by Chris Bauer

When the police saw what they were dealing with, they called the bomb squad. The bomb squad called the FBI.

In the backyard stood the rocket ship with pointed nose, portholes, and sleek fins, a perfect rendition from an old science fiction magazine.

The neighbors had been evacuated, and stood behind police barricades. Great Grandpa wore padded hunting overalls, work-boots, and a football helmet. He stood in a cluster of official-looking men in dark suits.

A man with a G.I haircut and a tiny radio stuck in his ear, acted in charge. "That thing is loaded with explosive chemicals. It will go easier on you if you tell us how to disarm it," he said.

Great Grandpa waved his arms. "It’s a rocket ship. All that stuff is fuel."

His son, the one he didn't get along with, pushed himself through the crowd of neighbors and police.

"This is a serious matter," said the man in charge. "Somebody explain it to him."

"Damned right it's serious," interrupted Great Grandpa. "It's going to take off without me."

“Dad --” started his son.

"I spent my whole life engineering rockets for other men to ride. Now it's my turn."

Great Grandpa imagined the hands of the clock inside clicking together making the connection, and the electrical
charge running from the auto battery through the wires to the rockets.

The roar bounced off the houses and flowed down the street. The rocket ship rose over the rooftops, straight into the sky, its silver fins flashing in the sunlight. It disappeared into the blue, leaving a streak of white exhaust.

"You goddam idjits!” yelled Great Grandpa. “There it goes without me!"

The man in charge spoke into his a wrist radio, then turned to Great Grandpa. "Where"s the target?"

"Target? Without me steering it'll hit the moon."

The man in charge scowled, and stared into the sky as if he could plot the rocket's trajectory.

Soon, the sound of the rocket was replaced by chirping birds, the sounds of automobiles on the nearby street, and the neighbors' hushed conversations. The breeze carried a whiff of burnt grass.

"We're taking him into custody," said the man in charge.

"He's eighty-something years old. Fought in World War II," said Great Grandpa's son.

"Doesn't make any difference."

"The Hell it doesn't. You're going to take an eighty-six-year-old veteran away in handcuffs? Wait until the Channel Two News gets this."

"There are a numerous federal violations." The man placed his hand on Great Grandpa's arm. "Come with me."

"Can I go with him? And no handcuffs."

They escorted Great Grandpa to a black sedan, and his son followed. They slid inside. The driver turned the sedan around with tires squealing, and drove toward downtown.

Great Grandpa relaxed in the back seat. It was a nice sedan; it had a soft ride and still had the new car smell. He watched the scenery for a few moments, thinking.

He had been wrong to build the rocket ship when he did.

Next time he'd finish the time machine first.

*** THE END ***