The Cassandra Project

by Jack McDevitt

  “But if there were no aliens there, no trace of any aliens, just this deserted structure, why would we want to destroy it?”

  “To coin a phrase, I’d give a pretty penny to find out. But I’ve already spent quite a few billion pennies, so maybe you guys can be of some service here.”

  “Us?”

  Bucky nodded. “I can guarantee you that the answer’s not on the Moon. Surely you can find the answer if it’s here on Earth.”

  Great! thought Jerry Culpepper. If the White House didn’t hate us before, they sure as hell do now.

  “Are you saying the president is a party to this?”

  Bucky stared at the reporter. “The president was six years old when Myshko landed. Do you think he was a party to this?”

  “If Nixon kept it secret . . .” began the reporter.

  “Not just Nixon,” said another. “They couldn’t have done this overnight. Look at the dates, and think of the preparation time. LBJ would have had to be part of it, too.”

  “Whatever,” said the first. “If one or the other knew about it, and whoever was president when Myshko landed, it was definitely Nixon when—and if—Walker destroyed it. Did he just do it on a whim?”

  “I doubt it,” said Bucky. “For one thing, Nixon wouldn’t have been the only person to know about it. If there hadn’t been a hell of a good reason, why would Myshko never claim credit for being the first man on the Moon? Why would Walker and all the others keep silent? There was a reason, all right. I don’t know if it was a good reason or a bad one, but it was one that they all bought into, which makes me think it was a valid one.”

  “So are you suggesting that Ford and Carter and Reagan and the Bushes and Clinton and Obama and Cunningham, they all knew about it?” said The Chicago Sun-Times. “It must have been one hell of a secret. I mean, if Nixon didn’t use it to distract us from Watergate, and Clinton didn’t reveal it to take attention away from his impeachment trial, just what could it have been?”

  “Right,” chimed in Fox News. “We weren’t under attack. The discovery of alien life, and sentient alien life at that—after all, they traveled to the Moon and they built this structure—would have been something to get up on the rooftops and yell about, not hide.”

  “So maybe it wasn’t alien life at all,” suggested The New York Times. “All we have are a couple of curved metal plates, and the supposition of a wealthy playboy who hasn’t been trained in any of the sciences.”

  “The wealthy I’ll take full credit for,” said Bucky. “The playboy I resent. Or at least I resent never having had the time to be one. Anyway, I am not stating any of this as a scientific certainty. I’m inclined to say you dragged it out of me”—he smiled—“but the fact of the matter is that what I’ve told you is all supposition. Logical supposition, I think, and I’d bet half my remaining fortune that we ascertain that this metal wasn’t created on Earth, but we don’t know anything except that Sidney Myshko and Aaron Walker did land on the Moon because we found the landing stages from their ships.”

  “Why would ten presidents lie about it?” asked ABC.

  “I don’t know,” answered Bucky. He was losing patience answering the same question every two minutes. “And maybe lie is the wrong word.”

  “In what way?”

  “When presidents keep various aspects of national security secret, no one accuses them of lying.”

  “Are you saying this is a national security matter?” demanded MSNBC. “That we are in danger of being attacked by alien beings?”

  Bucky shook his head. “No. I’m not saying anything like that. I just used national security as an example. There are a lot of things that presidents, and senators, and representatives, and generals, and for all I know, blacksmiths, don’t tell us about. Most of it isn’t national security. I’m not in the panic business, and I think it would be a good idea if you weren’t either.”

  The man from MSNBC didn’t look as chagrined as Bucky felt he should have, so he stared at him until the reporter shifted uncomfortably and dropped his gaze.

  “All right,” said Bucky. “I’ve told you what I know, which isn’t much, and I’ve suggested where you might look for answers, which, of course, is up to you.” Sure it is, with three billion people watching or listening to this. “Now you are free to interview scientists Marcia Neimark and Phil Bassinger, and pilot Ben Gaines. When you’re done, Jerry Culpepper, the spokesman for the Blackstone Enterprises space initiative, will provide you with more background for your articles and reports.”

