Sex on the Moon

by Ben Mezrich

  No, you’d have to be ridiculously stupid to attempt to sell fake moon rocks to a charter board member of the Antwerp Mineral Club. But rereading the message yet another time, Axel didn’t see any signs of idiocy. The syntax was good, even the man’s name had a certain panache to it: Orb Robinson, like some sort of transposition of Roy Orbison—the dead rhythm-and-blues singer, who, in point of fact, had a degree in geology. It occurred to Axel that the person who wrote this e-mail wasn’t stupid at all.

  Which meant that quite possibly he really was trying to sell a “multicarat moon rock.”

  Axel was beginning to lose track of the time as he contemplated the curious e-mail, and he realized that he’d never get to sleep if he didn’t investigate further. He knew enough about computers to do a pretty simple search of the originator of the e-mail. To his surprise, he quickly found that “Orb Robinson” had posted his inquiry to a fairly large number of mineral-club bulletin boards across Europe. But even more surprising, Axel found something that caused him to sit straight up in his chair.

  Back on March 9, Orb Robinson had posted an advertisement on the Antwerp Mineral Club’s main Web site. Axel quickly followed the link, and there it was, ad number 1275, posted to the Web site’s “Virtual Quarry”:

  Priceless Moon Rocks Now Available!!!

  “Orb Robinson” orb_robinson@hotmail.com

  If you have an interest in purchasing a rare and historically significant piece of the moon, and would like more information, then please contact me by e-mail and leave your contact information and an explanation of your interest.

  Sincerely, Orb

  Axel whistled low to himself, then removed his glasses and rubbed them against his sleeve. He glanced at the empty pilsner glass, wishing he still had some of the good amber stuff within arm’s reach, because now he felt like he needed a drink. He was suspicious before, but seeing the ad right there on his own club’s Web site, he was beginning to be convinced. Hoax or not, he was witnessing a crime in progress.

  Even though he was an avid collector, the thought of actually attempting to buy what this person was purporting to sell never crossed Axel’s mind. Just as he thought that the world needed to have an order about it, everything in its place, he was a firm believer in right and wrong, that there were lines you couldn’t cross, shortcuts you couldn’t take. He had served in the military because it was expected and also because it was the right thing to do. He wasn’t a rich man by any means, but he lived a good life in his little corner of Belgium, he had a wife who loved him and two kids who didn’t hate him. And he had his hobbies, his puzzles; that, to him, was what this crime really was—a puzzle that he now needed to solve. Everything in its place, everything in its way.

  The only question that remained was how, exactly, Axel was going to put this Orb Robinson into his proper place.

  …

  The weekly meeting of the Antwerp Mineral Club was already in full swing as Axel strolled determinedly through the wide, high-ceilinged dining hall of the Antwerp youth center. Even from the back of the hall, he could see that most of the regulars were there, gathered around the dozen or so industrial-looking rectangular tables that took up much of the center of the room. The slide projector had already been turned on, but not advanced to the first slide; the big screen that took up the entire far wall of the cantina glowed a bright, almost solar shade of yellow, backlighting the tables and the conglomeration of middle-aged, mostly bearded men who migrated around them—a herd inspecting a familiar water hole.

  It wasn’t the tables themselves that the herd found interesting. On top of the tables were various-sized boxes, ranging from the cardboard variety to more high-tech compartmentalized plastic cases that kind of looked like fishing-tackle containers. It was a weekly ritual; before the slideshow presentation, there was an hour set aside for the buying and selling of specimens. As Axel reached the first table, and reflexively glanced into the nearest set of boxes, he could see that it was the usual fare: shiny pieces of quartz, a few volcanic specimens, a handful of minor gemstones—nothing of particular value anywhere but here. To these men, who would offer up a perfectly good Monday night to spend gathered in a youth-center dining hall—a bit of quartz or a volcanic rock could sometimes seem like a treasure.

