The Cassandra Project (4 page)

“I don’t like it,” said Camden. “I’ve been loyal to you for all these years . . .”

“If I was firing you, Ed, I’d tell you up front,” replied Blackstone. “You know me well enough to be aware of that. But something happened that they don’t want anyone to know about, and they’ve kept it secret for fifty years. Now suddenly it’s starting to seep out. They’re going to clamp down, and clamp down hard. That’s obvious.”

“Then what’s this all about?”

“They’re going to have to tell Jerry what happened, so he doesn’t inadvertently give us enough leads so that we can find out ourselves.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“If Myshko was eaten by Moon lizards, he couldn’t say it jokingly, and he couldn’t firmly deny it. The first would start people thinking, and the second would start them digging.”

“But Myshko came back,” Camden pointed out.

“That was just an example, Ed.” Blackstone made no attempt to hide his disgust with his underling for not being able to follow his train of thought. “Don’t try so hard to convince me that I
should
replace you.”

There followed a few awkward minutes. Camden didn’t know what to say, and Blackstone began feeling guilty about humiliating him. He finally sent him back to his office and spent the rest of the afternoon pacing his own restlessly, trying for the hundredth time to dope it out:
What are they hiding, and why are they hiding it at this late date? What could possibly have happened that would still affect anything? If it would make a flight to the Moon more dangerous, why won’t they tell us? They know I’m going to send up a manned flight within a year. Surely they can’t want an American ship, which will be viewed as an American mission by everyone outside the country, to blow up or crash because of something they
could
have told us about and decided, for some reason, not to. So if the mission won’t be endangered by our lack of knowledge, what is so goddammed important that they’re lying like rugs?

They
had
to be lying. That was the one certainty. But about what?

He had to force himself to look at it logically.

The ship took off. Check.

The ship circled the Moon. Check.

The ship returned to Earth on schedule. Check.

What the hell could have happened?

He walked to the window and stared out—and up—again. And suddenly he began to get excited. It was almost there, almost within his mental reach. He stood perfectly still, trying to stem his excitement, to just concentrate on the problem—and finally he
had
it!

He knew what had happened, why they had lied—and if he couldn’t force the president to tell the country (and he was sure he couldn’t, because the president would never admit to lying to the electorate), and he couldn’t get Jerry to show him the data he needed, he was going public with what he thought had happened and making the government confirm or deny it before he took off.

Yes, he concluded mentally. To hell with a pair of pilots and three scientists. This was important enough to lose a scientist and add a billionaire cowboy who had figured it out.

Jerry was on hand to greet Frank Kirby when he came through the doors of the Hall of Fame. Despite what Jerry had expected, he did not appear feeble. He was permanently confined to a wheelchair, but his voice was strong, and he shook hands with the grip of a professional wrestler. “Jerry,” he said, smiling broadly, “it’s good to see you again.”

“And you, Frank. Welcome home.”

He’d been accompanied by several family members although his wife had remained in Orlando. “Janet asked me to say hello,” he said. “She wanted to come but just wasn’t up to making the trip.”

He introduced a son and daughter-in-law, and two grandchildren, both probably in their thirties. Mary came over, and they did another round of introductions. The son, whose name was also Frank, thanked Mary for arranging the event. “Dad has done a lot for Orlando,” he said, “since his retirement.” Ordinarily, Jerry knew, she would have passed credit for the idea to him, but on this occasion she let it go. Best not to connect him with the award.

They strolled into the main dining area, where Kirby got a surprise: Several friends from his NASA years had been brought in. They surrounded him, laughed, offered toasts, shook hands, embraced, introduced family members, and talked about the old days. A gray-haired woman leaning on a cane flashed a wide smile. “It’s good to see you again, Frank,” she said. “How many years has it been?”

Frank shook his head. “Too many, Myra.”

The VIP table waited at one end of the room, with places set for ten people. A tabletop lectern had been set up. Harry Eastman was already seated, talking with the operations director. Jerry wandered away from the group and sat down in back with Takara Yoshido, a systems designer.

Gradually, the guests drifted in. Mary got Kirby placed and took the seat beside him. The Orlando mayor was also present, as well as Laurie Banner, the president’s science advisor. Several representatives from organizations that had benefited at various times from Kirby’s support were present. Florida’s Senator Mayville was across the room, engaged in a spirited conversation with Eugene Cernan.

“You and Mary did a good job, Jerry,” said Takara. Her features took on a dreamy aspect. “It’s a beautiful gesture. I like to think that someday maybe I’ll be up there to receive the Eastman Award.”

“What are you doing now to qualify?” Jerry asked.

“I was looking at Frank’s résumé,” she said. “I have a Girl Scout troop. I guess I’d have to step things up a bit.”

“It’s a good start, Taki.”

A few reporters, including Cole, were scattered around the room. A TV camera in back would capture the event for the NASA Channel.