  “Have you got anything else to say?” asked The Wall Street Journal.

  “Yeah,” said Bucky. He looked into the cameras. “Start saving your pennies, because when we and other companies begin offering commercial flights in space, whatever it costs, you’ll get your money’s worth. I’ve done a lot of things in my life, been a lot of places, but I’ve never experienced anything like this. I feel”—he searched for the words—“emotionally blinded and deafened just by being back on Earth.” He pointed out the open doors toward the sky. “Now that I’m here, all I want to do is get back there.”

  Then, accompanied by Jason Brent and Gloria Marcos, he excused himself and left.

  —

  “Well,” he asked, when they were all seated in the private office that had been constructed for him, “how’d I do?”

  “I think if you wanted to make President Cunningham uncomfortable, you couldn’t have planned it better,” said Gloria. She paused and stared at him. “Did you want to upset him?”

  “Not especially,” said Bucky. “One thing not a single member of the press thought about, or more likely cares about, is that if all those presidents thought it was essential to keep this thing secret, they must have had a reason.”

  “Son of a gun!” exclaimed Brent in surprise.

  “Five’ll get you ten that not one of them considers that before they stake out the White House.” A bittersweet smile crossed Bucky’s mouth. “We’ve been on opposite sides of this, or at least not on the same side, but Cunningham’s a decent man, and for all I know, he has an excellent reason for covering up the Myshko mission, though now that they know about it, they’ll never leave him alone until they get the full story.” He leaned back on his chair. “I feel sorry for the poor bastard.”

  38

  Lyra had gone to bed. The volume on the TV was set low, and Cunningham was violating Secret Service protocols, standing near the curtains, drinking a rum and Coke, looking out at the sliver of moon hanging over the capital. Not much point being president of the United States if you can’t look out the window. The Moon is one of those things everyone takes for granted. Like spaghetti and meatballs. Or most of the people in our lives. We don’t notice them until they’re not there anymore. Or they start causing trouble.

  The Moon is for lovers.

  Well. Maybe back in the old days. He raised his glass to it.

  And, reluctantly, to Bucky.

  Behind him, NBC was replaying the arrival of the Myshko. He could just hear Cal Peterson’s voice describing the scene. He seemed awestruck. A reflection of the arriving lights moved across the window.

  “Here it comes,” said Peterson.

  He sighed, lowered himself onto a chair arm, adjusted the volume, and watched. The night sky was filled with stars. Abruptly, the picture split in two, one showing the incoming spacecraft, the other a crowd of several hundred standing anxiously behind security lines. Not bad, Cunningham thought. It was almost eleven o’clock out there.

  He was looking across an illuminated landing field, probably from a perch atop one of the hangars. The lights were growing steadily brighter, descending out of the night. Peterson kept talking about what a great moment it was for mankind, and what a debt of gratitude the nation owed Bucky Blackstone, and, by the way, tune in tomorrow for a complete recap of the mission.

  It was hard not to be jealous.

  It was too dark to be sure how close the Myshko was to the ground. Then, abruptly, it was v
isible in the field lights, its gray metal body sleek in the style of a corporate jet except for the twin rocket engines in the rear. The crowd began to applaud. The voice went quiet as the vehicle touched down, rear wheels first, then the nose, and the applause grew, turned into shouts and clapping and somewhere, out of sight, a band began to play “Fly Me to the Moon.”

  Yes, indeed. One of the great moments in history. He wondered how Bucky could have overlooked managing things so they’d have landed during prime time instead of an hour before midnight, 1:00 A.M. on the East Coast. He was probably not as good at public relations as people gave him credit for. Or maybe he just didn’t give a damn. The president shook his head. He’d begun to think too much like a politician. Not a good sign, not for a guy who thought of himself as so much more.

