I don't know why I call him Gerald.

Of course, even memory is sworn to secrecy regarding the events surrounding the calamity that befell the HMSS Spitfire on its far from maiden voyage to the unseeable portion of that chilly old pebble that hangs awkwardly in the sky of an evening. RK Barrett's idea, it was, to try for the dark side. Brightest chap on the strength he was, scribbling away furiously on any bit of paper that came to hand in the Woomera NAAFI. He'd have thrown half his life's work away with his unfinished egg and chips if we hadn't kept an eye on him. And of course the ladies loved that dark-eyed lost boy thing that sort of hung over him like a shroud.

Did I say shroud? I remember thinking 'shroud'. I remember the word seeming somehow appropriate. Even before he took off.