  Axel was disappointed in himself for being late, because it certainly wasn’t like him to be late. But tonight, just as it had done for the past two nights, dinner with his wife had led to a discussion about the strange e-mail—which he was now convinced was a window into some sort of crime in the making. Not an argument, exactly, because he and Christel never argued. But certainly a hashing out of opinions.

  Over the past forty-eight hours, Axel had become convinced that he had to do something. But Christel, for her part, didn’t like the idea of him sticking his nose into something that might end up being dangerous. If this was some sort of hoax, then the danger would be minor. But if somehow this person was selling a real moon rock—Axel might be getting himself involved with a dangerous character.

  Axel had explained to his wife that it wasn’t in his nature to just sit back and watch a crime in progress. What sort of person could stand by and see something they knew was wrong, and do nothing about it? But his wife wasn’t buying any of it; she had responded by saying that despite his noble explanation, the real reason he wanted to get involved was that he thought it would be fun. Another entertainment, another hobby. Like rock collecting itself. Or “popinjay,” another of Axel’s passions—a strange little archery game that involved shooting a wooden bird off the top of a ninety-five-foot pole. Sometimes with a crossbow. In front of an audience.

  Axel knew there was some truth in what she was saying, but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of winning the discussion. It might be a puzzle he intended to solve, but damn it, solving the puzzle would redress a wrong.

  “Mr. Emmermann,” one of the bearded men hovering over a nearby tackle box filled with gemstones exclaimed, causing most of the men around him to look up and smile. “We were worried you might have fallen into the river. Or, at the very least, gotten your foot stuck in a pilsner glass on the way out of your house.”

  Axel grinned at the man, then made a big show of bending over the rim of the tackle box, peering at the contents.

  “Actually, we’re having a little issue with the foundation of our chimney. But I knew I could count on you to bring me a little worthless rubble to fill the gaps.”

  The bearded man feigned indignation, placing a hand over his heart. He was the club secretary—in his mid-sixties, among the oldest members of the mineral group; a postman by day, he was one of the most respected rock hounds in Antwerp—and he also knew how to run the slide projector.

  “But why would you have come all the way here to buy my rubble when we all know you could have easily used your wife’s stew. One spoonful in between the bricks, and your chimney would have lasted a hundred years.”

  Axel laughed, because he couldn’t argue with the man’s point. Before he could think of something witty in response, a bushy-haired, portly amateur geologist shouted over from a table to the left.

  “Or maybe he’s late because he was busy buying moon rocks.”

  Axel’s ears perked up as he stood frozen over the tackle box of mildly precious gemstones. He looked toward the bushy-haired, portly man. Alfred Schnermeyer was one of the handful of Ph.D.s in the group, and for the past three years he had been the editor of the club’s newsletter. Axel looked from him to the other rock hounds nearby and saw that they were all smiling, as if in on the same joke.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” the club secretary exclaimed, giving Axel’s shoulder a squeeze. “We were just discussing it before you got here.”

  “You all got the e-mail as well?”

  “Everyone on the club’s main Web page. This Orb Robinson is a very persistent fruitcake. He wrote the president, the vice president, all of us here, even a couple of the visiting speakers. I wish one of us had printed out the
e-mail so that we could put it in the opening slide. But everyone deleted it, immediately.”

  Axel was about to say something, let them know that he, in fact, hadn’t deleted the e-mail—but he could see from the looks in his fellow hobbyists’ eyes that they were convinced that it was a hoax, and not worth their time.

  Axel decided to keep his suspicions to himself. Most likely, he was the one who was overreacting, and his friends were correct—it was some nutcase, a fruitcake, a waste of everyone’s time. But in Axel’s mind, no matter how you looked at it, this was wrong. If the person behind the e-mail actually had moon rocks, he had to have stolen them. If he didn’t, then he was trying to commit a fraud.

  “A shame,” Axel finally joked back. “We could have used the offer as the front page of our next newsletter. Maybe entice a few new members, one of whom might bring over a collection that doesn’t look like something I could use to pave my driveway.”

