Meanwhile, his father’s prying must have gotten to Arno because he says, “Okay, if it’ll make you happy, I’ll get good and sunburned again tomorrow and we can make a whole bunch more trips to the dermatologist. Now can we please watch this incredibly historic event?”

At this moment, the “incredibly historic event” is a blurry image in black, white, and shades of gray. Arno frowns. “What are we looking at, anyway?”

Milton scooches close to the TV and points at a patch of black in the upper-right corner of the screen. “This is space.” Then he points at a slanting stripe of bright white. “This must be the surface of the moon.” Next, he points at something with a vaguely metallic glow jutting down through the white stripe. “I think this must be one of the legs of the lunar module.”

The moon makes me think of the last time Robin and I made love — under an almost-full moon on a rocky beach near Bar Harbor. She sat on my lap, facing me. It was our first time doing it outside. (Later we both discovered mosquito bites in some unlikely places.) That was almost a month ago.

Is she watching this? Do they even have TV in the land of permafrost and wolverines? Having heard so little from her about her life up there this summer only increases the anxiety I carry day after day since her letters of doubt and indecision arrived. Just five days to go, I remind myself. Then once again I will see my ladylove.

On the TV screen, a dark shadow begins to descend along the leg of the lunar module. We hear Neil Armstrong say he’s near the foot of the ladder. The picture changes. Mrs. Exley gasps loudly. An astronaut in a white space suit — looking a little like the Michelin man with a big round helmet and a large rectangular pack on his back — comes into view.

Armstrong says something about the LM’s footpads settling only one or two inches into the fine-grained surface of the moon. Then he steps off the ladder. “That’s one small step for man . . . one . . . giant leap for mankind.”

“Unbelievable,” mutters Mr. Exley, sitting up straight in the Eames chair.

In amazed silence, we watch as Armstrong says that the surface of the moon is powdery and reminds him of soft charcoal ash. Then another helmeted Michelin man (Buzz Aldrin) comes down the ladder. Armstrong reads something on a plaque about coming to the moon in peace. And then America lays claim to the barren landscape by planting its flag.

In the Exleys’ den, Milton rises and goes to the window. I heave myself up and join him. We press our faces close to the glass. The moon is a waxing crescent low in the black sky.