by Allen Steele
It always came down to this: the eleventh-hour attack of nerves. The crossing of the Rubicon, so they say, except he had been down to this particular river before. In ’62, when he had received his orders to join the F-4 Phantom wing aboard the Enterprise during Vietnam; in ’65, after he had been recruited into the USSF and been posted aboard the Wheel for extended astronaut training; in ’69, when he went to the Moon as mission commander of Luna Two; in ’72, when he returned to the Moon as commander of Tranquillity Base. All those times, he had accepted his duty to his country, leaving his wife and kids behind. And every time, he had taken a last stroll on the beach with Judy….
Until 1973, that is, when they asked him if he wanted to go to Mars and he said no. By then he was sick of space; all he wanted to do was stay home to raise a family, play a few holes of golf, and go to sleep every night next to his wife instead of simply talking to her once a week on a secure downlink. He turned down Mars and was given an office job in return, and since then, with the exception of one quick trip to the Wheel to shake hands with some Russian cosmonauts in the spirit of McGovern-era detente, the only time he sat in a pilot’s seat was in the nine-year-old single-engine Beechcraft Debonair he used for commuting twice a week from Fort Meyers to the Cape.
And now, closing in on his sixties, here he was again. Same beach. Same wife. Same Atlas-C. Same goddamn Moon …
“Late for the sky,” he murmured.
Judy looked at him sharply. “What did you say?”
“Old song,” he said quietly. “From Helen’s record collection … Jackson Browne, I think. I kind of liked it, so I taped it and put it in the car. Used to listen to it now and then.” He tried to recall the lyrics, but couldn’t summon them up: “Nah, nah, nah nah nah … late for the sky, tah dah, dah dah dah …”
Judy giggled and he cast her a stern look. “I’m sorry, hon,” she said, “but if that’s as hip as you can get …”
“Would you rather I started singing … uh, the Sex Pistols? Hip enough?”
She smiled sweetly at him. “Dear, they broke up ten years ago. Johnny Rotten does Toyota commercials now.”
“Oh, that’s who he is? Okay, so I’m hopeless. Gimme a break.” He took his arm from her shoulders and tucked his hands in his pockets. “The point is, I don’t know if I’m really cut out for this anymore.”
Judy slid her hand into the crook of his left arm. “C’mon, Gene. You aced the physicals and you did fine during retraining. You told me yourself that flying the simulators was a breeze. Conestoga’s the same ship you’ve commed before, and nobody’s asking you to do much more than ride the old heap. What’s the problem?”
The problem was that he was being sent up as a living relic of the glory days, not unlike the Constellation or the Conestoga. A little older, not quite as obsolete, yet nonetheless sent aloft as a last-gasp public relations stunt for a federal agency that had lost its sense of purpose along with stable funding from Capitol Hill. His first flight assignment in more than two decades was to carve the epitaph for the American space program, and the only items that had been omitted from the crew’s personal manifest were a hammer and a chisel.
The rocky plains of Mare Tranquillitatis would be the tombstone for a dream that had died hard.
He glanced away from the launch pad. His eyes traveled across the ocean waters until, reluctantly, he found himself gazing up at the trapper’s moon. The old whoreson himself, the Man in the Moon, was leering down at him from across a quarter of a million miles of vacuum: Hey, buddy, I’m waiting for you … c’mon back and we’ll trip the light fantastic, one last time.
“No problem,” he murmured, lowering his head. “Just thinking aloud, that’s all.”
Judy seemed to want to say something, but she remained quiet. Instead, she tugged against Gene’s arm to turn him around. “Okay, sailor,” she purred. “Time to go to bed. If I let you stay up much longer, you’ll miss your wake-up call.”
Turning around, Gene allowed his wife to begin dragging him back toward the Beach House. He glanced at his watch—manufactured in Japan, he reflected, but wasn’t everything these days?—and noted that it was nearly nine o’clock. He was due at the O&C Building at three-thirty A.M. sharp. “Christ, I’m still wide-awake.”