  The vehicle slowed and came to a stop. Then guys with lights fanned out onto the field, directing the pilot toward a pair of tow trucks. Peterson was going on about how a new era in space exploration had begun. The Myshko pulled in behind the trucks, lines were attached to the undercarriage, and they began pulling it toward one of the hangars. As it disappeared inside, a new voice, a woman’s voice, broke in. “Cal,” she said, “we’ll be getting a statement shortly from Mr. Blackstone.”

  —

  But first there were journalists interviewing each other. Magnificent day for the United States. Proud to be an American. Tell you the truth, Bill, it’s an important day for the entire world. And what do you think about those descent stages on the Moon? Where’d they come from? Then doors must have opened somewhere and suddenly the president was looking at the interior of the hangar, dominated by the Myshko. Lights were on, and the astronauts, still in their gear, were standing near the ship while security people tried to keep order. Off to one side of the spacecraft, two pieces of curved gray metal rested on tables. Both had jagged edges, as if they’d been ripped from a larger piece. They were different sizes, but the curvature and the complexion looked identical.

  “What’s that stuff?” asked a reporter, pointing at them.

  Blackstone came forward, carrying a microphone. “That’s what we hope to find out.”

  “Did they come from Myshko’s ship?” asked another. Cunningham recognized her as the A.P.’s Jenna Hawkins.

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Oh, come on, Bucky,” said a voice from the crowd. “Take a guess!”

  Bucky grinned. He was having the time of his life.

  —

  After Blackstone left, Jerry took his place, Jerry in his trademark suede jacket and dark brown tie, smiling, holding up his hands, asking for order, inviting more questions. He was still trying to quiet everything down when Ray called.

  “George,” he said. “You saw it?”

  “Yes, Ray.”

  “The telephones are ringing. We’re going to have to get a statement out posthaste. You want me to put something together?”

  Ordinarily, the assignment to create a first draft would have fallen to the press secretary. Who was presumably home asleep. But Cunningham had neither the time nor the inclination for that. “This is kind of a special case, Ray. My God, aliens. Is that really what it was?”

  “I don’t know, George.”

  “I’ll take care of it. I’ll get something to you in a few minutes.”

  “Okay.” He hesitated.

  “What, Ray?”

  “It could still be a hoax, George. We don’t know they actually found those pieces of metal up there.”

  “I suppose that’s possible. But what would Blackstone have to gain by making up a wild story that would fall apart so easily? He knows he’d be found out. No, I think we can believe what he’s telling us.”

  “Okay. I hope we have it right.”

  “Ray, I’m not sure what I’m hoping for now. By the way, where’s Weinstein?”

  “Should be pulling up out front shortly.”

  “Okay. Let me get this press release taken care of, and I’ll be down.”

  —

  Easier said than done. His first inclination was simply to proclaim that he was on the case. That the White House had been as surprised as anyone else at Blackstone’s discovery but that he wasn’t prepared to say more than that until he’d looked into the matter.

  But that would have been a bad call. Michelle Morris would be here shortly with something from President Nixon that, he assumed, would provide an explanation.

  What the hell had they stumbled into? The early flights had been made at the height of the Cold War. Had this been some sort of behind-the-scenes game between the U.S. and the Soviet Union? Maybe we’d wanted to set up a site on the Moon to launch missiles? Or maybe just get the Soviets to think we were doing that? So there’d been secret missions. Did that make any sense at all? Was it even possible?

  No.

  It had to be aliens. But Cunningham had grown up in a family of real-world skeptics. He’d spent a lifetime laughing at people who thought there was a major conspiracy about Roswell, who claimed they’d been kidnapped by UFOs.

  He called Ray. Told him to wait in the Oval Office. Then he headed downstairs.

  —

  “Tell them,” Cunningham said, “that we’ll be putting out a statement within the hour.”

  “Okay.” Ray looked uncomfortable. “When we do, what will we be saying?”

  “Depends on what Ms. Morris tells us.”

