Gwendy’s Final Task

1

IT’S A BEAUTIFUL APRIL day in Playalinda, Florida, not far from Cape Canaveral. This is the Year of Our Lord 2026, and only a few of the people in the crowd standing on the east side of Max Hoeck Back Creek are wearing masks. Most of those are old people, who got into the habit and find it hard to break. The coronavirus is still around, like a party guest who won’t go home, and while many fear it may mutate again and render the vaccines useless, for now it’s been fought to a draw.

Some members of the crowd—again, it’s mostly the oldies, the ones whose eyesight isn’t as good as it once was—are using binoculars, but most are not. The craft standing on the Playalinda launch pad is the biggest manned rocket ever to lift off from Mother Earth; with a fully loaded mass of 4.57 million pounds, it has every right to be called Eagle-19 Heavy. A fog of vapor obscures the last 50 of its 400-foot height, but even those with fading vision can read the three letters running down the spacecraft’s side:

T

E

T

And those with even fair hearing can pick up the applause when it begins. One man—old enough to remember hearing Neil Armstrong’s crackling voice telling the world that the Eagle had landed—turns to his wife with tears in his eyes and goosebumps on his tanned, scrawny arms. The old man is Douglas “Dusty” Brigham. His wife is Sheila Brigham. They retired to the town of Destin ten years ago, but they are originally from Castle Rock, Maine. Sheila, in fact, was once the dispatcher in the sheriff’s office.

From the Tet Corporation’s launch facility a mile and a half away, the applause continues. To Dusty and Sheila it sounds thin, but it must be much louder across the creek, because herons arise from their morning’s resting place in a lacy white cloud.

“They’re on their way,” Dusty tells his wife of fifty-two years.

“God bless our girl,” Sheila says, and crosses herself. “God bless our Gwendy.”