  They all had a good laugh as Schnermeyer moved toward the slide projector, preparing to get the meeting started. The other members of the Antwerp Mineral Club had already forgotten about the e-mail, and the nutcase who called himself Orb Robinson.

  But Axel Emmermann still had images of moon rocks dancing in his head.

  …

  When Axel finally returned home from the youth center, the house was already dark. He let himself in as quietly as he could so as not to disturb his wife and kids. A second late night in a single week was incredibly unusual for him, but he had a feeling this was just the beginning of unusual things. He briefly considered waking Christel to tell her exactly what he was going to do—but he didn’t want to reopen that can of worms. Besides, he really didn’t think what he was about to do could be dangerous. Although he couldn’t be sure, he guessed there was an entire ocean between him and Orb Robinson.

  He crept through the house as carefully as he could and made his way to the darkened living room. He didn’t even sit at the desk; he just stood in front of the computer in the corner of the room and began to type. When it was done, he stood back from the computer. Bathed in the warm, pixelated glow from the desktop monitor, he felt his cheeks flushing red.

  Everything in its place, everything in its way.

  His hand was trembling as he reached forward and hit the send key.

  18

  I might be interested if the price is right …

  Have you any proof that the goods are what you say they are?

  Thad hunched over his laptop as he sat on the edge of his and Sonya’s bed, trying to convince himself that he should just hit the delete key, send the little packet of electronic information into the black hole of nonexistence, forget that he’d ever gotten the response, forget about the whole mental game he was playing, forget about the lunar vault and that little door that led to the safe filled with lunar “trash.” Because now it was beginning to feel less like a game and more like something real. Here, in front of him, was a response—from some guy in Belgium, a mineral collector, a rock hound, with the Hollywood-ready name of Axel Emmermann. Axel Emmermann seemed ready and eager to commit what he had to know was a crime—purchasing an illegal “multicarat” moon rock from a stranger on the Internet. Thad was still playing a game, but this Axel Emmermann wasn’t; he was really looking to buy a piece of the moon.

  Thad ran a hand through his flop of curly auburn hair. He was wearing only a bathing suit, having just come back from a day of scuba instruction at the local Y. His hair was still damp, and he could feel the goose bumps rising across his naked chest and back. He was in no rush to get dressed, even though he was supposed to be getting ready for dinner. He really had no interest in going out with Sonya and her friends tonight—even before he’d gotten the e-mail from the Belgian gem collector, he had contemplated telling Sonya that he wasn’t feeling well.

  There was a peal of sudden laughter from the direction of the living room, and Thad glanced up at the closed bedroom door. He didn’t know how many of Sonya’s model buddies were gathered out there—when he’d come home from the pool, he’d counted at least four buffed and polished specimens, as well as at least three already opened bottles of red wine—but he didn’t think he could handle another evening of mindless conversation in some loud, overpriced, overly trendy restaurant. And now, looking at this e-mail, he knew there was no way he would even be able to fake his way through the ordeal.

  I might be interested if the price is right. …

  Thad shivered. He hadn’t really thought about price yet, even in the context of a mental game, because in truth, he hadn’t any idea how one would actually manage to pull off the heist. The lunar vault was unbelievably secure, from the keypad that got you over from Building 31 to the monitored entrance that led on through. Then there was the clean room and, of course, the huge steel vault door itself. The “trash” safe held about seventeen pounds of lunar rocks, but Thad didn’t think it would be possible to smuggle that much rock back through the clean room or past the security cameras. Which is why, in the original e-mail he had sent out to the dozens of foreign collectors, he had specified only a single “multicarat moon rock.”

