The Cassandra Project (20 page)

“Who?”

Weinstein turned to face Bartlett. “The one who counts.”

It was Jerry’s first day on the job for Press of the Dells, a midsize Wisconsin publisher. He hadn’t sought the job; like all the others he’d been turning down until he realized he was running out of money, it had sought him—or his reputation, to be honest. You could fill a dozen books with what he didn’t know about the publishing business—indeed, people already had—but at least it wasn’t the government, and if he had to tell an occasional white lie, it didn’t make him feel as if he was lying to the world at large about vitally important issues.

His job was loosely defined: at-large editor, which meant that he wasn’t responsible for any particular line of books (the house published both fiction and nonfiction in various categories), and assistant to the publisher, which was even more loosely defined but essentially meant that he was the middleman in both directions between the literary press and the stockholders on the one hand, and Cliff Egan, the middle-aged publisher, on the other.

At least,
he thought,
I’ll be dealing with rational people instead of paranoids who see conspiracies behind every statement.

That comforting thought lasted all the way until midafternoon of his first day, when Millicent Vanguard (which he was sure couldn’t be her real name) burst into his office.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “How may I help you?”

“It’s happened again!” she snapped. “And it’s got to stop!”

He looked past her, through the open doorway, into the hall. “Has someone been annoying you, Miss Vanguard?”

“Him!”
she screamed, tossing a magazine down on his desk.

He picked it up.
Wisconsin Reviews Magazine.
“I’m not acquainted with this. Can you explain, please?”

“Harley Lipton!” she said. “That little carbuncle on the behind of humanity!”

“What exactly did this little carbuncle do?” asked Jerry.

“Just
read
it!”

He picked up the magazine. “What am I looking for?”

“Page twenty-seven!”

He turned to page twenty-seven, and began reading aloud. “I am as willing to suspend my disbelief as the next man, but when it comes to the sludge that passes for a Millicent Vanguard novel, I find I cannot suspend my appreciation of plot, characterization, and the proper use of the English language. Her latest,
Kiss These Dead Lips
, is even more ludicrous than her
Grave Lover
. If I may paraphrase the late, great Henny Youngman, take my Vanguard books—please!”

“Well?” demanded Millicent when Jerry had finished. “What are you going to do about it?”

He was at a loss for an answer. Finally, he said, “Are you asking me to edit your next book?”

“No!”

“Then what?”

“I want you to get Harley Lipton fired!” she screamed.

“Just because he doesn’t like vampire romances?” he asked mildly.

“What better reason is there?” she demanded. “And they’re
paranormal
romances.”

“I can’t get a man fired just because he doesn’t like a book.”

“But he hasn’t liked my last seven!” said Millicent. “He’s clearly prejudiced against not only me, but the entire paranormal romance field. He has no right to be writing reviews.”

“Maybe you could speak to his editor,” suggested Jerry.

“I did! The fool wouldn’t listen, any more than you do!” She turned on her heel and stalked out.

Ah, well, they can’t all be Ernest Hemingway or Joseph Heller,
he thought. Besides, would facing a drunken Hemingway, who was probably carrying a gun, have been any better?

Then he thought of Millicent Vanguard again, and thought,
Yeah, probably.

—

The next day brought new interactions with the artists to whom the reading public had entrusted the preservation of the culture and the language.

First came a phone call from James Kirkwood, who was two years late on a biography of Wisconsin Senator Willis McCue.

“I wasn’t aware of the book,” Jerry had replied. “I’ve only been here a couple of days. But McCue is running for reelection next year, and he’s down nine points in the polls. I think you’d better get it in fast, before he’s out of office and people forget who he is, or was.”

“You’re supposed to encourage me, not depress me, damn it!” snapped Kirkwood.

“I
am
encouraging you,” said Jerry reasonably. “I’m encouraging you to deliver the manuscript.”

“When I’m ready!”

