"Hello, Captain Bentley."
"This is Bentley." Tom's voice, faint, from far, far away—but unmistakably Tom's. It made Jeanne feel weak all over.
"Captain Bentley, I have a surprise for you. I have—"
Off in the wings, Mr. Pate stood, mopping his brow. The general was at his side, beaming.
"Jeanne? Did you say Jeanne?" Tom's voice, weak, so distant.
"Of course, Captain, Courtesy of Cleopatra Soap, the facial soap that...."
Jeanne wished he'd choke on all the bars of Cleopatra Soap that had ever been manufactured.
"And here she is, ladies and gentlemen, America's number one sweetheart, Jeanne Peterson, about to bridge the gap of interplanetary space to chat with her lover."
Jeanne looked at the microphone and cringed. She walked forward, then paused. She stared once at Mr. Pate, still mopping his brow in the wings. Then she turned and fled, oblivious to the rising tide of voices behind her.