Phil Stone was the first to understand Seger’s suggestion.

“My God,” he said. “You’re going to send us to the Moon. Aren’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s right. That’s what I’m considering. I want to reassign your mission a Saturn V and send you to lunar orbit.”

Chuck Jones stared at Seger, astonishment crinkling up his squat face. “Like hell you will.”

For long seconds, the three of them sat in silence.

Stone felt stunned; there in that sterile, mundane office, on an ordinary Thursday morning, it was impossible to absorb such news.

Skylab B, the second Earth-orbital Saturn Wet Workshop, was to have been Stone’s first flight into space. He’d already been training on the science and operational aspects of the mission for months. And Seger was thinking of changing it all around and sending him to the Moon? Jesus.

Seger played with the carnation in his lapel. “You got to look at the bigger picture. The NERVA is slipping again, so its program of test flights is being cut. And that’s freed up a Saturn V. And we need to use it, or we’ll lose it. And I want to use it to send you boys to lunar orbit.”

Stone frowned. “It’s a man-rated Saturn V, for God’s sake. It’s already built. How can we lose it?”

Seger shrugged. “We may have built the thing, but we haven’t yet spent the money to make it fly.”

“We can’t go to the fucking Moon,” Chuck Jones said. “We’re still waiting on the J-2S.” Lunar-orbital workshops were planned, but a few years down the road, following extensive modifications to the S-IVB: the upgraded J-2S main engine, additional payload capacity, a self-ullaging system, electrical heating blankets and Mylar insulation, additional batteries, upgraded electronics… “The fucking S-IVB doesn’t have the power to inject itself into lunar orbit.”

“No, it doesn’t. But it doesn’t need to. Look at this.” Seger had a glossy presentation on his desk; he handed them copies.

Stone looked quickly. It was a summary of an old McDonnell Douglas study called LASSO — Lunar Applications of a Spent S-IVB Stage (Orbital). It showed how Saturn components could be used to establish lunar orbit workshops of varying complexity and weight. It was full of cutaway isometric diagrams and color pictures and big bold bullet-point blocks of text, and — naturally, as it came from the manufacturers of the S-IVB — it was relentlessly optimistic: some of the projected dates were already in the past.

“Look at Baseline 1.” Seger pointed to sections of the presentation. “That shows how we can take a workshop to lunar orbit without the J-2S upgrade, or any of the rest of it…”

A Saturn V would be launched looking superficially like those for the Apollo landing flights. But instead of a Lunar Module, the booster would carry an airlock module, fixed to the front of the third stage.

The S-IVB would send the spacecraft toward the Moon. Just like the landing missions. But, once exhausted, the third stage wouldn’t be discarded. The Apollo would decouple and dock with the empty stage via the airlock adapter. The stack would follow a long, lower-energy trajectory to the Moon: a day and a half more than the three-day landing flights. Then the Apollo Service Module’s main engine would be used to brake the whole stack into lunar orbit.

The empty stage would have the same weight and dynamic characteristics, roughly, as a loaded LM. So an Apollo would indeed be able to deliver it to lunar orbit. The only modifications needed for the S-IVB would be the usual passivation and neutralization kit — equipment to turn the stage from a dry fuel can into a working station — and equipment brackets and pallets. Enough supplies could be carried for a four-week stay in lunar orbit, and the station would be refurbished for later crews.

As he read, Stone began to see the feasibility of it. It could, he realized, be done. But…

“Why?”

Jones looked up from his own reading; Seger fixed Stone with a glare.

“Why what?”

“Why are we doing this, Bert? It’s just a stunt. We’ll have to cut out so much to save weight, we’ll be compromising a lot of our science objectives for Skylab B.”

“I know about the science, Phil. But we can send all that stuff up on the second crew flight, can’t we? And your flight will simply turn into a more limited engineering trip, with less emphasis on the science.” Seger was a thin, intense man, with black, slicked-back hair and an Irish darkness; Stone found him unnerving. “If you’re in my chair, Phil, you have to look at the benefits for the program as a whole. Beyond your one mission alone. Yes, it will be a stunt. But a hell of a stunt. It will put us right back on top of everything…”

Jones talked about the training they’d already completed toward their Earth-orbital mission. “And what about the Russians?” The Soviets were proposing to dock a Soyuz ship with Skylab B in Earth orbit. “Changing that stunt around to a lunar-orbit rendezvous mission is a hell of a trick,” Jones said. “I mean, the Russkies haven’t lifted a single cosmonaut out of Earth orbit yet.”

“The Soviets still say they’ll have at least a circumlunar capability in a couple of years — within the life of the station,” Seger said. “So we can get around that. And even if we can’t, maybe we could downgrade the Russian thing into a simple dock with an Apollo in Earth orbit. Anyhow, never mind the damn Russians. Chuck, you’ll be hanging out over the edge. Fitting out a station in lunar orbit. Nobody’s done anything remotely like that before. I thought a challenge might appeal.”

Jones looked thoughtful.

Stone knew Seger was pressing the right buttons, as far as Jones was concerned. The thought depressed him.

Stone could see Seger’s point, to some extent. Morale in NASA had been low, paradoxically, since the Mars decision. A lot of staff had been geared up to the abandoned Space Shuttle program, which they’d seen as new and exciting, technically; by comparison, the Skylabs looked like an extension of 1963 state of the art. And the continuing budget cuts had put endless pressure on the Agency’s ambitions.

If you counted contract staff, only a hundred thousand people were still working on space programs, compared to a peak of half a million during Apollo. There had even been a program of terminations, at Houston, Marshall, and the other main centers.

Meanwhile NASA had run into a lot of flak over the first orbital workshop, Skylab A. Pete Conrad had led the first setup mission to open up Skylab. But then the second crew had been military, a consolation for the DoD after the shuttle cancellation. Ken Mattingly, an Apollo veteran, had led a crew of military astronauts — Manned Spaceflight Engineers — through a secretive program testing “Terra Scout” and “Battleview” surveillance equipment, radiation-monitoring gear, encrypted-communications beams. Every previous NASA flight had been completely open; it had been a deliberate and popular policy going back to Kennedy.

And, meanwhile, U.S. Intelligence had learned that Soviet cosmonauts in Salyuts had overseen military exercises in Eastern Siberia, sending down realtime tactical information to battlefield commanders.

A lot of people thought the militarization of space was a deeply shitty development, a fall away from the dream of Apollo. And Jack Kennedy had attacked it, publicly.

So maybe Seger was right that a morale-raising stunt was a good idea at this point. But it would be a stunt.

Stone had a military background himself. But he hadn’t come into the space program to play spies in space, or to fly stunts. For him, the proposal was a sour compromise. Screw the science, for the sake of the politics. Just like the old days.

And, to him, it didn’t say a lot for Seger’s sound judgment.