Everybody settled in. A few people went up to the head table for autographs or simply to shake hands with the guests. Eventually, the food began to arrive, baked salmon and roast beef, fortified with beets and potatoes and coleslaw. The low hum of conversation was interspersed with clinking silver. Kirby seemed to be enjoying himself, caught in an animated dialogue with Mary on one side and Cernan on the other.

Dessert consisted of chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream. And, finally, it was time for the ceremony.

—

Mary stood, welcomed everyone, and got her first laugh by saying there was a rumor that a manned flight to Mars had entered the planning stage. It was an inside joke, the sort of thing NASA had consistently heard from a range of administrations, usually coming shortly before more funding cuts. “We’re also being told,” she added, as the room quieted, “that we may even be able to bring them back.”

She asked each of the special guests to stand and be recognized. Each got a round of applause. Then she brought Harry Eastman to the microphone to make the presentation.

The plaque, which was wrapped in purple cloth, was already stored out of sight at the lectern. “You all know Frank,” he said. He looked in Kirby’s direction, and the former astronaut raised a hand to the audience. “He’s ridden the shuttles, but he never flew higher than when he reached out to help the children of Orlando.” He read a list of the recipient’s accomplishments. Then he produced the plaque, removed the cloth, and carried it over to where Kirby was seated. Mary handed him a microphone. Then she and Cernan moved away to make room. “I’m honored,” Eastman said, “to present the first Harry Eastman Award for Civic Achievement to Frank Kirby.”

Kirby received the trophy, took a moment to study it, and smiled. “Thank you, Harry.” They shook hands. He raised the award so everyone could see it. “I’m indebted not only to Harry, who’s been a friend for a long time, but also to Mary Gridley. To my former colleagues at NASA, who were so supportive for so many years. And to everyone who’s helped out in Orlando.” He put the award on the table. “But everybody knows I’m not alone. There are a lot of people who are doing far more than I’ve ever been able to. And some of them are in this room. There is an enormous number of kids who are in trouble. Who need our help.”

He spoke for several minutes, mostly about the plight of children growing up in poor areas. Then he reminisced briefly about the state of NASA. “I’ve been away from my old job a long time,” he said. “But this is still where I live. When I was growing up, we assumed that by the time we’d entered the twenty-first century, we’d have Moonbase and be well on our way to establishing a colony on Mars. We thought we’d be safe from any single catastrophe. Safe in the knowledge that the human race would survive. More important, perhaps, we understood that going off world was more than a safety measure. More, even, than a dream. It was part of who we were. The only real question was whether our generation would manage it, or whether we’d be remembered as the people who got to the Moon and then forgot how we’d done it.”

A murmur ran through the audience.

“I guess we know how that turned out.”

Someone up front wanted to know what had prompted him to start his charitable work, whether he’d been doing anything like that during his astronaut years. One of the computer guys asked whether he thought we’d ever get back to the Moon.

“Of course we will,” he said. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. That I’m a pessimist. And I am. But only in the short term. Eventually, we’ll do what we need to. Maybe we’ll even take the grand tour. But it’ll be our grandkids who do it. Not us.” Mary’s hand touched his arm. “At least not me. I don’t expect to see much more happen during my lifetime.

“But look at some of the people who are here tonight. Then ask yourself whether we’re going to be satisfied with retiring to a front porch for the rest of our days.” He asked if there were more questions.

A woman who identified herself as a physicist from the University of Georgia insisted on throwing cold water on everything. “Human beings can’t survive in a zero-gravity environment,” she said. “Eventually, we’re going to have to face the reality that we’re effectively earthbound.”

The audience got restless, and there was some whispering. “You’re talking about an engineering problem, Professor,” Kirby said. “If that’s the biggest hurdle we have to get over, I’ll be grateful.”

Jerry didn’t know who she was, or how she’d gotten her invitation. He suspected she was a plant from higher up. Sent there for the express purpose of lowering expectations.

Warren Cole’s hand went up. “Mr. Kirby,” he said, “you were CAPCOM for a couple of the pre–Apollo XI flights. On one of them, Sidney Myshko reported that he was in the LEM and ready to go. And you replied ‘Good luck, guys.’ Can you explain what was going on?”

Kirby looked up at the overhead, then gazed out toward the entry doors. He shook his head. “Damned if I can remember what that was about. I know we said that. I mean, I heard the recording, so I know it happened. But it was a long time ago, and it’s hard to remember specifics. I can tell you that we used to joke around a good bit. Sid was always saying how if he got up there, he was going to take the LEM down, and I suspect that’s what it referred to. But it’s obvious it had no real significance.” He smiled and pointed toward a young woman seated off to one side.

But Cole stayed on his feet. “Follow-up, Mr. Kirby, if I may. There was a period afterward of more than fifty hours during which all your conversations were with Brian Peters. More than two days, sir. What happened to Myshko?”

Jerry could not entirely contain a smug sense of satisfaction. Cole was performing up to expectations.

Kirby’s manner stiffened, and the smile faded. “I guess I should remind you that I wasn’t in the capsule. I had no way of knowing why one person was on the microphone and not somebody else. It’s not something I would have given any thought to.”

