“There are two men up there,” Milton whispers so that Arno won’t overhear and make the inevitable mood-crushing wisecrack. “Three days, and a quarter-million miles through the total vacuum of space. And you know what steered them there? A computer the size of a toolbox.”

“Far out,” I whisper back. It’s Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers. Le Voyage Dans la Lune and Star Trek. Decades of science fiction becoming reality right before our eyes. For a moment this transcends all of life’s headaches. The war, Robin’s uncertainty, American imperialism, and all the social unrest take a back seat to this one astounding achievement.

“Hey, what are you homos doing over there?”

You can always count on Arno to ruin the moment.

The moon has disappeared below the horizon. Milton and I are standing on the sidewalk outside Arno’s house. Our suburban neighborhood is dark and quiet. It’s Sunday night. Tomorrow morning, yellow buses will ferry children to day camp. Wives will drive husbands to the train station (so that’s why they call it a station wagon!) and then play tennis at the country club. The Apollo 11 astronauts will begin their journey home from the moon. Hundreds of thousands of American and Vietcong soldiers will wake to another day of death and destruction in a tiny country halfway around the world.

“Things any better for Rudy?” I ask Milton.

“A little. He’s working on temporary landed immigrant status. First step toward Canadian citizenship. Once he’s got the paperwork together, he should be able to move to Toronto. At least there’ll be some decent pianos.”

There’s something I’ve been thinking about. “Did he ever say why the draft board rejected his conscientious objector application?”

“Yeah.” Milton’s upper lip curls ruefully. “‘Lack of depth in sincerity, and lack of primary motivating force in registrant’s life.’ Since when does not wanting to kill people not qualify as a deeply sincere primary motivating force? What bullshit.”

“How’d he handle the religious-belief stuff?” I ask, since the Fischers have never struck me as a particularly religious family.

“He didn’t,” Milton said. “He based his argument on personal moral code and the teachings of Thomas Aquinas. Ever heard of just-war theory?”

I feel the blood drain out of my face. Have I ever heard of it? Is this some kind of cosmic joke? It’s the exact same argument Charles has been encouraging me to use.

Even in the dark, Milton must see that I’m blown away. “Oh, shit,” he quickly says. “Hey, just because it didn’t work for Rudy doesn’t mean it won’t work for you.”

We avert our eyes, both knowing that’s 99.9 percent pure wishful bullshit. I feel like someone just punched me in the stomach.

Milton puts a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, man, if there’s anything I can do . . .”

But of course there isn’t.