The Cassandra Project

by Jack McDevitt

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 ta
lking 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.”

  Godwin appeared on-screen. He was a long, angular guy with a polished scalp and a white beard. “Jerry,” he said, “how are you?” On the few occasions Jerry had seen him, he had radiated serenity. A nuclear war could have broken out, and Godwin would have remained perfectly relaxed. He smiled and somehow managed to suggest that he and Jerry were old friends. “We wanted to invite you to appear on the show.”

  “Bill, I’m seriously tied up.”

  “Come on, Jerry. You can make time for us. I mean, that’s your job, isn’t it?”

  Damn. He didn’t have an easy way out. “When did you have in mind?”

  “Well—” Godwin delivered a smile. “How about tonight?”

  “You normally restrict the show to political guests, Bill. What would we be talking about?” He wasn’t sure why he bothered to ask.

  “What the future looks like from NASA’s point of view. And, of course, we’d be interested in knowing what the dustup was between you and Frank Kirby today.”

  “The show originates in New York, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “There’s no way I could get there.”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t have to, Jerry. We have people in Florida. They could come in and set you up, and you’d do the show from your office. Or even your home, if you like. Your call.”

  “I think I better pass. I’m seriously on the run at the moment.”

  “Okay. Sure. Whatever you want. But I have to tell you that we’d have no choice but to make an announcement that you declined an invitation to appear.”

  “Come on, Bill. You’re not really going to make an issue of this, are you?”

  “Jerry, the guy gets a community service award, then gives it back before he’s even out of the building. It’s a human-interest story. And I know you want to explain your side of this.”

  “Have you invited Mr. Kirby?”

  “We have. But he won’t be able to make it.”

  “Are you going to make an announcement about that?”

  “No need to. Look, we’d like to have him. But you’re really the guy we want. You’re at the center of this.”

  Jerry stared out at the sky. It was growing dark. Approaching rain. “What time?” he asked.

  —

  Mary stiffened. “Al Koestler?” She stared at him out of the monitor. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jerry. There’s no way you can win.”

  “If I’d ducked, you know what they’d have said.”

  “I know.” She looked down, scribbled a note to herself. “Okay. Do it.” Her features softened. “You’ll be all right. Koestler’s just a windbag.”

  Limit the damage. It’s all you can do.

  —

  They would do the broadcast from Jerry’s home. It was a good choice. It had been a long day, and he needed to get away from the office. He ate at his favorite restaurant, Dixie Crossroads Seafood in Titusville, but never tasted the food.

  The TV crew arrived shortly before seven and began setting up. Mary called to reassure him. “You’ll get through it all right, Jerry,” she said. “Just hang loose.”

  A makeup guy patted powder on his nose and cheeks. Then a young woman explained about the lights on the cameras and how he should talk to the lens. It was all stuff he knew, that anybody knew, but he let her go on. “You won’t be on until the second segment,” she explained. Her name was Shirley. Unlike Koestler, she seemed reasonable, and he would have preferred to have her conduct the interview.

  A bright moon was visible in the trees. While Jerry stared out at it, they moved the wingback chair away from the window and put it beside a desk, then set up a camera so that the desk would occupy the background. As eight o’clock approached, a young man who seemed to be the director suggested he sit down in the chair. Jerry complied.

  He’d done interview shows before, during his years as a campaign front man. But nothing on this scale, nothing on cable news that would go out to the entire nation. And never confronting a loudmouth host whose primary goal was to make his guests look silly.

  Then it was time. Shirley switched on the monitor, and he watched the intros to Koestler Country. Koestler appeared, relaxed in a book-lined studio. He was in his fifties, sporting a smile that suggested the rest of the world was deranged but he would set it straight. He had thick red hair and always dressed casually. Tonight, it was a light blue pullover shirt and an azure sports jacket. He was looking through a sheaf of notes as the camera panned in on him, and a piano played the show’s bouncy theme. He looked up, suddenly aware of the presence of an audience. �
��Hello, Mr. and Ms. America,” he said. “Welcome to Koestler Country.” He smiled and laid the papers on a side table. “Tonight, we’ll be looking at who really controls the environmental protections in the United States, why a former astronaut showed up on the Space Coast for a public service award from NASA and promptly gave it back, whether we’re doing the right thing shutting down our military and naval bases around the world, and, finally, whether our continually advancing technology is destroying our kids’ ability to talk with one another. Our first guest this evening is Eliot Kramer. Eliot is an economist and was a member of the last administration’s corruption watchdog group.”

  Kramer walked in past a set of dark curtains. He wore an artificial smile. “Good to see you again, Al,” he said, as Koestler rose to shake his hand. Then they both sat down.

  “Last time, Eliot,” said the host, “we talked about the degree to which corporations control the efforts to do something about the environment. Has that changed at all?”

  “It has, Al. It’s gotten worse. And in my view, it’s time to put some of these people in jail.”

  —

  “So, Jerry,” he said, inviting him in, “what’s happening with NASA these days?” Al Koestler was not a fan of the space effort. “Once you got beyond Earth orbit,” he was fond of saying, “there’s no point in continuing. It’s cold, dark, and empty out there. No place to go. Nothing to bring back.”

  “We’re still doing exploratory work.”

  “What, actually, are you exploring?”

  Jerry was taken by surprise. He’d expected an immediate focus on Frank Kirby. “The outer planets. We’ve learned a lot these past few years.”

  “For example?”

  “We have a pretty good idea why Uranus rotates on its side. You know that, right? That it’s completely tipped over?”

  “How would that affect us, Jerry?”

  “Well, there is no direct impact. But— You are familiar with the term ‘blue sky science’?”

  “Of course. That’s science that doesn’t do anything for us. But it’s fine. I just don’t think the taxpayers should have to pay for it.” He continued in that vein for several minutes. And finally took a long, deep breath. “NASA gave an award to one of its former employees this morning. It went to Frank Kirby for community service in Orlando, Jerry. Am I right?”