful and intelligent than human beings.
But none of that matters to me right now. I sit in the swing and look up at the shadowy outline of Michelle’s house, and suck in a deep breath of cold autumn air.
Finally I rise and cross the hedge barrier to the Filber backyard. This was my point of entry, and this is where they are waiting for me to give the signal. I stand beneath the crab apple tree, looking up at the house.
It is a small and dilapidated structure, but it has gotten to feel like home. Dissonant cello music is coming from Sally’s room. There is an Earth saying that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but even when I’m a million light-years away, I doubt I’ll miss my sister.
From Sally’s room, my eyes rise to the attic office. The light is off up there, and the TV is off, too.
Instead, I see a light glowing from my parents’ bedroom. They are there together, and I believe they are at peace.
I raise my arms skyward and rotate my palms in a Locurian Estevel Pattern—GC sign language for “I’m ready to go.” I feel the first tug of the reverse gravity beam. It lifts me a few inches off the lawn and then it sets me gently back down on the grass.
Why did it stop? Oh, yes. I forgot. There is one last thing I need to do.
Tom, are you ready?
Ready and waiting, he answers eagerly.
Thank you for your body, I tell him. I have enjoyed it.
You’re welcome, I guess, he replies. Come back and visit sometime. But please stay out of my nostrils and cranium.
Fair enough, I agree. And you try to limit your intake of potato chips. As far as throwing a spiral goes, I believe the trick is in turning the wrist.
Will this hurt? he asks.
Not a bit, I assure him. But there will be a few moments of disorientation. Just stay calm and relaxed. You’re going back to a very familiar place.
I concentrate my energies, suction Tom Filber’s consciousness from the Ragwellian Bubble, and relocate it in its original spot inside his cerebrum. As he enters, I leave, using a reverse Thromborg to detach myself. I exit through the right nasal passage. It’s dark and slimy so I don’t waste time. Right turn, left turn, crawl around, slither over, and I pop out into the cool night air.
As soon as I am exposed, the reverse gravity beam lifts me into the air. I am drawn upward at great speed and soon see the shadowy outline of our spaceship hovering above me.
I am pulled in through the cargo bay doors, and in a few seconds I am back in my protective shell, accepting the congratulations of the Preceptor and all my old friends. “The Council of Elders has sent you a special citation for surviving the barbarities of Planet Earth alone, when we were called to Bubos VII,” he says proudly.
“Those humans were vicious. Hideous!” a Rygenian engineer says, shaking her four heads sympathetically.
“Yes, they can be brutal,” I agree. And then I add softly, “But they do have their redeeming qualities.”
“Good news about your father,” the Preceptor says. “He’s out of danger and back in the Ketchvar burrow.”
“Thank you, that is good news,” I say. “I can’t wait to see him.”
“Well, you’ll see him soon enough,” the Preceptor assures me. “We might as well pull out of orbit and head for Sandoval.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I agree. And then I ask, “If you don’t mind, could I just watch on the screens what’s happening at 330 Beech Avenue? I just want to make sure Tom Filber is okay. We owe him that much.”
The Preceptor nods to the technician on duty, and a second later the Filbers’ backyard comes on the main screen. Tom Filber is standing right beneath the crab apple tree, blinking. This is normal recuperative behavior for someone who has just been released from a Ragwellian Bubble.
“He looks fine,” the Preceptor says. “By the way, the Confederation would appreciate a preliminary indication of how you intend to conclude your evaluation.”
Tom Filber stops blinking and gazes skyward. Then he shrugs and starts walking toward his house. He hears something and stops. Instead of going home, he walks toward the hedge.
“Let’s keep watching just a minute more,” I tell the Preceptor.
On the screen, I see Tom Filber cross through the hedge into Michelle Peabody’s backyard. She has just climbed onto her swing. “Oh, hi, Tom,” she says. “I thought you’d gone in. I forgot the blanket and it may rain.”
She picks up the blanket and steps off the swing.
Tom Filber walks closer to her and clears his throat. “Michelle,” he says hesitantly.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” she asks.
He doesn’t answer right away. “For being such a jerk,” he finally mumbles.
“What are you talking about?” She looks at him more closely, as if she’s starting to vaguely sense something.
“I just mean, for living next to you for so many years and not appreciating you,” he says. “I would like to get to know you better. We should take things slowly. Is that okay?”
She studies his face in the moonlight and then takes his hand. “Very okay,” she whispers, and kisses him almost shyly on the cheek. “Now I’d really better go in.”
I turn away from the screen, to the Preceptor. “You can advise the Council of Elders that the Lugonians will not be happy with my decision.”
“Indeed?” he responds, sounding surprised. “You believe there is hope for this benighted species?”
“Given a little more time, I think they will surprise us,” I answer, watching Tom Filber walk back through the hedge toward his house. He is smiling, and he touches his cheek where Michelle kissed him.
“Now you can take us out of orbit,” I tell the navigator. “My mission to Planet Earth is finished.”
