"Officially, yes. Unofficially, I haven't started. Look, Miss
Peterson--Jeanne--mind if I'm perfectly frank?"
Jeanne said she didn't mind at all.
Lubrano grinned, displaying his piano-key teeth. "Jeanne, all my life
I've looked for something like you. Only it's something you almost
never find. Either you're lucky or you're not. Me, I'm lucky, I've
found the fiancee of the Man in the Moon. To make things even better,
you've got your share of good looks--and you're not dumb, either."
"I don't understand."
"Jeanne, we can make a million bucks together. Quick, with hardly any
work. Want to?"
"It sounds crazy, Dan. You're not making any sense."
"No? Then listen." He turned on the radio, waited for the tubes to warm
up, dialed at random for a station. "... at this hour, we know only
that the Man in the Moon has landed on Earth's far satellite, that he
has signalled the success of his mission with a phosphorous flare,
and that he has as yet established no radio contact, although that is
expected momentarily. It is anticipated that the government will make
an announcement shortly. This much is certain, however. In order to
consolidate our position on the moon, we will have to send up another
spaceman to join fearless Captain Bentley on our bleak satellite,
eventually an entire crew of technicians--"
"Is that all?" Jeanne demanded. "Of course Tom is news. What's the
connection?"
"News is right. The biggest since we exploded the A-bomb. Listen."
Lubrano dialed for another station. "... dream of all centuries,
all generations. A spaceship to the moon. The implications are so
tremendous that man hasn't even considered all of them. American
know-how, scientific ability and determination has once again brought
a new era to mankind. Tonight before you retire, Mr. and Mrs. America,
give a silent prayer of thanks to our Maker for giving us the Man in
the Moon. This is--"
Lubrano flicked the dial again. "... presented by Crunchy Kernels, the
cereal with the truly sprightly crackle. And here he is, ladies and
gentlemen, in a direct interview from White Sands, New Mexico. Dr. Amos
T. Kedder, assistant supervisor of electronics for the final stages of
the spaceship's construction--"
"See what I mean?" Lubrano asked triumphantly, turning off the radio.
"Assistant supervisor in charge of electronics. Well, a pat on the
backside for him. Nobody yesterday, the feature attraction on the
Crunchy Kernel Guest of Honor Show today. Startling, isn't it?"
"What's all this got to do with me?" Jeanne asked.
"Every place you turn," said Lubrano. "Can't avoid it. Honey, who wants
to? Don't get me wrong. You won't just be my meal ticket. I'll have to
do most of the work, but together, watch our smoke. A million bucks,
honey! That's the goal. Want to get on the gravy train?"
"Maybe," said Jeanne. "But I still don't--"
"Look," Lubrano sneered. "I'm a newspaperman, struggling along at
fifteen bucks a week over the Guild minimum. But I got ideas, honey.
Public relations, that's the field. Public relations. There's millions
in it.
"Get the right start and you got it made. We can't have Bentley here
on Earth--tough. But we got his gal-friend. A red-hot item, if handled
properly. Man! Commercial endorsements as a starter, then maybe a
lecture tour, theater appearances, even cheesecake pictures for the
magazines. Get it, honey?"
"Why, yes. I'm beginning to under--"
"Of course you get it! Jeanne Peterson reads _Cosmopolite_ to while
away her lonely hours. Jeanne smokes _Dromedaries_, relaxes in her
bathtub with _Luroscent_, dreams of her lover on the moon on a
_Softafoam_ pillow, writes him letters and saves them for his return by
using _Perma-blue_ ink, wears a _Furform_ coat to keep her warm while
gazing at the crescent moon on chill autumn nights. Get it, honey? Get
it?"
Jeanne laughed softly. "Talk about your prostitution," she said,
half-aloud.
"Huh? What say?" Effusive with enthusiasm, Lubrano hardly heard her.
"Nothing. Nothing. It's been interesting, Dan." She stood up, led him
to the door. "Let me think about it. I've got to think."
"Say, wait a minute." Almost, Lubrano seemed indignant. "You looked all
hepped up about it, honey--why the quick freeze? If you think you can
do this yourself without help from me, you've got another guess coming.
I've got the contacts, you've got the name we want to sell. You can't
do it alone. A fifty-fifty split, straight down the middle."
Mechanically, Jeanne's mind went to work. Also mechanically, she spoke.
"Fifty-fifty baloney. You get twenty-five per cent, Mr. Lubrano, and
not another penny. You must take me for a yokel."
"Forty."
"I said twenty-five."
"All right. All right. There's still enough in it for me. Twenty-five
per cent. Meet me tomorrow morning at my--"
"That's _if_ I decide the idea is worthwhile," Jeanne said, pushing him
across the door-sill and watching him retreat reluctantly down the walk
to the street.
* * * * *
When Mom and the others asked Jeanne later, she was the picture
of co-operation. She told them everything about Mr. Lubrano and
his pleasant interview. She told them nothing about Dan and his
not-so-fantastic plans.
