The rocket metal cooled in the meadow winds. Its lid gave a bulging pop. From its clock interior steeped a man, a woman, and two children.
"What's wrong?"
"Let's get back on the rocket."
“Are you sure, Laura?”
“Oh, Harry!”
“Mother, Father—the war, Earth!” she sobbed. “A radio flash just came. Atom bombs hit New York! All the space rockets blown up. No more rockets to Mars, ever!”
“Come on, Harry"
“Autumn,”
“Yes . . . no.” She hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“That’s right, Harry. What about you?”
“Work! You can finish that rocket in the autumn, when it’s cooler.”
“In the autumn is better.”
“Cora!”
“In the autumn,”
"Yes,"
“Do you see? They’re different. They’ve changed! They’re not peach blossoms any more!”
“Iorrt. Iorrt.”
A strange word emerged from Mr. Bittering’s lips.
“I—I want to change my name.”
“Change it?”
"Yes."
“What is this new name?”
“Linnl. Isn’t that a good name? Can I use it? Can’t I, please?”
“Yes, you can use it.”
"Why not?"
“Yeah, Harry. I’m going. So is Sam. Aren’t you Sam?”