“You won’t be after I get through with you,” Judy said. She let her hand slip from his arm and briefly caress his buttocks, and Parnell grinned despite himself. Some rituals were still as valid today as they had been twenty years ago.
Sometime in the middle of the night, he awoke from an unremembered dream to hear rain pattering on the roof. He stared at the ceiling for nearly an hour, thinking of nothing except how he would miss this simple, commonplace sound, before he fell asleep in his wife’s arms once again.
From The New York Times; April 11, 1956
U.S. LAUNCHES GIANT PASSENGER ROCKET; SUCCESSFUL
MAIDEN FLIGHT ORBITS EARTH AS WHITE HOUSE ANNOUNCES NEW SPACE FORCE
By Joel Brodsky
(Special to The New York Times)
MERRITT ISLAND, FLA., APRIL 10—Rising on a column of smoke and flame amid a thunderous roar which drowned out the excited shouts of onlookers, the U.S.S. Constitution was launched this morning from the U.S. Air Force Proving Grounds at Cape Canaveral, carrying six men on a test mission into Earth orbit.
Six hours later, after circling the planet twelve times at a record altitude of 185 miles, the giant rocket’s winged third stage successfully landed like a jet aircraft on a runway only a few miles from the launch pad.
When it lifted off from Cape Canaveral at 8:16 A.M. EST, the Constitution was an enormous three-stage rocket, 265 feet tall and weighing 7,000 tons—the height of a 24-story office building and the approximate weight of a light cruiser. It was propelled into the sky by 14,000 tons of liquid fuel, and less than a minute after ignition it broke the sound barrier as it hurtled over the Atlantic on its way to orbit above the equator.
The rocket’s first and second stages, discarded by the Constitution during its fiery ascent, automatically parachuted into the Atlantic Ocean, where they were recovered by U.S. Navy vessels.
During the flight, the rocket’s six-member crew radioed brief reports to receiving stations around the world, telling anxious listeners that they were safe and that their condition was fine. Captain Charles B. Yeager, the mission commander and pilot, then guided his craft through the critical retrofire and reentry maneuvers through Earth’s atmosphere, whereupon the third-stage glider gracefully touched down on a specially constructed runway on the north end of Merritt Island.
“We feel just great,” Captain Yeager told reporters shortly after he and his teammates emerged from their craft. “It was a nice, smooth ride all the way.”
Other members of the crew were Commander Edw. A. Graham, Jr., co-pilot; Lt. Casey Hamilton, flight engineer; Lt. Kenneth A. Moore, flight mechanic; Sgt. Richard Dunning, mission specialist; and Dr. Walter Kahn, flight surgeon.
One hour after the Constitution touched down in Florida, the White House formally announced its intent to ask Congress to approve a plan to split off the Air Force’s space program into a separate military branch, which would be called the United States Space Force. In a brief statement to the press, President Eisenhower claimed that the mission’s success had proved that the technological capability exists to pursue “a vigorous and ambitious program for the conquest of outer space.”
“I have no further doubts now that this country has the ability to build a manned space station,” Mr. Eisenhower said. “Because such a station will be vital to our national security, I believe that this administration, along with Congress, should approve the proposed Pentagon plan to establish a U.S. Space Force as the principal government agency behind this noble effort.”
Mr. Eisenhower said that he will ask Congress to approve his bill to build a fleet of five “ferry rockets” like the Constitution over the next four years and outlay $10 billion over the next seven years for the construction of a wheel-shap
ed station that would become operational by 1963. The House and Senate had approved a similar plan in 1953, but the President had vetoed the earlier proposal, saying then that the technology for advanced space missions had not yet been proven.
No official statement has yet been released by Premier Bulganin or other Kremlin officials in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. The United Nations ambassador, Sergei Titov, was quick to remind reporters that the U.S.S.R. sent an unmanned probe to the Moon almost four years ago. He also pointed out that the Constitution’s orbital trajectory took it three times over Russia and its eastern European satellites.
“The goals of my country in space have always been and shall remain peaceful,” Mr. Titov said. “By its very name, however, President Eisenhower has signified the hostile nature of the U.S. Space Force, and by calling this a ‘conquest,’ American imperialism has been blatantly revealed.”
