NOVELETTE, COMPLETE IN THIS ISSUE MAN IN THE MOON by DAVID YURTH "there will be crusades for a Catholic moon, a Protestant moon, a Muslim moon, a Jewish moon." Henry Kermidge walked down the street in Highgate to the mail box, a bulky package in his hand. He felt as though he had been plunged backwards into another, more ample century, when the legs of men were still in constant use as a means of propulsion, not just as members groping for was a real trace of troubled conscience in his smile. He had kept the sky waiting for so long. Usually, when he looked up, he saw nothing but the perpetual light of his laboratory. Since he was a scientist, it would have been inhuman if he had not in some measure surrendered to tradition and been a little absent minded. Not in his work, but in relatively unimportant matters. When he wrote, he did so with vast application, and the meaning of his words could only be fathomed by a few dozen endowed creatures in various universities; but often, as not, having filled pages with mysterious logic, he forgot to put any stamps on the envelope. The letter was addressed to Switzerland, to a doctor named Nussli, in Zurich. Considering that Dr. Nussli was perhaps Henry's best friend, it was strange, if typical, that the name on the envelope was spelled with one S. "Where did you go?" asked his wife nervously when he returned. "I mailed that letter to Hans." "Couldn't it have waited until morning?" Although the weather was cold, Henry wiped his brow with a handkerchief. "No." "The mail's already gone anyway," mumbled Veronica. It was curious that Henry could feel irritated in his hour of triumph, but he allowed himself a moment of harshness. "No!" he repeated unnecessarily loud. There was a pause, with thunder in the air. For quite a few months, Veronica and Henry had seen very little of each other. Veronica had permitted herself quite a few questions during this time, but Henry had failed to gratify her with even a single answer. "I thought you might like to see the children before they go to bed," she said. He grunted and asked, "Where's Bill?" "Bill? I don't know. Sir Humphrey called." "Sir Humphrey?" Henry started angrily. "What the hell did he want?" "He didn't say, but he was unusually nice to me." "That's a bad sign." "Seemed very elated." "Elated?" Henry kicked a chair. "What's the matter with you?" Veronica almost shouted. The doorbell rang. "That'll be the champagne." It wasn't the champagne. It was Bill Hensey, Henry's assistant, a bearded fellow in an old sports coat, with a wilted pipe permanently in his mouth. He seized Henry by the arm, didn't even acknowledge Veronica, and started speaking agitatedly in a soft voice. Veronica wished she had married a bank clerk, a man with simple problems and a little courtesy. She heard nothing of the conversation apart from an occasional mention of Sir Humphrey, but she saw Bill's pale eyes darting every which way with excitement. She was a pleasant girl without much temperament, the ideal wife for Henry, if there was such a thing. She didn't wish to attract attention to herself, since she knew that both men were engaged in important work and that they were under some strain that it was her lot to understand without being inquisitive. Just then, however, the 12 children burst into the room, engaged in a running fight over the cactus-covered plains of the frontier badlands. Dick, dressed as a sheriff, opened with a withering fire from behind a stuffed armchair, while Timothy plunged under cover behind the stereo, his eyes shining evilly through the slits in his black bandit's mask. Henry exploded. "Get out of here!" he yelled. It was only natural for Veronica to leap to her children's defense. "They're only playing. God Almighty, what's the matter with you?" "Can't you see we're working?" answered Henry, covering his guilt in testiness. But Veronica was roused, and launched into a big scene. While the children slunk unhappily out, she released all of her resentment in a flood of tears and invective. She had been packing for this damned trip to Washington. Did he think she wanted to go to Washington? She'd much rather stay at home. Why didn't he go alone? And if he went, why didn't he stay? What thanks did she get? Hers was the unglamorous lot: the paying of the bills, the checking of accounts, the necessary bedtime stories which taxed the imagination. Why didn't he marry Bill? She was interrupted again by the doorbell. It wasn't the champagne. It was Sir Humphrey Utterridge, accompanied by an affected youth in a bowler hat. "Kermidge, allow me to congratulate you," he said in a low voice that was quivering with emotion. Henry and Bill exchanged a quick, anxious look at each other. "Thank you, Sir Humphrey," Henry answered, with some impatience. "This event will mark the beginning of a new era, not only in the annals of recorded history, but in the indelible odyssey of the British Empire." This was fine, rolling language for launching a ship, but nobody wants a ship launched in his living room. "Old ass," Henry thought, but said, "It is very good of you to say so." "D'you remember me, Kermidge?" said the youth in the hat. He was leaning heavily on his umbrella when he said, "Oliver De Vouvenay. We were at Chartehouse together." Good grief. No wonder Henry didn't remember him, he hadn't changed a bit. Henry's hair was turning white, but this immaculate pink creature looked exactly as he had at school. If he was now successful, it was a triumph of conformity. He was successful. After Henry had grudgingly shaken hands, Oliver De Vouvenay announced that he hadn't done badly, since he was now the principal private secretary of the Prime Minister, the Right Honorable Arthur Backworth, and hoped to run in the next election. "Not as a socialist," said Henry. Oliver De Vouvenay laughed uproariously and expressed his conviction that the joke was a good one. Before there was time for more banter, the doorbell rang again. "That'll be -" Sir Humphrey began, but Henry interrupted him. "I ordered some champagne," he said. "I'll go. Henry opened the door and found himself face to face with a detective. The man didn't say he was a detective, but it was obvious. His disguise would only have fooled another detective. "This is it," called the detective to (continued) 13