He introduced a son and daughter-in-law, and two grandchildren, both probably in their thirties. Mary came over, and they did another round of introductions. The son, whose name was also Frank, thanked Mary for arranging the event. “Dad has done a lot for Orlando,” he said, “since his retirement.” Ordinarily, Jerry knew, she would have passed credit for the idea to him, but on this occasion she let it go. Best not to connect him with the award.

They strolled into the main dining area, where Kirby got a surprise: Several friends from his NASA years had been brought in. They surrounded him, laughed, offered toasts, shook hands, embraced, introduced family members, and talked about the old days. A gray-haired woman leaning on a cane flashed a wide smile. “It’s good to see you again, Frank,” she said. “How many years has it been?”

Frank shook his head. “Too many, Myra.”

The VIP table waited at one end of the room, with places set for ten people. A tabletop lectern had been set up. Harry Eastman was already seated, talking with the operations director. Jerry wandered away from the group and sat down in back with Takara Yoshido, a systems designer.

Gradually, the guests drifted in. Mary got Kirby placed and took the seat beside him. The Orlando mayor was also present, as well as Laurie Banner, the president’s science advisor. Several representatives from organizations that had benefited at various times from Kirby’s support were present. Florida’s Senator Mayville was across the room, engaged in a spirited conversation with Eugene Cernan.

“You and Mary did a good job, Jerry,” said Takara. Her features took on a dreamy aspect. “It’s a beautiful gesture. I like to think that someday maybe I’ll be up there to receive the Eastman Award.”

“What are you doing now to qualify?” Jerry asked.

“I was looking at Frank’s résumé,” she said. “I have a Girl Scout troop. I guess I’d have to step things up a bit.”

“It’s a good start, Taki.”

A few reporters, including Cole, were scattered around the room. A TV camera in back would capture the event for the NASA Channel.

Everybody settled in. A few people went up to the head table for autographs or simply to shake hands with the guests. Eventually, the food began to arrive, baked salmon and roast beef, fortified with beets and potatoes and coleslaw. The low hum of conversation was interspersed with clinking silver. Kirby seemed to be enjoying himself, caught in an animated dialogue with Mary on one side and Cernan on the other.

Dessert consisted of chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream. And, finally, it was time for the ceremony.

—

Mary stood, welcomed everyone, and got her first laugh by saying there was a rumor that a manned flight to Mars had entered the planning stage. It was an inside joke, the sort of thing NASA had consistently heard from a range of administrations, usually coming shortly before more funding cuts. “We’re also being told,” she added, as the room quieted, “that we may even be able to bring them back.”

She asked each of the special guests to stand and be recognized. Each got a round of applause. Then she brought Harry Eastman to the microphone to make the presentation.

The plaque, which was wrapped in purple cloth, was already stored out of sight at the lectern. “You all know Frank,” he said. He looked in Kirby’s direction, and the former astronaut raised a hand to the audience. “He’s ridden the shuttles, but he never flew higher than when he reached out to help the children of Orlando.” He read a list of the recipient’s accomplishments. Then he produced the plaque, removed the cloth, and carried it over to where Kirby was seated. Mary handed him a microphone. Then she and Cernan moved away to make room. “I’m honored,” Eastman said, “to present the first Harry Eastman Award for Civic Achievement to Frank Kirby.”

Kirby received the trophy, took a moment to study it, and smiled. “Thank you, Harry.” They shook hands. He raised the award so everyone could see it. “I’m indebted not only to Harry, who’s been a friend for a long time, but also to Mary Gridley. To my former colleagues at NASA, who were so supportive for so many years. And to everyone who’s helped out in Orlando.” He put the award on the table. “But everybody knows I’m not alone. There are a lot of people who are doing far more than I’ve ever been able to. And some of them are in this room. There is an enormous number of kids who are in trouble. Who need our help.”

He spoke for several minutes, mostly about the plight of children growing up in poor areas. Then he reminisced briefly about the state of NASA. “I’ve been away from my old job a long time,” he said. “But this is still where I live. When I was growing up, we assumed that by the time we’d entered the twenty-first century, we’d have Moonbase and be well on our way to establishing a colony on Mars. We thought we’d be safe from any single catastrophe. Safe in the knowledge that the human race would survive. More important, perhaps, we understood that going off world was more than a safety measure. More, even, than a dream. It was part of who we were. The only real question was whether our generation would manage it, or whether we’d be remembered as the people who got to the Moon and then forgot how we’d done it.”

A murmur ran through the audience.

“I guess we know how that turned out.”

Someone up front wanted to know what had prompted him to start his charitable work, whether he’d been doing anything like that during his astronaut years. One of the computer guys asked whether he thought we’d ever get back to the Moon.

“Of course we will,” he said. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. That I’m a pessimist. And I am. But only in the short term. Eventually, we’ll do what we need to. Maybe we’ll even take the grand tour. But it’ll be our grandkids who do it. Not us.” Mary’s hand touched his arm. “At least not me. I don’t expect to see much more happen during my lifetime.

“But look at some of the people who are here tonight. Then ask yourself whether we’re going to be satisfied with retiring to a front porch for the rest of our days.” He asked if there were more questions.

A woman who identified herself as a physicist from the University of Georgia insisted on throwing cold water on everything. “Human beings can’t survive in a zero-gravity environment,” she said. “Eventually, we’re going to have to face the reality that we’re effectively earthbound.”

The audience got restless, and there was some whispering. “You’re talking about an engineering problem, Professor,” Kirby said. “If that’s the biggest hurdle we have to get over, I’ll be grateful.”

Jerry didn’t know who she was, or how she’d gotten her invitation. He suspected she was a plant from higher up. Sent there for the express purpose of lowering expectations.

Warren Cole’s hand went up. “Mr. Kirby,” he said, “you were CAPCOM for a couple of the pre–Apollo XI flights. On one of them, Sidney Myshko reported that he was in the LEM and ready to go. And you replied ‘Good luck, guys.’ Can you explain what was going on?”

Kirby looked up at the overhead, then gazed out toward the entry doors. He shook his head. “Damned if I can remember what that was about. I know we said that. I mean, I heard the recording, so I know it happened. But it was a long time ago, and it’s hard to remember specifics. I can tell you that we used to joke around a good bit. Sid was always saying how if he got up there, he was going to take the LEM down, and I suspect that’s what it referred to. But it’s obvious it had no real significance.” He smiled and pointed toward a young woman seated off to one side.

But Cole stayed on his feet. “Follow-up, Mr. Kirby, if I may. There was a period afterward of more than fifty hours during which all your conversations were with Brian Peters. More than two days, sir. What happened to Myshko?”