R is for Rocket by Ray Bradbury jun.2014 | Page 13

Finally somebody, I guess it was Sidney, said: "Let's go to the tele-show now". Everyone said yeah, except Priory and myself. We said no, and the other kids went off laughing breathlessly, talking, and left Priory and me there to look at the spot where the ship had been. It spoiled everything else for us that takeoff.

Because of it, I flunked my semantics test on Monday. I didn't care. At times like that I thanked Providence for concentrates. When your stomach is nothing but a coiled mass of excitement, you hardly feel like drawing a chair to a full hot dinner. A few concen-tabs swallowed, did wonderfully well as substitution, without the urge of appetite.

I got to thinking about it, tough and hard, all day long and late at night. It got so bad I had to use sleep-massage mechs every night, coupled with some of Tschaikovsky's quieter music to get my eyes shut.

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