by Dan Simmons
"Jesus, Dave," said Baedecker. "It's too pretty a morning for this stuff." They bounced along for a minute. The road ran along a wooded ridgeline where Baedecker could look out and see valleys ahead. "Who was the other man you admired?" he asked.
"My father," said Dave.
"I didn't know your father killed himself," said Baedecker. "I thought you told me once that he died of cancer."
"No," said Dave. "I said that cancer led to his death. So did booze. So did terminal loneliness. You want to see his ranch?"
"It's near here?" asked Baedecker.
"About six miles north," said Dave. "He and Mom got divorced back when it wasn't so fashionable. When I was a little kid, I used to take the train out from Tulsa to spend summers on his ranch. He's buried in a cemetery a couple of miles above Lonerock."
"That's why you bought a house out here," said Baedecker.
"That's why I knew the area. Di and I had been interested in ghost towns and such down in Texas and California. When we came out to Salem, I showed her this part of the state and we found the house for sale in Lonerock."
"And that's why you think about suicide?" said Baedecker. "Hemingway and your father?"
"Naw, it's just a topic of interest to me," said Dave. "Like building models or poking around in ghost towns."
"But you don't see it in relation to yourself?"
"Not at all," said Dave. "Well, wait a minute, that's not quite true. Remember on the mission, when we had that eight-minute live-broadcast spot to fill during the last EVA? I did give some thought to it then. Dave Scott'd done that Galileo experiment shtick with the rock hammer and
the falcon's feather, remember? That was a hard act to follow, so I figured, what if I just say something like, 'Well, folks, one of the things we don't know much about up here on the moon is the effect of explosive decompression in hard vacuum on your basic government employee. Here goes nothing.' And then I'd pop open the urine transfer collector valve on my EMU and go squirting out of it like toothpaste out of a stomped-on tube of Colgate right there on prime-time, three-network, live American television."
"I'm glad you didn't do that," said Baedecker.
"Yeah," said Dave and drove on in thoughtful silence for a minute. "Yeah, I decided that if we couldn't think of anything else to do to fill the eight minutes, I'd go through pretty much the same song and dance and then I'd open your UTC valve."
"Scott?"
"Dad, is that you?"
"Yes," says Baedecker. "My God, it's hard to get hold of you. I've called five times and been put on hold each time, then I was cut off. How are you, Scott?"
"I'm okay, Dad," says Scott. "Where are you?"
"Right now I'm up at McChord Air Force Base in Tacoma," says Baedecker, "but I'm staying down in Salem for a few days. Scott, Dave Muldorff was killed last week."
"Dave?" says Scott. "Oh, shit, Dad. I'm really sorry. What happened?"
"Aircraft accident," says Baedecker. "Look, that's not why I called. I heard that you were sick, even in the hospital for a while. How are you feeling now?"
"I'm okay, Dad," Scott says, but Baedecker can hear the hesitation. "A little tired still. Look, Dad, how'd you know I was here?"
"Maggie Brown told me," says Baedecker.
"Maggie? Oh, yeah, Bruce probably talked to her. Dad, I'm sort of sorry about your visit to Poona last summer."
The pay phone clunks, and for a second Baedecker can hear nothing. "Scott?"
"Yeah, Dad."
"What is it? Your asthma worse again?"
Several seconds of silence pass. "Yeah. I thought the Master'd cured it last summer, but I've been having some trouble at night. That and some other stuff I picked up in India."
"Do you have your medication and inhalator?" asks Baedecker.
"No, I left that stuff back at school last year."
"Have you seen a doctor?"
"Sort of," says Scott. "Hey, Dad, are you just out here because of Dave, or what?"
"For now," says Baedecker. "I quit my . . ."
"Please deposit seventy-five cents for the past two minutes overtime," says a synthesized voice.
Baedecker fumbles for change and feeds in the quarters. "Scott?"
"What'd you say, Dad?"
"I said I quit my job last summer. I've been traveling since then."
"Jesus," says Scott, "you not working? Where have you been?"
"Here and there," says Baedecker. "I spent Thanksgiving in Arkansas working on Dad's cabin. Look, Scott, I'm going to be over in your neck of the woods tomorrow and I want to stop by and talk to you."
There is a hiss of interference and a muted buzz of voices.
"What, Scott?"
"I said . . . I said, I don't know, Dad."
"Why not?"
"Well, there's been some trouble around the ashram here . . ."
"What sort of trouble?"