Jeanne excused herself after dinner, her mind seething with proposal
and counter-proposal, and went upstairs to her room, but found sleep
impossible. Was it fair to Tom, capitalizing on whatever feelings
they had for each other? Was it fair to herself? If Lubrano had his
way, a glorified Hollywood love would result. Jeanne and Tom would
be adopted by the nation as its favorite lovers. Their faces would
grace pop-bottles, sipping cola together in an infinite regress of
progressively smaller bottles. Their forms would loll on all the beach
billboards, proclaiming in the latest, brightest colors that the Man in
the Moon and his girl-friend insisted on _Sunburst_ bathing suits. And
Jeanne would be waiting with her _Chlorogate_ toothpaste smile for her
lover to return from the infinite distances.
When he returned, nothing would be left. Commercial love,
exploited love, hounded love, a cheap, impossible, publicized and
doomed-to-failure marriage, if Tom ever allowed it to go that far.
"Phooey on you, Jeanne Peterson!" Jeanne said aloud, and sat up in bed,
surprised at the loudness of her own voice. She was imagining things.
It wouldn't be as bad as all that. Exploitation for a few months--and
a small fortune, if not the great wealth that Dan promised. And the
physical comforts made possible by whatever she earned would, over a
period of time, smother Tom's anger.
Still, the one honest emotional experience which somehow had penetrated
deeper than the veneer she exposed to the world had been her
relationship with Tom. But she could make money, make herself happy,
make Tom happy--if not immediately on his return then eventually.
But....
Soon after the milkman pulled his truck to the curb down on the corner,
Jeanne fell asleep.
* * * * *
"Hold it! Hold it!" The agency director of photography, a small,
round man with a thin voice, waved the photographer off his camera
impatiently and scowled at Jeanne. "You're a nice girl, Miss Peterson.
That's a nice nightgown, filmy, but not so filmy it won't get by the
censors. You got a nice figure and the country will love you. So why
don't you be a nice model too?
"That ain't just a mattress you're on, Miss Peterson. How many times I
gotta tell you that's the mattress you're waiting for Tom on? 'I miss
Tom so, I'd never sleep, thinking of him so helpless and far away,
the first Man in the Moon. Except for my _Beautysleep_ mattress which
induces sleep with its special inner-spring construction.' I ain't no
copy-writer, Miss Peterson, but it will be something like that. So,
cuddle up on that mattress like it will have to do till Tom comes home
from the moon. Cuddle nice, Miss Peterson, cuddle nice."
It took Jeanne exactly fifty-five minutes longer before she could
cuddle nice. They then took the picture in a matter of seconds, and
Jeanne was allowed to change into her street clothes. Hurrying, she was
only fifteen minutes late for her luncheon engagement with Lubrano.
"Three months," Lubrano said, after they'd settled themselves over
cocktails. "Not bad, honey. Know how much we grossed, including the
_Beautysleep_ account?"
"Yes," Jeanne told him. "Twenty-eight thousand, three hundred and four
dollars."
"Not bad," said Lubrano. "It takes the right kind of press, naturally.
That's me, honey, the right kind of press."
"Yes," said Jeanne. "We're a good combination, Dan. You're right, it
can't miss."
"Funny, you never sound excited about it."
"Maybe that's the way I am. I don't excite easily. So what?"
"So nothing." Lubrano began cutting his pork tenderloin.
"What's next on the agenda?" Jeanne wanted to know. "Maybe I lasso the
moon with smoke rings blown from _Buccaneer_ cigarettes?"
"Maybe you do eventually. Not right now. Right now you have to hop a
plane for New Mexico and have a chat with the boyfriend."
"What?" Jeanne felt something flip-flop madly in the pit of her
stomach. "Dan! Oh, Dan!"
"That's right, honey. Through the courtesy of 'Hands Across the Ocean,'
sponsored by Cleopatra Complexion Soap. A radio broadcast across a
quarter of a million miles of space to re-unite you and Tommy boy. At
least, for three minutes."
"Oh, Dan, Dan--that's wonderful." Jeanne stood up, removed the napkin
from her lap. "If I hurry home and pack I can make a night plane and be
in New Mexico by--"
"Whoa. Relax, honey, there's no rush. The show is tomorrow night,
11 P.M. our time. I've booked your reservation for the morning."
"I'm too excited to eat, Dan. Really. But thanks for everything."
Jeanne bent down as Lubrano prepared to attack his tenderloin again.
She kissed his forehead playfully, turned to leave.
Someone snickered, "That's the moon girl, I think. I thought her
boyfriend was way up there. Another cheap publicity stunt."
"Careful," Dan frowned. "So you're happy. Don't go around ruining
everything."
Still smiling, Jeanne left.
* * * * *
"Sit down, Miss Peterson." The general waved Jeanne to a chair, half
rose as she seated herself. "Frankly, these publicity things always
make me nervous."
"_You're_ nervous! Look who's talking!" Jeanne waited while the general
lit a cigarette. "Only three minutes! I can hardly think what to say."
"Is that bothering you, Miss? Don't worry. They showed me a copy of the
script."
"Script?"
"Script, yes. For tonight's program. Your part is all there, word for
word."
"But I thought--"
"That it would be extemporaneous? I guess we're both new at this,
Miss Peterson. I would have thought the same thing. But not with an
audience of twenty million. That's what Mr. Pate said. Pate, he's the
director of the show."
