Jet-Heeled prom 

by Dixon Wells 

Originally appearing in Jetta comics #7 in 1952.

Sometimes Dancing on a Pink Cloud Isn't All It's Cracked Up to Be! 

Sparky was just coming down the steps of Electron High when the sight of Linda's flaming redhead made his heart skip a couple of beats. 

"Hi, atomic lover,” Linda greeted him. "I'm holding open the prom for you. You haven't asked me yet, but you're going to, aren't you?” 

"Uh-sure," Sparky mumbled.

“Great Galaxies," sighed Linda. "The first jet dance we've ever had at Electron High. Aren't you thrilled, Sparky?” 

He looked as if he'd swallowed a red hot meteorite. 

"Linda, I—“

But like most females, she wasn't listening. "Imagine, jets on your heels-dancing not on a floor, but up through the air as high as you want to go Spud Roulade and his Saturn Space Cats playing on a cloud—Sparky, are you listening ?”

Sparky was a pale green. "Linda, I never learned—" 

“Well learn then!” she snapped. “How do you expect to get anywhere socially if you don't keep up? You better know how to jet dance before that prom if you want to take me, Sparky!” 

“Jumping asteroids !" Sparky groaned at her retreating back. "How unreasonable can a female get?" 

"There's no limit," said his friend Short-wave over his shoulder. 

"Short-wave you heard her?” 

"I heard her," Short-wave said. “What you need, Sparky is a couple of quick lessons over at Brother Murphy's studio." 

"A great idea!" Sparky exclaimed, his face lighting up. "Lend me five bucks, quick!" 

“Why don't I keep my mouth shut?” Short-wave groaned. But he handed over the five dollars and Sparky promptly shot off down the wide street as though he were propelled by a rocket. 

But two lessons at Brother Murphy's convinced him that he was a dead space pigeon. With the portable jets strapped to his heels he should have been able to soar up and down, cut intricate figures, slide through the air like an ice-skater. Instead, he flopped all over the sky like a wounded duck. He dragged his teacher, a cute blonde named Urania through some crazy loops and side slips that nearly had them crashing through Brother Murphy's roof below.

“Whoa!" Urania said, halfway through the second lesson. "Get your landing flaps down and cut your jets, Sparky. I give up. You can't be taught." 

"What's the matter with me?" Sparky asked in bewilderment as they settled bumpily to the roof. "I can run a sky sled or a jet cruiser like nobody's business. Why can't I fly with these things on?” 

"No sense of rhythm I think," Urania said. “Look, Sparky, you're a cute kid and I like you. Why is it so important for you to learn to jet dance?" 

"My girl says I'm a social outcast if I don't.” 

“Girl, huh? Thought so.” She looked at him with interest. "I like you, Sparky, even if you can't dance." 

"Thanks, Urania. But Linda and me—we—I—uh—" 

"I get it," Urania said grimly. “Childhood sweethearts and all that sort of thing. Well, Sparky, there's one more thing we can do." 

"What's that?” 

"The night of the prom you simply strap on a pair of these jets with radio control and we'll have a good dancer take over from the control board and guide you." 

“Can that be done?” 

"Why not? We can control planes, rockets, guided missiles—anything by radio, why not your heel jets? A good dancer will pilot you, give you the sense of rhythm you need." 

"Great!” said Sparky enthusiastically. “Urania, will you pilot me?"

"Love to, Sparky," the blonde said, with a little smile.

With a great weight off his mind, Sparky blasted off for the prom. The big parking area atop Electron High was jam-packed with the jet jalopies of the kids and the cabin cruisers borrowed from their fathers. And already the atomic strains of Spud Roulade's Space Cats were floating down from the artificial pink cloud high in the air above the building. 

Sparky looked around. Parked near the edge of the roof was a gold cruiser on whose door was inconspicuously lettered "Brother Murphy's Studios." Urania leaned out the forward port and gave him the all-clear signal. He saw her slip on a special helmet with a built-in viewing screen and sound pick-up so that she could keep track of him at all times. 

"Let's go, rocket man !" Linda said excitedly. “Isn't this the most cosmic dance you ever saw?” 

Sparky slipped his jets on. He held out his arms to Linda and immediately felt the powerful little motors at his heels come to life. Together, graceful as a pair of human skyrockets, they rose into the evening twilight. All around them other couples were swooping, darting, rising and falling like figures in a dream." 

"Sparky, you're wonderful!" Linda breathed. “How'd you learn so fast?"

"I did it for you, space pigeon," he said. Instantly there was a little ragged jerk in the power at his heels and their smooth flight became bumpy. 

“Sparky, what's the matter?” Linda exclaimed, startled. 

"Take it easy, Urania!” Sparky breathed. His heart had missed a beat. 

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, nothing.” 

They glided, freer than birds, with no sense of strain or effort. 

"Oh, Sparky, I could dance like this forever!” Linda sighed. 

"Me too,” Sparky said rashly. “With you, baby, only you—" 

And then disaster struck.

Sparky felt his heels fly up and the universe abruptly reversed itself. By instinct, his arms tightened on Linda. With a scream, she spun with him. They shot skyward upside down, Linda's scream trailing behind them like the exhaust of a Mars-bound rocket. Then they went into a wild series of loops and spins and crazy swooping spirals, missing other dancers who scrambled wildly to get out of the way. They dived like an atom bomb on the cloud where the orchestra was playing. With wild screams the musicians abandoned their instruments and jumped overboard, floating to earth on their anti-gravity belts.

Linda and Sparky shot up again, spun madly, and dived on the roof where the faculty sat, watching the dance. The principal and all the teachers promptly went over the side of the roof. 

For minutes which seemed like centuries, Sparky and Linda were flung skyward and back to earth, spun and twisted and shaken like sparrows caught in the backwash of a jet cruiser. Then they were landed with a bump on the roof. 

The world spun crazily about Sparky's head. Through a dizzy cloud, he saw Urania through her porthole laughing like the cat who has finally caught the canary.

Linda staggered to her feet. “You—you fission head!" she spluttered. "Trying to kill me! Don't you ever talk to me again!" 

"Bah—but Linda—"

"Somebody else will take me home! Don't talk to me!" 

"Just a moment, young lady.” A large gentleman with a gleaming bald head was approaching. By the wrist, he was leading an unwilling Urania. “I'm Brother Murphy. Here's the cause of your trouble. Miss Urania has an explanation and an apology to make to you." 

Open-mouthed, Linda heard the blonde girl's explanation. “I'm sorry," Urania finished. “I liked Sparky. I didn't think you ought to treat him that way just because he couldn't dance." 

“We don't condone this kind of treatment to our customers,” Brother Murphy said severely. “Miss Urania, I'm afraid—" 

"Just a minute," Linda broke in. Her eyes had softened. "She's right. I was unreasonable and horrible. Please don't fire her. And Sparky, would you forgive me?” 

"Easy as falling off a comet, space pigeon," Sparky said, drawing a deep breath. 

It was a cosmic kiss. 

END