"Not here exactly," Scott says quickly. "But in the area. Some of the ranchers and locals are all upset. There've been some shots fired. The Master's thinking of closing the grounds to outsiders." There is the sound of another voice speaking to Scott. "Uh, Dad, I've got to get going now . . ."
"Just a second, Scott," says Baedecker. He feels an inexplicable panic rise in him. "Look, I'm going to stop by tomorrow. Scott, I could use some help finishing the job on the cabin. That place could be very nice if I could get it fixed up this spring. Would you think about taking a few weeks off and working on it with me?"
"Dad, I don't . . ."
"Just think about it, please," says Baedecker. "We'll talk tomorrow."
"Dad, I'm afraid that . . ."
The line goes dead. Baedecker tries to call back several times and gives up.
He goes into the other room where Kitt Toliver is sitting. Toliver is in his mid-thirties, tall and solidly built. He reminds Baedecker a bit of Deke Slayton because of his crew cut and intensity of gaze. "Thanks for waiting, Sergeant," says Baedecker.
"No problem, Colonel."
"You understand that I'm not part of the official inquiry," he says. "I have no official status whatsoever. I'm just trying to find some answers because Dave was a friend of mine."
"Yessir," says Toliver. "I'll be glad to tell you everything I told Colonel Fields and the others."
"Good," says Baedecker. "You did the preflight on the Talon?"
"Yessir, twice," says Toliver. "Once in the morning and again after I got the call from Major Munsen telling me that Congressman Muldorff would be flying it."
"Did Dave do a preflight?"
"Sure did," says Toliver. "He said he had to connect with a commercial flight in Salt Lake, but he still took time to look at my PIF and did his own look-see. Did it right, too."
"And you're convinced that the aircraft was airworthy?"
"Yessir," says Toliver and there is steel in his voice. "You can read my PIF 720, sir. They say there was a structural failure after takeoff and I can't argue with what happened, but as far as we could tell from the external inspection and cockpit check, that machine was in perfect order. The engines were new, sir. Less than twenty flying hours on them."
Baedecker nods. "Kitt, did Dave do anything or say anything during the preflight that you thought was unusual?"
Toliver frowns slightly. "During the preflight? No, sir. Oh, he told me a joke about . . . uh . . . well, about having oral relations with a chicken. But other than that, no sir."
Baedecker grins. "Did he have luggage with him?"
"Yes, sir. An Air Force flight bag. And the big package."
"Big package?" says Baedecker.
"Yessir, I told Colonel Fields and the team all about that."
"Tell me," says Baedecker.
Toliver lights a cigarette. "Not much to tell, sir. I went back to the wardroom to get a jacket, and when I came back Congressman Muldorff had loaded a box out of his car.
"How big a box?"
Toliver holds out his hands to signify a shape about two feet by two feet.
&
nbsp; "Did it go into the storage locker?" asks Baedecker.
"No, sir," says Toliver. "When I got back to the plane, the congressman was settling in and the box was strapped in the backseat."
"Well strapped in?" asks Baedecker. "Any chance it could have come loose in flight?"
"No, sir," replies Toliver. "It was well secured. Seat belt and harness."
"Was the backseat armed?" asks Baedecker.
Toliver shakes his head. "No, no reason for it to be."
"But Dave's seat was?"
"Yes, sir," says Toliver and the silent of course, idiot, is all but audible.
Baedecker takes some notes on a small pad. "Did he tell you what was in the box?"
"Yessir," says Toliver and grins. "He said it was a birthday present for his son. I said, 'How old's your boy?' The congressman sort of smiled and said, 'He'll be one minute old in about two weeks.' Said his wife was due about January seven."
"Did he say what the present was?" asks Baedecker.
"No, sir. I just said, 'Congratulations, sir,' and we got him ready for takeoff."
Baedecker closes the notebook and holds out his hand. "Thanks, Kitt. I appreciate your time. If you think of anything else, you can get in touch with me through Major Munsen."
"Will do," says Toliver. He turns to go and then pauses. "Colonel, there was the one unusual thing I told the team about. I thought you'd probably heard about what the congressman'd said, but maybe you haven't yet."
"What's that?" asks Baedecker.
"Well, when I was ready to pull the ladder off, I said 'Have a good flight, sir.' I always say that. And Congressman Muldorff, he sort of grins and says, 'Thanks, Sergeant, I'm planning on it. This is going to be my last one.' I didn't think about it much at the time, but it's been bothering me since the crash. What do you think he meant, sir?"
