"Hmmmm," Jeanne chortled. "Some fellow trying to make time because Tom's too far away to protest." She hated herself for saying it, and administered the mental kick in the pants which never helped. She was missing Tom more acutely every minute. The distance was unthinkable, the moon almost too remote to consider, lost up there in infinite void, surrounded by parcels--parsecs?--of nothing. Picking up the receiver, Jeanne turned her back to Aunt Anna, who appeared quite eager to listen to at least half of the conversation. "Hello? Yes, this is Jeanne Peterson. The _Times-Democrat_? I could see you today, I suppose. Why, here at home. I'm on vacation. But what--about Tom? Oh, I see. Oh, they told you down at White Sands. Well, all right. 'Bye." "It was a man," said Aunt Anna. "Who said my roast was burning?" Mom asked them all indignantly as she returned from the kitchen. "Who was the young man, Jeanne?" Aunt Anna asked. Jeanne grinned, brushed back a stray lock of her blonde hair. "Sorry to disappoint an old gossip like you, but--" "Tom _is_ a long way off!" "That was just Mr. Lubrano, a reporter on the _Times-Democrat_. 'How does it feel to be the fiancee of the first man to reach the moon,' he said. Funny, I hadn't thought of it that way at all. How does it feel? Did he expect me to turn cartwheels? (_But, I_ am _proud of Tom, so why don't I admit it?_) He'll be down to interview me this afternoon." "After dinner, I hope," said Mom. Awkwardly, Aunt Anna lit a cigarette--something she did only on rare, important occasions. "It never occurred to me," she said slowly, trying to remove tobacco grains from her tongue as delicately as possible with thumb and forefinger. "Not for a moment. But Jeanne, in her own right, is also a celebrity. The Women's League has watched her grow up, I know. But suddenly, all at once, Jeanne is different. Andrea, get May King on the phone!" "May--the president?" Mom wanted to know, somewhat awed. "Of course, Andrea. A little imagination, that's what you need." Mom got up doubtfully, approached the telephone as if it might jump up and attack her. "Forget it," Jeanne told them. _Use big words. Use words which would have ridiculous double-entendres for them. Frighten them._ "I won't prostitute my emotional relationship with Tom for all the Women's Leagues in the county. Forget it." "Jeanne!" said Aunt Anna. "Jeanne," Mom echoed her, more than a little shocked. "What all this has to do with--Jeanne! Oh...." But Jeanne was on her way upstairs to put on something gay and bright for the arrival of Mr. Lubrano. Now that she thought of it, she liked the almost electric crackle in the reporter's voice over the phone. * * * * *