  Working from that thought, he tried to figure out what kind of money he could ask for—how much imaginary cash he’d be demanding in return for his imaginary moon rock. Even though he remembered a single gram of lunar material was once put on the market for $5 million—and even if that number seemed ridiculous, he had read somewhere else that at a Sotheby’s auction, a gram of lunar material once went for $400,000—Thad didn’t intend to be anywhere near that greedy. He wanted this to be quick and easy, the kind of transaction that wouldn’t draw any attention. A Belgian gem collector couldn’t possibly have that kind of money, anyway; Thad needed to come up with a number that was both achievable and high enough to make it worth his while.

  Make it worth your while, he repeated to himself, incredulous at his own thoughts. Breaking into a NASA building, stealing the most valuable thing on Earth, endangering his chances of ever becoming an astronaut—Thad shook his head. That was only one way of looking at the mental game. NASA had designated those rocks as trash, unusable. Thad could use the money to make himself a better scientist, a better candidate for the astronaut training program. He’d be out of debt; he’d have money to pay for schooling, research, whatever he needed. And if he became an astronaut, he might one day help NASA in its quest to get to Mars—which meant, in a way, this theft would be a good thing for the institution. He had to continue to think about the heist in those terms—because in those terms it was more than palatable, it was heroic and noble. Thad thought of himself as a scientist, and he would use whatever he earned from the heist to advance science. To advance himself, within the realm of science.

  And besides, you couldn’t get arrested for pulling off an imaginary heist, could you?

  Thad dried his damp hands on the blanket beneath him and looked at his e-mail account. He dashed off a quick message to Gordon, asking him to investigate this Axel Emmermann, to compile whatever he could find via the Internet and whatever other means he had at his disposal. Thad wanted to know whom he was dealing with before he took the next step.

  Meanwhile, he began to compose the response he would eventually send to the Belgian rock hound. He didn’t even notice when Sonya and her friends exited the house, trailing laughter, mindless banter, the cacophony of clinking wineglasses. He didn’t even notice as his green Toyota Tercel started up in the driveway, the tires spitting gravel as the group headed to the restaurant without him. Sonya hadn’t even remembered that he was supposed to be going to dinner with them—but Thad didn’t notice, and truthfully, if he had, he wouldn’t have cared.

  19

  Up in the air. It’s a bird. It’s a plane. It’s Emmermann …

  Axel grinned as he pictured himself flying circles around the sparkling blue sky over Antwerp, his charming potbelly struggling mightily to break free of a bright red spandex costume, a silken cape billowing behind him as the warm spring air whizz
ed about his aerodynamically bald forehead. He saw himself winding low above the sixteenth-century churches and castles, the tourists waving and applauding as he showered them with moon dust …

  His grin became an outright guffaw. Axel Emmermann, superhero. At the moment, Axel the superhero was on his knees in the little patch of dirt beneath the window of his living room, his face bright red as he fought a particularly villainous species of weed. He was using both hands in a patented throttle motion, pulling with all his strength as he attempted to dislodge the shock of bright green—a botanical brute that was strangling his wife’s parsley at the root. The damn thing was hanging on for dear life, and it felt as if the nasty plant’s tendrils were gripped around the very core of the Earth.

  He wished Christel could see him now, on his hands and knees in the mud, at the mercy of a brainless twist of plant. She would have seen for herself how amusing the label she had given him was. He was as far from a superhero as a forty-nine—soon to be fifty—year-old rock collector could be. But Christel was gone; she’d stormed off to the market right after Axel had sent his latest e-mail, leaving him alone in the house to face the nefarious weeds.

  Christel wasn’t really angry; it was more a mix of frustration, and maybe a little fear. Because many days had passed since Axel had sent his first response to Orb Robinson, Christel had assumed that the matter had been dropped. And rightly so. The other members of the mineral club had long forgotten the foolish hoax. But Axel was a different breed, and even after a week he couldn’t seem to let the matter go. Maybe he was more like a weed than a superhero.

  That very morning, he had decided to take action. No spandex was involved. Just himself, in his gardening shorts, knee-high boots, and short-sleeve shirt, alone at his computer, just hours ago.