"I'm not sure," says Baedecker.
Toliver nods but does not leave. "Yessir. Did you know him well, sir?"
Baedecker starts to reply but pauses. "I'm not sure," he says at last. "We'll see."
"Hey," said Dave, "I'm feeling a bit beaucoup drunk."
"Affirmative," said Baedecker.
They had cut firewood all Sunday morning in the hills above Lonerock. Baedecker had enjoyed the hard work, the sweat evaporating quickly in the high, cool air. Then they had loaded the pickup, eaten a lunch of thick corned-beef sandwiches with plenty of mustard, had a couple of beers from the cooler, driven back to Lonerock, had a beer or two on the way, unloaded the truck, stacked the wood in the shed behind Dave's house, had a beer, brought the truck back, and had a couple of beers with Kink. Then they had returned to the house to sit on the porch and drink beer.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon when Dave made his announcement. "Jesus, drunk from beer," he said. "That's high school stuff, Richard."
"Affirmative," said Baedecker.
"Hey, you know what we forgot to do? We forgot to tell you to have me remind you to remind me to take you up to see my dad's ranch."
"Yes," said Baedecker. "Remind me to remind you to do that tomorrow."
"Nuts with that," said Dave. "Let's do it now."
Baedecker followed him down to the jeep and watched as Dave tossed things into the backseat. Baedecker eased himself into the passenger seat, taking care not to spill his beer. "What're we, moving up there or what?"
"Have dinner there," said Dave, setting the last of the cargo in place and clambering into the left seat. "Ignition sequence countdown."
"Check," said Baedecker, swiveling to look at the heaped backseat.
"Cooler?"
"Check."
"Beer?"
"Check."
"Barbecue grill?"
"Check."
"Hamburgers?"
"Check."
"Buns?"
"Check . . . no, wait a minute. Red light on the . . . no, there they are, under the charcoal. Check."
"Charcoal?"
"Check."
"Lighter fluid?"
"Check."
"Flashlight?"
"Check."
"Winchester?"
"Check. What the hell do we need that for?"
"Rattlesnakes," said Dave. "Lots of rattlers up there. Lots of rattlers down here, come to think of it. Been real warm this fall. Still out."
"Oh."
"S-IVB LH2 precool and fast fill, S-IC LOX tank replenish, glycol fuel jacket topping."
"Check," said Baedecker. He pulled a tab on a beer and handed it to Dave.
"We have ignition," said Dave and started the jeep, backed out of the drive, turned in a cloud of dust, and accelerated north down Main Street at high speed. They sped past the rusted gas pump. "Houston, we have cleared the tower," drawled Dave.
"Roger," said Baedecker.
Dave swung onto a narrow road leading northeast into a canyon. The jeep bounced along the ruts for a quarter of a mile and then emerged onto smoother ground. "Roll and pitch program completed," said Dave. "Stand by for Mode One Charlie."
"Affirmative," said Baedecker. They rattled over a cattleguard, and some charcoal bounced out of the bag and disappeared into the dust cloud behind them. "Inboard cutoff," said Baedecker. "Stand by for staging."
The jeep's right wheel jolted over a large rock, Dave's AIR FORCE 1½ cap flew off his head and ended up in the backseat under the small charcoal grill. "Tower jettison," said Dave.
"Roger."
They rounded a hairpin curve and began climbing a steep grade. Dave shifted down into second gear and then into first. "Be advised, Houston," he said, "we are GO for staging."
They leveled off on a ridge far above the valley. The jeep trail led along a narrow strip with boulders to the left and a sheer dropoff to the right. "Affirmative," said Baedecker. "GYSA."
"KYAG," said Dave.
It was more than six miles. The road ran along treeless ridgetops, dropped into a shadowed canyon, and climbed out across a flat expanse of high desert so that it was half an hour before Dave turned onto a graveled county road and the ranch finally came into view. They drove across a broken cattleguard and down a lane overgrown with sagebrush before pulling to a stop in front of an abandoned wood-frame building. Baedecker could see a barn and a huddle of smaller outbuildings beyond.
They walked through the brittle grass to the house with Baedecker watching for snakes every inch of the way. The ranch house showed signs of long abandonment—windows gone, plaster fallen in most of the rooms, banister missing on the stairway, a rear porch collapsed on one side—but it was also easy to see that it had been built with care and precision. The porch continued around three sides of the building and there the hand-carved gingerbread remained, the interior woodwork had been meticulously crafted, and the large stones in the central fireplace obviously had been set by hand.