He went back to the young woman.

“Which,” she asked, “gives you a bigger sense of satisfaction, Mr. Kirby, riding a rocket, or helping a disabled kid?”

“That one’s easy,” he said. “You get a lot of satisfaction from giving a hand to a child. Riding a rocket has always scared me. And I don’t want to speak for anyone else, but I’d be surprised if there’s anyone who ever sat up on the nose cone of a Saturn V who wouldn’t tell you the same thing. No, I’ll play ball with the kid anytime.”

—

When it was over, Kirby and his family and Harry Eastman were given a tour of the Hall of Fame. They saw a LEM and a model of the Space Station, made it onto a mock-up bridge of the command capsule, watched a 3-D film documentary explaining where NASA hoped to go during the next decade and why humans had to establish an off-world presence.

Jerry strolled over to where Kirby was talking with a couple of NASA people. When they wandered off, Jerry said how impressed he was with Kirby’s charity work. “When the foundation first indicated it wanted to give an award,” he said, “we had no idea what you’d been doing. It’s an incredible story.”

The wheelchair was powered, and they moved closer to a wall filled with three-dimensional photos of astronauts hopping across lunar turf, Saturn rockets soaring through sunlit skies, and shuttles docking at the Space Station. “So how,” Kirby asked, “did you come up with
my
name?”

“We went online. Ran every name we could think of.” Jerry shook his head. “You have a pretty good record, Frank.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you. It didn’t seem like all that much to me. I was just trying to help. I mean, you know what they say, if you retire and head for the couch, they bury you the following year.”

He liked Kirby. The explanation he’d given Cole had been reasonable enough. Still, it wasn’t the only issue. He glanced up at an image of a command capsule coming over the rim of the Moon. “By the way, Frank—”

“Yes?”

They stopped in front of the picture. “I wanted to apologize for the newsman. He’s from the Associated Press, and he tends to be a bit pushy sometimes.”

“It’s okay,” Kirby said. “No big deal.”

“I have to admit, though, he’s got me curious. Was Peters really the only guy you were talking to during that
fifty
hours?”

“I don’t know, Jerry. This is something that happened a half century ago. I was talking to whoever I was talking to. What difference does it make?”

They exchanged stares. “Frank, a Navy pilot who was present when they were bringing the astronauts on board the carrier at the end of the flight said one of them was carrying
rocks
.”

Kirby’s features hardened. “What is this, Jerry?” he asked. “A setup of some kind? You bring me all the way down here to put me through this?”

“No, of course not, Frank. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

He’d given the plaque to his son, Frank, Jr. Now he looked around, saw him, and waved him over. When he arrived, Kirby took the plaque from him. “Here, Jerry, you can have it back. And if we weren’t in polite company, I’d tell you what you could do with it.”

“Frank—”

“And I’ll tell you something else.” Everybody was staring at them now, mouths open. “Just back off this thing, okay? Do yourself a favor. Back off.”

—

Fortunately, Mary didn’t see it happen. But a few minutes later, Jerry was called to her office. “What the hell happened?” she said.

He tried not to look guilty. “I’m not sure.”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean? Damn it, Jerry, I told you not to embarrass us. Did you know the whole thing got recorded? It’s out there now.” She waved in the general direction of her computer. “I wouldn’t have believed you could be so dumb.”

“Listen, Mary—”

“What?”

Her eyes sliced into him. “Look, doesn’t it suggest anything to you that he got so upset?”

“It suggests he didn’t want to discuss it.” Her mouth tightened. “It suggests he thought it was silly. Did you set that reporter on him?”

Jerry was having a problem breathing. He’d never seen her so angry. “Not—”

“—Exactly,” she said. “Well, that’s really good. What the hell is this business about rocks?”

“I got a call from a retired helicopter pilot. He says one of the Myshko astronauts dropped some rocks on the carrier deck.”

“Rocks?”

“That’s what he said.”

“As in Moon rocks?”

“No way to know, Mary. Not sure what else—”

She took a deep breath. “Where’s the plaque?”

“In my office.”

“All right, Jerry. Fix the problem.”

“I’m not sure I can.”

“Find a way. And be grateful you still have your job.”

—

Jerry didn’t think it would be a good idea to call Kirby’s cell, so he tried the hotel. But they’d apparently checked out before coming to the luncheon. Maybe it was just as well. Let him cool off on the ride back to Orlando.

Mary was right, though: The incident was all over the Internet, the public-relations director for NASA being hammered by Kirby, who was being described by everybody as a person who was very popular and gracious and a champion of the downtrodden.

But why was he so upset? If it was really nothing, just some sort of lame joke between himself and Myshko, wouldn’t he simply have laughed it off?

Barb’s voice came through the fog: “Jerry, you have a call from Bill Godwin. He says he’s the producer of
Koestler Country
.”

That couldn’t be good. NASA’s public-relations director never got invitations to appear on cable TV. Even astronauts didn’t get invitations. “Put him through, Barb.”