“Remember what I said. I don’t see how we can use it if you wait much longer.”

“You sue me for nondelivery, and I’ll sue you for harassment and mental cruelty!” yelled Kirkwood, slamming down the phone.

An hour later he got an e-mail from Melanie Dain, explaining that her eighty-five-thousand-word novel was two hundred thousand words and still going strong, but that her agent would soon be in touch about splitting it in half on the reasonable assumption that Press of the Dells would pay her double since it would now be two books. When he asked if the first book, or first half, or whatever they were calling it, would have a satisfying conclusion, since not every reader would be buying both books, she explained that it could easily be done—for triple the advance. He explained that triple the advance for a single book that was running long through no fault of the publisher’s was an unreasonable request, and she explained that she never talked money, that he’d have to speak to her agent.

“But you just
did
talk money,” he pointed out. “You asked first for double, then triple the advance.”

“That was a matter of
principle
,” she explained archly. “My agent talks dollars and cents.”

Suddenly NASA and Washington weren’t looking all that bad.

Things went more smoothly for the next two days. Then Schyler Mulhauser, the award-winning science-fiction artist, delivered his cover painting for Richard Darkmoor’s newest book.

“It’s very nice,” said Jerry, looking at the painting.

“One of my best,” said Mulhauser.

“But I’m afraid we can’t use it.”

“Why the hell not?” demanded Mulhauser. “I worked three weeks on the damned thing.”

“Schyler, you put a naked woman in the middle of the painting. She’s absolutely beautiful, but she’s absolutely naked.”

“That scene’s in the book.”

“I haven’t read it, but I’ll take your word for it,” said Jerry. “But we can’t use it anyway.”

“Why not?” repeated Mulhauser.

“Most of the distributors won’t handle it because most of the stores won’t display it.”

“And you’re going to let a bunch of middle-class churchgoing bigots tell you what to do?” demanded Mulhauser.

“Those middle-class churchgoing bigots probably constitute 80 percent of our population,” answered Jerry. “We’re in business to sell books; we can’t sell what the stores won’t take.”

“Publish them as e-books and skip the stores.”

Jerry was getting a little tired of artistes. “Good idea. We’d save the cost of printing, shipping, and cover art.”

“WHAT?”

“Mulhauser, hang the painting at a convention’s art show and sell it at auction, or find some publisher who hasn’t figured out that busty naked ladies don’t get displayed in bookstores, but I need some acceptable cover art, and I’m not okaying payment until I get it.”

“I’ll think about it,” muttered Mulhauser. He turned and walked to the door, then turned back. “I don’t like you much.”

“I’m desolate,” replied Jerry.

“Just remember: I’ll be here long after you’re gone.”

“In Wisconsin?” said Jerry, as Mulhauser stalked out of his office. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

—

On Monday, the printer phoned to say the press he was using for Jerry’s books had broken down, which meant he’d be three days late. Jerry had to call the trucking company, which wanted a fee for canceling on such short notice, and 15 percent more than usual for supplying trucks on Thursday on almost as short a notice, and one of the distributors explained that the science-fiction, romance, and political-essay lines would probably hit the stores two to three weeks late, despite only arriving at his warehouse three days late. Of course, if Press of the Dells really
had
to get the books out sooner, he was sure something could be worked out. It was a phone call, but Jerry could almost hear the distributor’s hand stretching out to Wisconsin, palm up.

—

The next day, Jerry was eating lunch in a nearby sandwich shop (which he had to admit gave him twice as much for half the price of its Florida equivalents) when Sarah McConnell, one of the editors, found herself in the same restaurant and sat down across from him.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

“Not at all.”

“I’ve hardly had a chance to get acquainted with you,” she said. “How do you like it here, after being on television every day and hobnobbing with the rich and famous?”

“NASA scientists are neither rich nor famous,” he replied with a smile. “As for the job, I’m getting used to it.”

