Maria stood in the kitchen window.
He waved to her and smiled.
He could not see if she waved or not. A small wave, perhaps. A small smile.
The sun was rising.
Bodoni withdrew hastily into the rocket. Silence. All still slept. He breathed easily. Tying himself into a hammock, he closed his eyes. To himself he prayed, Oh, let nothing happen to the illusion in the next six days. Let all of space come and go, and red Mars come up under our ship, and the moons of Mars, and let there be no flaws in the color film. Let there be three dimensions; let nothing go wrong with the hidden mirrors and screens that mold the fine illusion. Let time pass without crisis.
He awoke.
Red Mars floated near the rocket.
"Papa!" The children thrashed to be free.
Bodoni looked and saw red Mars and it was good and there was no flaw in it and he was very happy.
At sunset on the seventh day the rocket stopped shuddering.
"We are home," said Bodoni.
They walked across the junk yard from the open door of the rocket, their blood singing, their faces glowing.
"I have ham and eggs for all of you," said Maria, at the kitchen door.
"Mama, Mama, you should have come, to see it, to see Mars, Mama, and meteors, and everything!"
"Yes," she said.
At bedtime the children gathered before Bodoni. "We want to thank you, Papa."
"It was nothing."
"We will remember it for always, Papa. We will never forget."
Very late in the night Bodoni opened his eyes. He sensed that his wife was lying beside him, watching him. She did not move for a very long time, and then suddenly she kissed his cheeks and his forehead. "What's this?" he cried.
"You're the best father in the world," she whispered.
"Why?"
"Now I see," she said. "I understand."
She lay back and closed her eyes, holding his hand. "Is it a very lovely journey?" she asked.
"Yes," he said.
"Perhaps," she said, "perhaps, some night, you might take me on just a little trip, do you think?"
"Just a little one, perhaps," he said.
"Thank you," she said. "Good night."
"Good night," said Fiorello Bodoni.
* * *
Epilogue