Lunar Vacation

“Why did you want to come here?” demanded my daughter. We were looking at Neil Armstrong’s and Buzz Aldrin’s 80-year-old footprints. She was still throwing up, even though we were no longer in zero G. We’d been here for two weeks. The space-sickness should have worn off by now. And the space doctor had assured us she wasn’t pregnant. I think she was doing it on purpose, just because she wants to embarrass me.

I sang the words from an old video at the Smithsonian. “I went walking on the moon one day, in the merry merry month of ... December.”

My daughter bent down, picked up a lunar rock, and stuffed it in her space-suit pocket. “I know – there’s a weight limit to what I can bring back. This will sell for big bucks on eBay.”

I asked the guide, “Where are the footprints of Eugene Cernan and Harrison “Jack” Schmitt who landed with Apollo 17?”

“Who?” he asked.

“A footprint is a footprint,” said my daughter. “Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”

“What would you like to see on the moon?” I asked her. This trip had cost me my life-savings. I had brought her along for a treat – something I knew she would never buy for herself.

“I’d rather you gave me the money you spent on my ticket,” she said, stamping her foot.

She flew into the air. Up. Up. And over, hitting me square in the chest. I fell in slow motion. She fell on top of me. But she didn’t weigh much. I remembered the first words spoken on the moon, before the famous broadcast. The first words were: "The texture of the soil is..." The texture was sandy. It gave me an idea for a carnival ride on the moon with twists and turns that only low gravity could support.

I pushed her off of me, sending her sailing in the opposite direction.

“You are always shoving me away!”

I don’t know what else she said. I turned off my microphone. I knew hers was still on. “Our return flight leaves in a few hours. Let’s go to the gift shop.” She loves shopping, and the gift shop here has things you can’t buy on Earth. It’s a not-well-kept-secret that life forms from other planets sell trinkets on the moon. If you buy one, you are not allowed to sell it back home – like the moon rocks.

The gift shop is in the science museum. It’s not your normal science museum with magnets and soap bubbles and holograms. This one has exhibits brought here from inhabitants of other planets. It’s kind-of-like the duty-free shops at domestic airports – you can only visit on your way off planet. No cameras are allowed. Technically, I’m not even supposed to tell you about it – because that will ruin the surprise factor. Each visitor should feel like a first explorer. But I need to tell you some stuff that goes on here, so you can understand my choice.

First, there’s the fire exhibit. Everybody expects that. Everybody watched the fire on the International Space Station. It’s cool flames and spherical shape are common knowledge. What they don’t tell you is the damage even a cool, spherical, slow-spreading fire can do to a Martian tapestry, if an angry human in a low-gravity environment throws it across the room.

“No, I’m not paying for that!” my daughter coolly announced. “It’s my mother’s fault. She made me come here. And she made me mad! So it’s all her fault.”

Then she dashed into the gift shop, while the security guards held me. “My daughter is legally an adult,” I started to explain. The security guards took me to the cashier’s station, which also happened to be in the gift shop. I gave them my charge card. That tapestry cost more than my moon tickets. I signed the chit anyway. What was I going to do? My flight was leaving in half an hour.

I turned to look at my daughter, who was playing with a toy that looked like an old-fashioned cannon.

“I hope she knows what she’s doing,” said the cashier. “That’s the Acid Minimizer from Venus.”

“She’s a cheapskate,” I said. “If that thing is easy to damage, you’d better get her away from it. I can’t afford another disaster.”

The cashier ran straight toward the cannon and ordered, “Hands off!”

My daughter has never outgrown her teenaged rebellion. She saw the cashier coming. She crawled inside the thing. I was expecting it to shoot her across the room, or do some other cannon-like damage. Then she threw up again. And a tiny pellet rolled out. Plink. On the floor.

The cashier picked it up and gave it to me. I looked at it. “I really can’t afford to buy anything else.”

“You don’t have to pay for this,” said the cashier. “It’s your daughter.”

The pellet wasn’t heavy. But then, this was the moon. Nothing is heavy here.

I looked more closely at it. It did not look like my daughter. It looked like a bullet, shot from a gun. But it didn’t shoot – it just fell. “Her vomit…” I started to say.

“The only way to restore her is to go to the Max Laboratory on Venus,” said the cashier. “And I can’t sell you a ticket there because your charge on the tapestry was refused.”

I rummaged in my purse. Nothing I had was valuable enough to trade for that tapestry, let alone a trip to Venus. Plus, I’d need return tickets for two.

One of the security guards jingled his handcuffs. “Up to you.” It sounded kind of like the children’s taunt: P. U., meaning you stink. I knew what he meant. I handed over my return ticket. And my daughter’s return ticket. 

“That’s enough to cover the tapestry. But you can’t stay here for free, unless you want to commit a crime and go to jail.”

“I can’t go home and I can’t stay here, and I can’t get to Venus to get my daughter back.” I looked around.

“You got that right,” said the cashier. “I used to be a highly-paid fashion designer, before I broke a Neptunian vase. Now I’m stuck here for at least another decade to buy my way home. I do send new clothing designs back, or I’d have no chance of ever paying my debt.”

“I had an idea for a carnival ride that depends on low gravity I said. Do you think I could get investors?”

“You’ll have to take your chances,” said the cashier. “But right now, you need a place to sleep tonight, and food for dinner. And while your daughter may look inanimate, she needs to eat, too. We’ve got some special mini-food for her. You’ll need to pay for that, too.”

So, I’m writing this letter, hoping to get investments. Tickets to my carnival ride will pay for my tickets to Venus. And give you a hefty return. Money is worth much more on Earth than it is here. Low gravity seems to equal high prices. It’s win-win for you. And as a bonus, I’ll give you a list of other booby traps around here, so you don’t stuck here when you take your next vacation.