We landed on Puget Sound opposite the campus. The minute we touched shore I took a wrench and unscrewed the framework that held the tellecarbon in place in the center tube. I could feel a rapid, excited vibration as it waited—I mean she.
No sooner was the last bolt loosened than she darted away. She almost reached the open porthole where Mallory had taken his first breath of fresh air when she stopped and returned.
Tillie, the silvery blob of matter, came back and touched my cheek softly. Then she did the same to Lahoma.
We wasted no time in climbing out of the ship to the shore. There we looked up. Far over our heads were two silver flashes of brilliance that zoomed in ever-widening spirals.
I felt someone beside me and glanced down. Lahoma was standing there. Cautiously I put my arm around her waist.
With a starry look in her bright eyes as she glanced at me, she twined her arm around me. Then we looked up again.
Far above we saw a wonderful sight. The two silver flashes seemed to come together. There was a blinding light as from a tremendous explosion; but unlike an explosion it remained bright. It was like a morning star—a sun, far, far away. It grew smaller and smaller until at last it seemed just another star twinkling in the heavens.
There was an aftermath. We sold the space ship to a Ferry Boat company and they transformed it into a streamlined excursion boat with a conventional motor to drive it. But that isn't what I'm talking about.
Lahoma and I got married shortly after. I had sense enough to capitalize on the romance of the tellecarbons and proposed right then and there. She accepted, of course.
But it was two years later when our first child was born—little William Lawrence. One Sunday we were down at the beach strolling along, pushing the go-cart in the twilight.