“Good. I don’t know how you can deal with those science-fiction people. They’re all crazy. And the mystery people . . . the women want such neat, cozy, comfortable murders, and you get the feeling the men really enjoy describing decapitations.”

“Are
any
writers totally sane?” he asked with a smile.

“
My
writers are,” replied Sarah.

“You’re mainstream and romance, right?”

“Mainstream and paranormal romance,” she corrected him. “Plain romance is, well,
passé
.”

“But women falling for werewolves and zombies isn’t?”

“I’m talking about my writers, not the subject matter demanded by their readers.”

“Okay, I see the difference.”

“And my writers are absolutely normal. Well, as writers go, anyway.”

“I met one of them my first day on the job,” he said.

“Oh?”

He nodded. “Millicent Vanguard. She wants me to kill a reviewer.”

“Well, Stanley
is
incredibly cruel to her.”

“Stanley?” he repeated, frowning. “No, I think the guy’s name is Harley someone-or-other?”

She laughed. “Harley Lipton?”

“Yes.”

“At least he uses some wit. Stanley Pierson is positively vicious to her.”

“If they all hate her writing, why do we keep buying her manuscripts?” asked Jerry.

“You mean, beside the fact that she’s the best-selling writer for the entire publishing house?”

He sighed. “Give me time. I’m still new on the job.”

“Isn’t it the same everywhere?”

He shook his head. “Everyone can love a rocket’s design and its cost, but if it won’t get off the ground, we scrap it and try another approach.”

“No wonder the country’s so deep in debt,” remarked Sarah.

“Wouldn’t
good
be nice, too?” asked Jerry.

“Good is what pleases the public. We’re just the conduit between the artists and the readers.”

—

Then, on his twelfth day on the job, a manuscript arrived. It went to the nonfiction editor, who walked into Jerry’s office and tossed it on his desk.

“Here,” he said. “This is much more your field of expertise than mine. Have fun with it.”

Jerry looked at the title:
Reaching High: A History of Our Space Program
.

“Oh, Lord, another one!” he muttered, but, out of a sense of duty, he began reading at the top of page one, figuring he’d stop before the end of the prologue and send a little note saying that it was a nice concept, but others had thought so, too, and covered the same subject many times before.

But when he put it down to grab a cup of coffee, he realized that he was on page forty-three and was anxious to get back to it. He took it home with him, read far into the night, and finished it at his desk in midmorning. The second he was through, he walked into Cliff Egan’s office and told him that he’d just read the best damned book on our space program he’d ever experienced.

“Who published it?” asked Egan.

“No one,” said Jerry, surprised. “I’m talking about a manuscript we received.”

“Oh,” said Egan with no show of enthusiasm. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“Everyone will like it once we bring it out. I’d like to be in charge of the publicity campaign.”

Egan stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “We won’t be publishing it, Jerry.”

“Don’t you want to even read it?” demanded Jerry.

“I’m sure it’s as captivating as you say,” said Egan.

“Then why—?”

“You’re new to the field, Jerry. We’re in business to make money, and books about the space program just don’t sell. Write the author a glowing personal rejection and suggest some other publisher, someone big enough to publish it for the prestige, knowing it’s a loser.”

“You won’t even look at it?” persisted Jerry.

“Why bother?”

—

Ten minutes later, Jerry was on the phone to Bucky Blackstone.

“That job you mentioned a couple of weeks ago,” said Jerry. “Is it still open?”

Five minutes later, he stopped by Egan’s office to hand in his resignation.

Gloria checked her computer and turned to Bucky. “He’s on his way up.”

“Culpepper? Good.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

Bucky shook his head. “No,
we’re
going to leave. I want to show him around—especially the plant where we’re working on the ship.”

“Then why not meet him there?” she asked.

“Because he’s been working in a place that’s being starved for funding, and I want to impress the hell out of him by having him come up and take a look at the offices where he’ll be working.”