  “Suppose she has nothing? I mean, I hate to be negative, but it’s not really likely Nixon’s going to be able to shed any light on what happened tonight.”

  Cunningham shrugged. “If so, we’ll just tell them we’re looking into it. That we have no answers either.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’d hate to have to do that, but I think we’re in a situation where we might have to just fall back on the truth.” He grinned. It was a line that politicians often used. “By the way, they’re here. Security tells me they’ve just entered the grounds.”

  —

  The Nixon Museum director, accompanied by Ray, came into the oval office and smiled nervously at the president, who rose from his couch. She was carrying the locked box. “Mr. President,” Ray said, “I’d like to introduce Michelle Morris.”

  “Mr. President,” she said, “I’m honored.”

  “The pleasure’s mine.” Cunningham extended his hand. The box was made of dark-stained wood. It was large enough to hold a couple of oversize books. It did not, however, seem heavy. She tightened her grip on it and clasped his hand. “Now,” he continued, with a smile designed to put her at ease, “let’s see what this is all about, shall we?”

  She handed it to him. He set it on a coffee table ringed by three armchairs. “Please be seated, Michelle.” He indicated one of the chairs.

  A small padlock secured a hinged lid. Michelle showed him the key. He was reaching for it when a strange expression appeared on her face. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “My instructions,” she said. She reached into a pocket and produced a folded envelope. “Sir, they say nobody but you is to see what’s in the box.”

  Cunningham held out his hand. “May I see that?”

  She gave the envelope to him. He opened it and extracted a piece of letterhead stationery. Richard Nixon’s name was printed across the top, above his San Clemente address. The document was dated April 30, 1990, and was signed RN. With a flourish.

  It was addressed to the Director of the Nixon Presidential Library and Museum.

  The attached package is under no circumstances to be opened except as provided below, nor is its existence to be made known save to your successor. It is to be kept in a secure location.

  In the event that a sitting president of the United States inquires about a secret package, or indicates he is aware of its existence, or believes such a package may exist, and he stipulates a connection with the Apollo program, it may be turned over to him. But no one else, including the director, may be shown its contents save at the express pleasure of the president. He should be a
dvised that it might be best to make himself aware of the contents before allowing anyone else to see them.

  Michelle was looking directly at Ray. Cunningham showed him the letter. Ray read it, nodded, and got up. “Call me if you need me, Mr. President.”

  Michelle also started to rise. Cunningham signaled Ray to sit down. “I’m sure we can trust Mr. Chambers,” he said. He turned the package over. “Michelle, you have absolutely no idea what’s in here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How long have you known about its existence?”

  “I just found out when your man came looking, and we initiated the search. It was in storage.”

  “The previous director didn’t say anything?”

  “No, Mr. President.”

  “Okay, thank you, Michelle. There’s a lady outside who’ll show you to your quarters.”

  She beamed. “I’m staying here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You will have one of our best rooms.”

  —

  “I wanted to carry the box for her,” said Ray. “But she wouldn’t let anybody touch it.”

  “She takes her instructions seriously,” Cunningham said. He inserted the key, twisted it, and listened to the lock click open. He lifted the lid and looked down at plastic packing material. Beneath it was a nineties-style videotape. It carried a label, marked simply RMN.

  Beneath the videotape lay more plastic. He pulled it back, revealing a mahogany-colored plaque with a silver plate. No. Two mahogany-colored plaques with silver plates. Both plates were metal, and both were inscribed with several lines of characters. The characters were in a foreign alphabet. Or, now that he looked at it, different alphabets. Otherwise, the plaques were identical. “That one’s Greek,” said Ray.

  The letters on the second one looked vaguely Hebraic.

  “I think you’re right.” Ray frowned. “It shouldn’t be hard to find out for certain.”

  Cunningham moved them under a table lamp. “The Greek one is seven lines. This one is eight.”

  “You think it’s the same inscription?”