“He was depressed by it?”

“Well, I wasn’t born yet when it happened. In later years, it wasn’t a subject he wanted to talk about. I used to ask him what it had been like, flying to the Moon, but he always changed the subject. So after a while, I just let it go.”

“Why’d you decide to send it to the newspaper, Jane?”

She blushed. “You were responsible for that. I saw you on the news. And that reporter started asking about the Myshko mission, whether they’d landed or not. Not that I thought anything like that had happened, but I remembered that remark. About how he had gone strolling on the lunar surface. Then I saw how little he had to say in the journal itself about the flight. The ball-game entry was fifty years after that mission.”

“That would have been nice, wouldn’t it? Had he been in Apollo XI?”

“Oh, sure, Jerry. He would have loved to be on the flight with Neil Armstrong. To actually get a chance to walk on the Moon. But—” She shrugged. “It didn’t happen. At least, I think it didn’t happen.”

“So what do you think the journal entry was about?”

“I have no idea. I was hoping you might be able to tell me.”

Jerry had no answer.

She leaned forward in her chair. “Do you think it’s possible? That he actually landed on the Moon?”

“Jane, I don’t think it happened. But at this point, I’m not sure of anything.”

“I probably shouldn’t have called The Sun about that ballpark entry. I didn’t stop to think.”

“You wanted it to be true?”

Her lips widened into a smile. “Yes. I’d love to find out that it actually happened. Dad would have been unhappy with me, wouldn’t have approved of my going to the newspaper, but I couldn’t see that it would do any harm.”

“I agree.”

“I didn’t create a problem, did I? By calling the paper?”

“I don’t think we need worry about that.”

She looked over at her father’s photograph. “I never knew him to lie. And he wasn’t the kind of man who’d get carried away by his imagination. I really wish he were here today. I’d like to ask him to explain it.”

—

Jerry never learned how Mary found out about his visit to Sparrows Point. “But I want us to stay out of it, Jerry. Is that clear?” She was parked behind her desk, pushed back in her chair, her eyes full of anger.

Jerry didn’t do well in confrontations with superiors. With anybody, for that matter. He was inclined to be polite and agreeable. “I’ve been careful,” he said.

“You mean the reporter who gave you the story wasn’t the one who told you where the daughter lived?”

“Well, yes. In fact he was.”

“So the press knows we’re trying to find out what this woman knows, right?”

“Well, Ralph knows.”

“And Ralph’s employer is—?”

“Okay. So I guess I screwed up.”

“Jerry, they haven’t gone with the story yet. But you can be sure your buddy would like to know why we’re interested.”

“I told him it was a false alarm.”

“Of course you did. And that’s why you wanted to talk to the daughter, right?” She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. “You might as well have told him we’re doing a cover-up. That something really did happen.”

Jerry tried to look like a guy who’d been caught in an impossible situation. “He called me. I didn’t go to him.”

“What difference does it make?”

“All right.”

“Don’t touch it again, Jerry. You understand me? If anything else comes up, check with me. I’ll handle it.”

—

Staying out of it might not be easy. Jerry got a call that afternoon from a woman who identified herself as Cary Blankenship. Cary was in her eighties, but she still radiated energy. She was seated in a lawn chair in front of a potted tree. “I used to work for NASA,” she said. “I was only a technician. I did pretty routine stuff. But I remember something that always seemed odd.”

“What was that, Cary?”

“Just before the Moon flights, the landings, they had something called the Cassandra Project. Don’t know what it was. It was a big secret. Very hush-hush.”

“Did you ever find out what it was about?”

“No. In fact, we weren’t even supposed to know there was such a thing.”

“So why’s that odd?”

“Because we didn’t normally do secret stuff. I mean, the equipment, sure. A lot of that was classified. But missions? That just didn’t happen. We were pretty public. Some of the technology was classified, but having a project that nobody wanted to talk about, that was a first. Well, not quite a first, but it was unusual. Later, when we were involved launching spy satellites and stuff, things changed. But it wasn’t like that in 1969.”

“Cassandra was a mission?”

“I wouldn’t swear to it, but I sure had that impression.”

—

Jerry ran a search, but no reference to a NASA Cassandra Project showed up. He decided it was of no consequence and had just gone back to work when he got a call from Brian Colson, the host of The Brian Colson Show. “Jerry,” he said, “how are you doing?”

A chill ran down Jerry’s spine. No way this could be anything other than bad news. “Fine, Brian. What can I do for you?”

Colson was a big, intimidating guy. His show was billed as news and opinion, but mostly it consisted of his launching attacks on politicians he didn’t like, or even ones he did, or at least claimed to. It was hard to guess why anyone went on his show. But Jerry figured that if you could stand up to Colson, you could win a lot of points with the party bosses and even with the voters. And, of course, you also went on if you had a book to sell. “Jerry, we’re having one of your friends on tonight.” He paused, probably to give Jerry a chance to fill in the name.

Jerry resisted the impulse. “Who’s that, Brian?”

“Ralph D’Angelo. That’s an interesting story about Aaron Walker’s journal. The Sun will be going with it tomorrow.”

A chill ran down Jerry’s spine. “I can’t see a story there anywhere, Brian.”

“You think Walker was just making it up? Maybe drinking or something?”

“About what?”

“Come on, Jerry. Do you want me to read you what he says?”

“I don’t know, Brian. He must have been joking. He was probably doing what we all do, making up something he wished had happened.”

“Good enough. You want to come on the show tonight and say that?”

Turn up on The Brian Colson Show tonight and go looking for a new job tomorrow. “It’s not worth the time, Brian. Mine or yours. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy talking about current projects. But this Aaron Walker story—”

“No reason we can’t talk about some of the current stuff you’re working on.”

“Brian, thanks, but I have to pass. I’m buried at the moment.”

“You know what really rings my bell about this, Jerry?” It was an expression he used all the time on his show. Everything rang his bell. “When he said, ‘Oops, forgot I’m not supposed to say that.’”

—

Jerry told Mary about the invitation and warned her that The Sun would be running the story.

She took it well. “Can’t say I’m surprised,” she said. “Well, you did the right thing. Probably. Staying off the show.”

Jerry thought about calling Amos Bartlett, the lone surviving member of Walker’s crew. But an online blogger had already asked him about the mission, about whether they’d gone down to the surface. He’d denied the story. Moreover, if Jerry followed up, it would very likely get back to Mary.

—

He skipped dinner that evening. He wasn’t hungry, and it was just as well. He could stand to lose a pound or two. He retreated to his condo and opened all the windows. It was a cool, pleasant evening, and he needed to hear the distant rumble of the sea. That soothing sound tended to put everything in perspective. He understood quite clearly that Neil Armstrong had been the first man to set foot on the Moon. Everything else was an urban legend. But it was precisely the kind of story the media love to feed on.