She stared at him. “You always have a reason for what you do, but I sure don’t know why you want to impress him. I mean, hell, we’ve already
got
him.”

“He’s going to take over from Ed Camden as the spokesman for the Moon shot,” said Bucky.

“Ed’s not going to like that.”

“We’ll find lots of things for Ed to do, but Jerry has to be our public face for this project.”

“Why?”

“Because he quit NASA as a matter of conscience rather than continue lying to the public, and that makes him the most trusted and believable spokesman we could have.”

“Most people don’t know why he quit.”

Bucky smiled. “They will,” he assured her.

“Okay.” She didn’t always love the way Bucky’s mind worked, but she admired its efficiency.

“And if we find what I expect to find, I need a spokesman whose veracity and integrity are above reproach.”

She checked her screen. “He’s here now.”

“Let him in.”

Gloria got to her feet, walked to the door, and escorted Jerry inside. Bucky found himself facing the man he’d seen so often on television: an inch or two under six feet, brown hair beginning to recede at the temples, intense gray eyes, a slender man just starting to add a little poundage with age.

“Welcome aboard, Jerry!” said Bucky, walking forward and extending his hand. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you on the team.”

“Thanks.” Jerry shook his hand. “Sorry I couldn’t get you any more information, but that publishing house took everything I had.” He paused and made a face. “One more day there, and I’d sure as hell have killed someone.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“About six in particular.” Jerry smiled ruefully. “Maybe seven.”

“Well, if you’re going to work in an industry where the practitioners tell you up front that they’re lying, you can expect that,” replied Bucky.

“I’m just about ready to agree with you.”

Bucky nodded. “Well, let me give you a little orientation tour. We’ll start right here. This is my office . . .”

“I know that.”

“And this”—he indicated Gloria—“is my executive secretary, Gloria Marcos, who’s been with me longer than anyone else. If you need to contact me, she’ll always know where I am, and if I’ve given orders that I’m not to be disturbed, she’ll know how to circumvent them because I am always available to you.”

Jerry nodded pleasantly to her. “We’ve met online.”

“You know Ed Camden,” Bucky continued. “There’s a burly guy who pretty much leaves me alone in here but is my shadow everywhere else. You’ll meet him soon enough. He’s Jason Brent, my number one bodyguard.”

“You have more than one?” asked Jerry curiously.

“I have eight.”

“I knew you had a few enemies, but I didn’t think that many people hated you,” said Jerry with an attempt at levity.

“For every one who hates me, there are a dozen who’d like to kidnap me and hold me for ransom,” answered Bucky.

“Of course. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“As I told you, if you need to dig up any information, especially information that someone doesn’t want you to have, we’ve got a young woman named Sabina Marinova who’s pretty good at ferreting it out. She’s the one who was the first to have a face-to-face with Amos Bartlett.” Bucky paused. “There’ll be a few more people I want you to get acquainted with, but let’s take a tour first.”

“What did Bartlett say? Did he admit to anything?”

“You can draw your own conclusions, Jerry.” He turned to Gloria. “See that he gets access to the video.”

“Will do.”

“Now, Jerry, let’s go take a look at our transportation.”

“The spacecraft?”

“Of course.”

“Good! I’m anxious to see it.”

“Let me show you where you’ll be doing your most important work first,” said Bucky, leading Jerry out of the office to his private elevator.

“My office?” asked Jerry, as they descended to the third floor.

“Your office is a minor part of it,” answered Bucky.

The elevator came to a stop, and they got off. “That’s yours to the left.” Bucky indicated a large office filled with up-to-the-minute electronic equipment. “The one on the right belongs to Ed Camden. He may be a little upset for a few days, since you’re replacing him as our spaceflight spokesman.”

“I can do some other job . . .” began Jerry.

“Do you think you’re the best at what you do?” demanded Bucky. “Tell me the truth.”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then—no false modesty. You’re our spaceflight spokesman, and that’s that.” He walked to a very solid door and opened it.