"How long has it been empty?" asked Baedecker as they stepped through the litter of plaster in the kitchen.
"Pop died in '56," said Dave. "A couple of families owned it for a while right after that, but they never had a chance of making a go of it. It's damn hard to make a living around here on a small spread. Pop could never decide if he wanted to be a farmer or a rancher. He didn't have enough water to make a go of the farm, and never had enough pasture to do justice to ranching."
"How old were you when your father died?"
Dave took a long drink of beer and stood looking out the kitchen window. "Seventeen," he said. "That was the first summer I didn't take the train out and stay here. I had a girlfriend and a summer job in Tulsa. Important things to do." He tossed the beer can in the sink. "Come on out back. I want to show you something."
They walked past the barn and smaller buildings. As with the main house, the barn had been built to last. Baedecker read the place of manufacture on the large hinges—Lebanon, Pennsylvania, Patented 1906. They crossed a section of field and Baedecker was just beginning to think about snakes again when Dave stopped, pointed to a large, circular depression in the pasture, and said, "Coot Lake.
"
It took Baedecker a minute to see it. The mound they were standing on would have been part of the east bank, the rotted wood underfoot a trough to the south part of the irrigation ditch that fed water to the pond, and the washed-out gully to the north the dam itself. Fifty yards across the sunken area was the other dike with half a dozen dusty cottonwoods hanging over the weed-strewn slope that had been the west bank.
"Richard," said Dave, "do you ever wonder how much of your life you've spent trying to please the dead?"
Baedecker sipped his beer and thought about this as Dave sat on a rock and stripped a long strand of grass for chewing.
"I think we underestimate how much of our own lives we devote to trying to meet the expectations of the dead," continued Dave. "We don't even think about it, we just do." He
pointed to a cluster of weeds and bushes twenty yards across the low meadow. "That's where we had our old raft tied. Sort of a float. The water was only about seven or eight feet deep there, but I wasn't allowed to swim on the south side of it because it was filled with reeds and water plants so your feet'd get all tangled up. Pop'd rip 'em out every year and they'd be back every summer. He lost one of his old hunting dogs out there before I was born. Then one summer—it must've been during my third summer out here, I was about nine, I think—my dog Blackie got all tangled up in the stuff when he was swimming out to join me on the raft."
Dave paused and chewed on his stalk of grass. The sun was almost setting, and the shadows from the cottonwoods stretched far out over the dead pond. "Blackie was mostly a Lab," he said. "Pop gave him to me when I was born, and for some reason that was very important to me. Maybe that's why he stayed my dog even though I only saw him summers after I was six and Ma and I moved away. We didn't have room for him in Tulsa. Still, it's like he waited all year for those ten weeks each summer. I don't know why it was so important that he and I were the same age, that he'd been born almost the same time I was, but it was.
"So this one day I'd finished my morning chores and was lying on the raft on my stomach, almost asleep, when I hear Blackie swimming out to the raft, then suddenly the noise is gone and I look up and there's no sign of him, just ripples. I knew right away what must've happened, the reeds, and I dove off after him without even thinking. I heard Pop shout at me from near the barn when I came up, but I dove down again, three, maybe four times, pushing through the weeds, getting stuck down there, kicking loose and trying again. You couldn't see anything, and the mud alone would grab you up to ankle and try to keep you down there. The last time I came up I had the stinking water up my nose and I was covered with mud and I could see Pop yelling at me from the shore over there, but I went down again and just when I was out of air and the weeds were all wrapped around me and I was sure there wasn't any use of trying more, I felt Blackie, right on the bottom, not even struggling any more, and I didn't even go back up for air, I just kept pulling at weeds and kicking at the mud, still holding on to him because I knew I wouldn't find him again if I let go for a second. I ran out of air. I remember swallowing some of that stinking water, but goddamn it, I wasn't going back up without my dog. And then somehow I got both of us free and was pulling him into the shallow end there and Pop was dragging us both on shore and fussing over me and yelling at me at the same time, and I was coughing water and crying and trying to get Blackie to breathe. I was sure he was drowned, he was so limp and heavy he felt full of water. He felt dead. But I kept pushing at his ribs while I was throwing up water myself and I'll be damned if that dog didn't all of a sudden cough up about a gallon or so of pond water and start whimpering and breathing again."