"Core breach imminent," came the words from Ground Control, indicating dire trauma for the singular passenger of Rocket Ship Future. He punched the radio frantically, asking, "Please repeat, Ground Control. Please repeat, Ground Control. I am not prepared to die." Indicating, of course, that their training had been slipshod, that the manuals had deliberately left the last chapter out, that their hearty salutations and best wishes as he left the Earth all amounted to a pile of dirty unloved beans. "Repeating," replied Ground Control, a din of forced seriousness covering the words. Core breach imminent."

Hurtling in orbit, his only companions miles below and out of reach, and even his teddy bear had had the good sense to climb into the escape pod and jettison, Commodore Scotto was at a loss for words. "You understand," continued Ground Control, "it's nothing personal. We will definitely reevaluate the entire program, of course." Staring deeply out the window at the beautiful blue ball below, a mass of atmosphere and continents and sweet sweet water, a place you could really call home if you weren't miles and miles away, the Commodore made a sudden decision.

"Taking manual control!" he cried, grabbing the controls and suddenly wrenching the Future from its programmed path. He turned the nose downward into a deep deep dive, heard the scream of the thrusters as they engaged, felt a singsong kind of euphoria settle into the cockpit like a glow from a million fireflies. The Future began to plunge toward the planet with amazing speed and from an amazing height. He could hear the sudden shouts of Ground Control as only a ticktickticking in the background, well aware that this breach of protocol was as serious as the core breach which threatened to melt him down and pulverize him and scatter his atoms across the galaxy, the last fragments of his ego tinkling down like stardust if he didn't do something FAST.

I am aiming for Home, with sudden precision, on a final blistering approach, and goodness knows I will be a sight for sore eyes.

Ground Control dropped her earphones with a sudden chill, staring at the blip on the radar screen which indicated his return to the planet, in flaming, disconsolate glory. She stood quietly, stared around at the empty control room, realized that her practical joke had perhaps gone too far. At the very least, she had freedom now; she could read magazines all night if she wanted to, since there would no longer be a blip for her to constantly monitor, constantly monitor, searching for the slightest clue or the simplest indication that communication was still desired. Who controls Ground Control? she wondered, and the answer, of course, was him; who is this planet's Ground Control, she wondered, and where was the manual? Why do I think these thoughts, and why do I fear these fears, and why does my pain collect in little pools inside of me when I could have had him to talk to all this time?

The core breach, as she called it, was inside of her; and he hadn't passed the test. Carefully she tiptoed out of the empty room, her every motion echoing throughout the hall, and climbed the stairs to the roof, waiting, watching, wondering if now would be a good time to begin smoking.

The Rocket Ship Future was heating up like a tin can in the world's biggest microwave oven, and Commodore Scotto was hallucinating from the heat. (And when Commodore Scotto begins hallucinating, you can rest assured the entire neighborhood takes note!) Brilliant showers of sparks and fire enveloped the tiny craft, leaving a searing, magical trail behind the little, solitary vessel as it penetrated the atmosphere with unexpected confidence and calm. Scotto was singing to himself on the way in, shedding his space suit and his clothes, relieving himself of his attachments and his desires, preparing himself for the penultimate, resigned to the wonder of a smile. You can, he realized, reinterpret your doom until it feels as though you're soaking in a hot tub high up in the mountains, under the stars; you can, he realized, give up your adversity to the hot springs as you sing with quiet passion; you can, he realized, call the bluff, wish with all your heart that Ground Control was still standing by;

and in the meantime, he knew, you can provide a marvelous fireworks show for your friends down below...

She stood on the roof, alone and unhindered, her date with so-called destiny forgotten, watching the gleaming streak of the Rocket Ship Future begin to break up into pieces, and then, finally, explode in a brilliant display of heat and fuel and fire and love; she felt the sudden emptiness (he presumed) sink into her with grace and terror and a kind of giddiness; and when the show was over, she quietly went inside, returned to her post, placed the earphones on her head, scanned in vain for the blip on the radar screen. It was gone gone gone like the vapours rising up from the springs, no choice in the matter, what was done was done.

Until, that is, Commodore Scotto came into the room, the remains of a flaming parachute dragging along behind him, soaking wet from his recent landing in the wonderful mother ocean. She rose with a gasp and a quick sudden fear,

until, that is, he said, "I've got another rocket ship outside. It's called the Present. You wanna go for a ride before your date?" And she smiled and nodded, and turned off the controls.