"I'm sorry," said Jeanne. "Go ahead." Maybe she'd feel better herself if she heard someone else's problems. "Curt is going--up there. To the--the moon. I still can hardly believe it. But they're sending him to join Captain Bentley. Tonight, at midnight." "That's right, they did say something about sending a man to help Tom with whatever he's doing." "Establishing a base, that's what. Curt told me. Curt said--he said he was going. He got two weeks of fast training and that's it. He told me the ship--the spaceship--worked automatically, anyway. Captain Bentley will brief him when he reaches the moon. Your Captain, Miss Peterson. But--but I'm so ashamed." "Ashamed?" The whole thing sounded more and more like a soap opera to Jeanne every minute. "Curt--Curt and I, we got married. In secret. His folks didn't approve and--well, that's not important. But I'm--I'm--well, I haven't told Curt. I'm going to have a baby. I can't tell him now, not when he's about to go further away than anyone. Miss Peterson, please don't tell anyone." More sniffles. "Please." "Forget about it. But I don't see where I can help you." The girl spoke again, a quick-rushing torrent of words. "You can speak to your captain and find out what it's like on the moon and discourage Curt, or maybe even tell Curt the truth, that I'm going to have a baby and then he'll understand he can't go. He doesn't have to go, he's a volunteer. I mean, he can change his mind, if he wants to, if you can make him...." The girl's voice trailed off plaintively. Aunt Anna would be all for doing it, and then telling her friends the full details for the next five years or so. Pop would smoke his pipe and grunt something about it doing the boy good. Mom would say, "Whatever makes you happy, dear," and retreat to her kitchen. You could never predict Dan Lubrano. He might tell her to don a pair of football shoulderpads, tackle Captain Macomber and sit on him until the automatic spaceship blasted off for the moon. (Weller's football equipment, of course. Nothing but the best, nothing but a cash-on-the-line endorsement.) "I'll do what I can," Jeanne said finally. "After the show, kid. Meanwhile, all you can do is take it easy. But I don't promise anything. Your Captain Macomber is a big boy now and probably, he'll make his own decisions." The thought of a naive, innocent girl like the one sitting beside her falling into the publicity mill of another Dan Lubrano was almost horrifying. * * * * * "Yessir, ladies and gentlemen. Every week at this time we all get together and join hands across the ocean--in Cleopatra Facial Soap's famous human interest program, the show that tugs at your heart-strings as much as Cleopatra Facial Soap tugs at the grit and oil, removing them from the pores of your skin--'Hands Across the Ocean.'