“My God, that’s impressive!” said Jerry as he walked into a state-of-the-art video studio.

“It should have everything you need,” said Bucky, indicating a number of digital cameras including 3-D, acoustical microphones, teleprompters, and lights, plus half a dozen video and audio recording and dubbing devices. “Our technicians can be ready to work on a moment’s notice. We can broadcast you all the hell over the world on television, radio, the Internet, you name it. We can also transfer images from the ship, and from the Moon itself, and send them out from here. We have experts who can put together any kind of presentation you need on almost no notice.”

“This is a far cry from where I was working at NASA,” said Jerry, looking around.

“If there’s anything else you think you’ll need here, just ask for it. My priorities are different from NASA’s”—he smiled—“or at least from those of NASA’s boss over on Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“I can’t imagine that this studio needs anything.”

“It needs the right spokesman,” said Bucky. “And now it’s got him.” He paused. “You want to look around a bit?”

“I can do it later,” answered Jerry.

“Okay, let’s go look at my new toy.”

They reentered the elevator and, to Jerry’s surprise, descended past the ground floor and even the basement level, to the subbasement.

“What the hell’s down here?” asked Jerry, as they emerged into a dimly lit area of concrete floors, walls, and ceilings.

“Transportation system,” answered Bucky, leading him to a small vehicle that looked like a souped-up golf cart. It was parked next to a dozen identical vehicles.

“But why? I mean, all your buildings are on the same piece of property, right? I read that you own about two square miles.”

“A mile and a half,” said Bucky. “This is Jason Brent’s idea. If they don’t know where I am, it’s hard to set a trap for me—or shoot me, for that matter.”

“Why do they want to shoot you?”

Bucky shrugged. “Why did anyone want to shoot John Lennon? There are crazy people out there, and if you make the news, and I do, you’re automatically a target.”

“I guess you are at that.”

“It shouldn’t surprise you. Your previous boss is protected around the clock by the Secret Service.”

“You expect a president to be a target,” responded Jerry. “You don’t think of it in terms of normal people.”

“I won’t even resent being called a normal person,” said Bucky with a smile. “But consider this: In the almost two and a half centuries the United States has been in business, four presidents have been assassinated—Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, and Kennedy. How many nonpresidents have been shot down in that same amount of time?”

“I wasn’t arguing,” replied Jerry. “I just hadn’t considered it.”

The route was well marked with glowing signs and arrows, and after a couple of minutes, Bucky came to a stop next to a freight elevator. They got out of the vehicle, walked over to the elevator, and ascended to ground level. There was an armed guard standing right at the elevator door, and others were posted at the various entrances and exits. Bucky nodded to him, which seemed to be all the guard needed to know about Jerry, and he stepped aside to let them pass.

They found themselves in a huge area, some two hundred feet on a side, forty feet high, with a number of cranes not in use lining the back wall—and right in the middle was the ship that would be taking Bucky and four others to the Moon.

It was a glistening white vehicle, slim and elegant, with more than a hint of raw power, pointing to the ceiling and, beyond that, the stars.

Jerry let out a low whistle of admiration. “Somehow I thought it would be bigger,” he said. “It seems dwarfed in a place like this.”

“I wish it
were
bigger,” said Bucky. “I’m going to feel awfully cramped after a couple of days.” Suddenly, he smiled. “I wish we could at least have added a flush toilet.” He paused. “It takes off vertically and lands horizontally. The Moon lander lands and takes off horizontally. Everything’s magnetized or somehow attached to the bulkheads since we’re going to be out of gravity pretty soon.”

“Where the hell’s the booster?”

Bucky pointed to it. “It looks like it’s part of the ship. But we’ll be jettisoning it not long after we take off.”

“I’m impressed,” said Jerry.

