“Which is the same as the comet’s original path,” the secretary-general pointed out. She waited a decent interval, then added, “We don’t want you to crash into the Earth, of course.”
“Of course,” said Cindy, as she turned off her communications system. The secretary-general’s oh so-sad face winked out.
Cindy knew that her little ship was no threat to the world. It would burn to cinders once it hit the atmosphere. Maybe I can jink it a little so I’ll blaze through the atmosphere like a falling star, she thought. I’ll be cremated, and my ashes will scatter all across the world.
But then she thought, no, I’ll use the last of my maneuvering thrust to move out of Earth’s way al together. I’ll just sail out of the solar system forever. I’ll be the first human to reach the stars—in a couple three million years.
New Year’s Eve.
All across the world people celebrated not only the beginning of a new year, but the end of the fear that had gripped them. Comet Hara was gone. The world had been saved.
Cindy Lundquist floated alone in her little spacecraft as it streaked safely beyond the Earth and speeded out toward the cold darkness of infinite space. For days her communications screen had been filled with gray-headed persons of importance, congratulating her on her heroic and self-sacrificing deed.
Now the screen was blank. The world was celebrating New Year’s Eve, and she was alone, heading toward oblivion.
Precisely at midnight, on her ship’s clock, the comm screen chimed once and the blond, tanned face of Arlan Prince appeared on it, smiling handsomely.
“Hi,” he said brightly. “Happy New Year.”
Cindy didn’t have the heart to smile back at him, handsome though he was.
“I’ve been put in charge of your rescue operation,” he said.
“Rescue operation?”
Nodding, he explained, “Since we weren’t able to get the tanker to you, we decided to send out a rescue mission.”
“But I’m heading out of the solar system now.”
“We know.” His smile clouded briefly, then lit up again. “It’s going to take us at least six months to build the ship we need, and another six months to reach you.”
“You’re going to come out after me?”
“Certainly! You saved the world. We can’t let you drift off and leave us. You’re a celebrity now.”
“Oh,” said Cindy, dumbfounded.
“But it’ll take a year before we get to you,” he said, apologetically. “Do you have enough supplies on your ship to last that long?”
Cindy nodded, thinking that she’d have to skimp a lot, but losing a few pounds wouldn’t hurt, especially if. . . “Will you personally come out to get me?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” he replied. “When they asked me to head up the rescue mission, I insisted on it.”
“A year from now?”
“Exactly one year from today,” he said confidently.
“Then we can celebrate New Year’s Eve together, can’t we?” Cindy said. “Indeed we will.”
Cindy smiled her best smile at him. “Happy New Year,” she said sweetly.
WE’LL ALWAYS HAVE PARIS
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream
—Edgar Allan Poe
“We’ll Always Have Paris” is a piece of fiction about a piece of fiction.
Casablanca is one of the most popular films of all time: romantic, suspenseful, filed with fascinating characters and memorable lines.
I’ve seen the movie dozens of times, and I’ve always wondered what happened to Rick and Ilsa and Capt. Reynaud after that unforgettable final scene at the airport.
“We’ll Always Have Paris” is my stab at answering my own question. A good story always leaves you asking yourself, What happened afterward?
Here is a possible answer.
He had changed from the old days, but of course going through the war had changed us all.
We French had just liberated Paris from the Nazis, with a bit of help (I must admit) from General Patton’s troops. The tumultuous outpouring of relief and gratitude that night was the wildest celebration any of us had ever witnessed.
I hadn’t seen Rick during that frantically joyful night, but I knew exactly where to find him. La Belle Aurore had hardly changed. I recognized it from his vivid, pained description: the low ceiling, the checkered tablecloths—frayed now after four years of German occupation. The model of the Eiffel Tower on the bar had been taken away, but the spinet piano still stood in the middle of the floor.
There he was, sitting on the cushioned bench by the window, drinking champagne again. Somewhere he had found a blue pinstripe double-breasted suit. He looked good in it; trim and debonair. I was still in uniform and felt distinctly shabby.
In the old days Rick had always seemed older, more knowing than he really was. Now the years of war had made an honest face for him: world-weary, totally aware of human folly, wise with the experience that comes from sorrow.
“Well, well,” he said, grinning at me. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
“I knew I’d find you here,” I said as I strode across the bare wooden floor toward him. Limped, actually; I still had a bit of shrapnel in my left leg.