White House spokesmen declined to respond to Mr. Titov’s remarks.
THREE
2/16/95 • 0245 EST
IN THE DARK HOURS before dawn, automobiles began moving out from the mainland communities of Titusville and Cocoa and the Orlando suburbs, their headlights forming a swift luminescent current that flowed eastward toward the Kennedy Space Center. Each bearing a NASA employee window sticker, they finally became two solid lines that drove over the Indian River on the NASA Causeway West to Merritt Island, where they passed citrus groves and wild marshes as they converged toward the distant spotlights of the launch center.
The four-lane road was wet from the brief rain shower that had passed over the Cape a couple of hours earlier; headlights cast slick reflections off the asphalt as windshield wipers beat away the last drizzle. Along the way they passed tents and RV’s parked on the shoulders of the causeway: the campsites of the faithful, the relative handful of diehard space buffs who still came from near and far to witness major rocket launches. Not too many years ago, so many people used to show up for launches that the U.S. Space Force had to issue camping permits three or four months in advance, and even then many people tried to camp out in the grassy median between the road lanes. This was no longer necessary; over the last decade the crowds diminished in size and number until now only a few dozen pilgrims journeyed to Merritt Island.
As she drove past the NASA Visitors Center—itself beginning to look seedy and run-down—Cris Ryer noted that anti-space protesters had once again insinuated themselves among the spectators. Six or seven cars on the right shoulder of the road surrounded a few tents that could have been mistaken for a campsite of space buffs until one spotted the signs and banners: LEAVE THE MONEY ON EARTH and ABOLISH NASA NOW! and STOP THE MADNESS! and (her personal favorite) NO ATOMS ON THE MOON! Most of the protesters were sound-asleep, curled up in sleeping bags inside tents made of lightweight materials which were spin-off products of the space program. A bearded, long-haired young man in jeans and a Mexican serape stood by the roadside, pounding metronomically against a leather Indian drum as he solemnly stared at the NASA employees reporting in for the morning shift.
“Hey, Cris! Look!” Laurell turned around in the passenger seat to point at the hippie. “It’s my cousin Igor! Look, it’s my cousin! Quick, pull over … !”
“Laur …” Cris began.
“No, c’mon! I swear to God, it’s Igor!” Before Cris could stop her, Laurell rolled down the DeLorean’s side window and stuck her head out. “Hey, look out!” she screamed from the car. “Look out! There’s a gator right behind you!”
The kid jumped a few inches, nearly dropping his drum as he looked back in terror. Laurell was in convulsions; Cris had to roll up the window for her, she was laughing so hard.
“You’re such an asshole,” Cris murmured, grinning despite herself. Only Laurell could pull off such a gag; a theater major in college before she had entered law school, she had a knack for convincing almost anyone of the most bald-faced lie. This talent for instant persuasion had made her a good trial lawyer. It had also helped to convince a lot of conservative male colleagues in the Florida Bar Association that she was straight.
“That I am …”
“That you are. Now shut up and look serious for the nice man.” Laurell got herself under control as Cris slowed down for the security checkpoint at Gate 3 and rolled down the driver’s side window for the uniformed guard who stepped from the gatehouse to shine a flashlight inside the DeLorean. A white-helmeted MP stood behind him at curbside, his right hand lingering near the .45 automatic holstered in his Sam Browne belt. Cris held up her plastic ID badge; Laurell found her VIP Visitor’s badge and showed it through the windshield. The guard carefully examined both badges, then checked them off on his clipboard.
“Thank you, Captain Ryer,” he said as he gave her a quick salute. “Good luck on your mission.” He waved them through the checkpoint; the MP added his own salute as they drove past him.
Laurell glanced back at the guards. “Gee, and he didn’t even ask if we were sisters.”
Cris smiled again. Laurell knew she was nervous; ever since they had left their house in Titusville, Laurell had been making wisecracks, singing along with the classic rock station in Orlando and talking back to the DJ, all in a futile attempt to take the edge off the moment. It hadn’t always worked, but then again Laurell had always played the irreverent cut-up next to Cris’s disciplined Air Force officer.