“It looks even smaller when it’s on its belly, which is the way it’s going to touch down,” replied Bucky. “I never know which parts of it they’re working on from day to day, so I never know if it’s going to be pointing to the ceiling or to a wall.” Suddenly, he smiled. “We could make it bigger,” he added, “but if we did, I don’t know if we could get it off the ground.”

“You know,” said Jerry, “I’ve never seen one of these close-up, at least not before it’s taken off and returned minus a couple of stages. I signed on after the last shuttle launch.”

“It’s not a shuttle anyway,” said Bucky. “This baby was built to reach the Moon.” He pointed to a smaller section of the ship. “And
that
baby was built to land on it.”

“Well, I’m impressed,” said Jerry. “I just think it’s a shame that you had to do this yourself, that NASA couldn’t get the funding.”

“It’s not a shame at all.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a capitalist. I think it’s a shame that we ever needed NASA in the first place, if in fact we did. There’s money to be made up there, exploring the planets, mining the asteroids, building colonies.”

“I agree with mining the asteroids, but when you talk about building colonies, you’re making it sound like science fiction.”

“Am I?” said Bucky. “As best we can tell, there are oceans hidden beneath the Moon’s surface. If they’re H
₂
O-type oceans, there’s a lot of oxygen to be pulled out of them until we can create enough hydroponic gardens to sustain life for a few hundred or a few thousand people. You think five hundred heart patients wouldn’t pay whatever it takes to live out their lives—their much-longer lives—in a low-gravity hospital on the Moon?”

“You’d make a profit from them?”

“Don’t hospitals?” retorted Bucky. “Don’t ambulances? If I invest a couple of billion, don’t I deserve a return on my money?”

“That’s why we have organizations like NASA, which
don’t
exist to make a profit.”

“They don’t exist at all if the government doesn’t take your money to fund them,” said Bucky. “There’s a little less charity in the world than you’ve been led to believe. But that’s neither here nor there. There’s a little less truthfulness, too. And that’s why I’m engaging in this enterprise, and why you’re going to be reporting it to the public, whatever the results.”

Jerry sighed deeply. “There’s no sense arguing about lunar colonies and hospitals, or about charities and economics. I’m here to help disseminate the truth about the Myshko and Bartlett missions, whatever that truth may be. And now that I
am
working for you, I’ll tell you something else I’ve been able to find out: Just about every shot you’ve seen of the Cassegrain Crater taken since 1959 has been doctored.”

“Cassegrain?” repeated Bucky. A grim smile crossed his face. “Damn! I
thought
it might be Cassegrain.”

Jerry frowned. “What do you mean? Why Cassegrain?”

“It’s the area with the smallest number of photos and almost no description of it.”

“That’s your destination?”

“That’s right.”

“What are you looking for—footprints?”

Bucky shook his head. “We’ll look for them, of course, but I would imagine they were swept clean.”

“It’s a big crater, maybe forty miles across,” said Jerry. “How will you know exactly where to look—and what will you be looking for, if not footprints?”

Bucky led Jerry around the ship to the smaller lunar lander. “Do you see this?” he said, pointing to a section of it.

“Yeah.”

“That’s a descent stage. If we’re right about this, there should be two of them on the ground.”

“Damn!” exclaimed Jerry. “I never thought of that!”

Bucky flashed him a grin. “I’ll bet George Cunningham never thought of it either, or he’d find some obscure law to prevent us from taking off.”

“So it’s
not
going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack!”

“We probably won’t be able to see them from orbit, but we’ll have instruments that can find them and pinpoint their location. Then maybe we can finally find out why nine presidents in a row have lied to the American people.”

Cassegrain.
The word kept running through Jerry’s head. And then he realized—“There’s something else,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“There was a secret project back during the Apollo days.”

“Really?”

“Its name has an echo.”

“Its
name
?”

“They called it
Cassandra
.”

Suddenly, Jerry began to feel very excited again. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced since he first began working for NASA. He’d forgotten the sensation, and now that it was back, he never wanted to lose it again.