"But--but they can't do that. I want to talk to Tom. I want to tell
him--things. I won't recite any prepared speech." How ridiculous could
the whole situation become? Jeanne thought. She'd made a farce of their
love these months. Now she wanted to forget that, make up for it at
least in part by speaking to Tom, by pouring her heart out to him (as
if she could even start to do that, in three minutes). If that fell
through too.
"You'd better send for Mr. Pate."
"You don't understand. Mr. Pate's in charge, not me."
"Then--then I won't speak at all. Let him tell their audience that."
"What? Why, Miss, you can't do that. They expect you on the show and--"
"Send for Mr. Pate." Suddenly, she was glad Lubrano hadn't come out
here with her. He naturally would have agreed with Mr. Pate.
The general picked up a phone on his desk, dialed. "Afternoon, Captain.
Have you seen Pate? What? Splendid. Of course I'll wait." He cupped a
well-manicured hand over the receiver. "They're looking for him,
Miss ... Eh? Hello? Mr. Pate? I'm sorry to bother you, but--yes,
important. I wish you could come to my office, whenever you ...
Splendid. Splendid." The general hung up. "Be right here."
* * * * *
Ten minutes later, Pate arrived. He was young, florid of face, and
looked like he'd soon have a bad case of high blood pressure if he
didn't already have it. He waved a hand carelessly at the general. Too
carelessly. Like he was a recently discharged enlisted man who felt he
didn't have to bow and scrape any more.
"You're Jeanne. Recognize you anywhere. Like to tell your Tom he has
good taste."
"Fine," said Jeanne. "Tell him anything you want. I'm not speaking."
"Ha, ha. Good joke."
"It's no joke, Mr. Pate. I won't recite any prepared speech. I
absolutely refuse."
"Say that again. No, don't bother." Pate's brick-red face assumed the
color of good claret wine. "Not ordinary, this. You probably thought we
wouldn't reimburse you. Five thousand dollars all right?"
"Please, Mr. Pate. I came here to talk with Tom. I want to talk, not
recite. Tear up your speech and I'll do it for nothing."
"Can't."
"Don't, then. Good-bye."
"Wait! General, can't you do something?"
"She's not under my jurisdiction. I told her you know your business and
she was being--shall we say--something less than sensible."
"General! You never said anything like that. Don't you think I have a
right to speak to my fiance?"
"There's something to what you both say." Now the general sounded
like _he_ was talking from a prepared speech. _If it's a matter of
publicity, never hurt anyone's feelings. Straddle that fence. Walk that
tight-rope._
"Well, I'll be damned," said Pate. "Show's got to go on. Is that final,
Miss Peterson?"
"You can bet your bottom dollar on it, as the expression goes." Jeanne
almost felt like smiling, despite the situation.
"Don't say anything unprintable, then. Tear up your speech. We've got
to. See you in two hours." Muttering a brief word or two, Pate left,
not bothering to say good-bye to the general.
The general grinned professionally at Jeanne. "Any time I can be of
further assistance...."
* * * * *
"Is this seat taken?"
Jeanne looked up from her third cup of coffee, which she'd been
stirring nervously. She'd found a small restaurant outside the post's
main gate.
"Why, no. Sit down, won't you?" Jeanne smiled at the girl who
approached her.
"Th-thanks."
Kind of a plain type, Jeanne decided. Not pretty, though certainly not
homely. Nice hair, if you liked it corn-silk color and long. Some men
did, she supposed. "Cigarette?"
"I--I don't smoke, thank you. You--you're Jeanne Peterson. I recognized
you. My name is Mary."
"Hello, Mary."
"Miss Peterson, I don't know how to begin. But I've got to talk to
you. You're a stranger and--Miss Peterson, please. You've got to do
something...."
"How can I help you if I don't know what you're talking about?" Jeanne
almost felt like saying, _sister, I've got problems of my own_.
"It's Curt. Captain Curt Macomber. He's--maybe I shouldn't be telling
you this. You won't say anything. I mean--"
"For gosh sakes, what _do_ you mean?"
The girl sniffled.
"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.'
"Each week, Cleopatra Facial Soap extends a helping hand to men and
women everywhere. Submit your story to us, and if it is judged a
winner, you will speak with your loved one over-seas--wherever he is,
whatever he's doing--courtesy of Cleopatra."
_Soon, across the distances that defied imagination, she would hear his
voice--_
"Your master of ceremonies, Laird Larsen. Here he is, ladies and
gentlemen, the man whose voice all lovers know--Laird Larsen!"
"Hello, everybody, hello! Here we go again, in another Cleopatra
attempt to make young lovers happy." Larsen, an unprepossessing man
who spoke like Clem McCarthy, smiled mechanically. "This time, though,
'Hands Across the Ocean' makes an unprecedented leap. The Pacific Ocean
is a goldfish bowl compared to the empty space between us and the moon.
But Cleopatra Soap, in conjunction with the Amalgamated Broadcasting
Network and the United States Air Force, will attempt to reach the moon
tonight--by radio. Here with us is the lovely Jeanne Peterson, who...."