The sisters remark was an old standby, going back to the beginning of their relationship almost three years ago when they had met at a private gym in Titusville which catered covertly to the local gay community. There weren’t too many places in the area where two lesbian women could go during a long courtship without being accosted by straight single men, and fewer still where an obviously gay relationship would be tolerated. Thus the alibi of sisterhood; both Cris and Laurell were in their late thirties, and—until Laurell had dyed her hair—both were blondes, tall, and athletic-looking. Since they vaguely resembled each other, the pretense of being siblings made a good cover story.
But there were differences. Cris glanced again at her lover, still not quite used to Laurell’s recent change in appearance. A few weeks ago Laurell had sprung almost ten grand for cosmetic breast reduction, a surgical operation that had left her almost as flat-chested as a prepubescent teenager. Laurell insisted that she’d done so because big tits had put her on an unequal footing—no pun intended—with her male counterparts at the law firm. It was one more yuppie fad that had emerged from California, popular among female attorneys in particular, but Cris wasn’t quite certain that her companion’s newfound androgyny had nothing to do with their relationship.
“You’re such a guy,” she murmured.
Laurell looked away from the window. “Aw, c’mon, Cris … you’re not still pissed, are you?”
“Oh, no, no, I’m not pissed.” She gripped the leather steering wheel more firmly as she shook her head. “I mean, I was married to Carl for two years, wasn’t I? I should be used to a male chest by now….”
“Jesus. You’re still pissed.” Laurell closed her eyes, putting her hand to her forehead as she sighed. “Look, I’ve explained to you … it’s just something I did, all right? I always hated having boobs. I didn’t like sleeping on them, I didn’t like it when they started to sag, and I really didn’t like guys checking me out all the time….”
“I know, I know.” Cris had heard it all before. “But if you could have worked out a little more, maybe …”
“It wouldn’t have done a thing. Those mammaries were there for keeps.” Laurell smiled a little. “Hey, at least I had enough money to get it done right. If I only had five grand in the bank …”
“Then you would have been an Amazon. Right.” It was an old joke that Cris was tired of hearing.
“You’re such a bitch sometimes …”
“You got it. I’m a bitch. That’s me.” The line of traffic was creeping steadily toward the cloverleaf intersection of the east-west causeways and the Kennedy Parkway, where the highways s
plit in four directions at the center of the island. Two hours before dawn and there was already a small gridlock within KSC. At least the rain had finally let up; with any luck, the clouds would move out to sea long before the launch window closed.
Cris found herself staring in the direction of the Atlas-C launch complex, where the Constellation awaited her arrival. One more mission, and she would be another ex-Air Force astronaut with the abbreviation “ret” next to her name and former rank. It wasn’t supposed to end this way. Crash landings, catastrophic launch aborts, Criticality One accidents—those risks she had willingly taken over the past fifteen years, well aware that any one of them could snuff out her life in a second.
It had never occurred to her that falling in love would be the finish of her career.
She felt Laurell’s hand on her arm. “I’m sorry,” her companion said. “I didn’t mean to get on your case like that. It’s just that I hate to see you …”
Her voice trailed off. Cris forced a smile as she grasped the back of Laurell’s hand. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get through this. Just one more mission, then I’ll be home and we can start all over again.”
“If only you’d think about going public, getting those bastards to admit what they’ve done …”
Cris shook her head as she returned her hand to the steering wheel. She was past the cloverleaf; the sprawling headquarters area was coming up on the left, with Operations and Checkout just past the main office building. “We’ve been through this before, babe. Maybe we’d embarrass them a little, but no one would lose their jobs and we’d be eaten alive by the press. You want to hear dyke jokes about us on Letterman? That’s all that would happen.”
“But they’ll get away with it!”
Cris turned the wheel, pulled into the wide parking lot of the O&C. “They’re not getting away with anything, sweet,” she said, choosing her words carefully. If things got fucked up somehow, at least Laurell could plead innocence. “Trust me … they’re not going to get away with it.”