“Sure you’re famous,” said the man in the blue jacket. He was short, stocky, with a thick waist. He wore a white open-collared shirt with a Tampa Bay Rays logo emblazoned on the pocket. “Modesty, Mr. Culpepper, is, I guess, what we expect of true greatness.” He smiled. Kidding, but he meant it.

On his way back to the Space Center, Jerry thought about it. To most people, he probably did look like a celebrated figure. A man who held press conferences. Rode first class on planes. Appeared as a guest speaker at local luncheons. Look at me, Ma. I’m on top of the world.

He would like to accomplish one thing of significance in his life. Perform one truly memorable act, so that people would remember him. He didn’t need a monument. A footnote would be nice. He’d helped get President Cunningham elected. (Jerry remembered when he was just George.) But that was about it. And who’d remember a political wonk?

Gerald L. Culpepper. The man who revealed the truth about the Moon missions.

The truth. What was the truth?

He knew. Armstrong had been the first man on the Moon. A few other miniscule details were being misinterpreted because they made an interesting story.

And that was all it was.

Amos Bartlett, who’d been Aaron Walker’s command module pilot in 1969, lived outside Los Angeles. Jerry sat a long time staring at the TV. Finally, he decided what the hell and made the call. It rang four or five times, and a woman answered. “Hello,” he said, “is Mr. Bartlett there?”

“Just a minute, please.” No on-screen picture. Well, that wasn’t unusual when a stranger was involved. She could, of course, see him. “Who should I tell him is calling?”

Jerry sighed. This might not go well. “Jerry Culpepper,” he said. “From NASA.”

“Okay. Hold on a second.” He heard a door open and close, and the woman’s voice again: “For you, Amos.”

Jerry listened to the wind blowing against the side of the building. Tree branches moved. Then the TV picked up a picture of Amos Bartlett. He was close to ninety, but the guy still looked okay. Tall, lean, with a full head of white hair, he could have been on his way out to play a round of basketball. He leaned casually back against a desk top while he gazed at Jerry. “Hello,” he said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Culpepper?”

“Mr. Bartlett.” Jerry tried to sound casual. At ease. “I have a couple of questions I’d like to ask.”

“Go ahead.” He sounded vaguely hostile.

“You were the command module pilot for Aaron Walker back in ’69.”

“Why don’t we cut right to the chase, Mr. Culpepper?”

“Okay.”

“You want to know if anything happened on the lunar flight?”

“That’s correct. Aaron Walker left a note in a journal—”

“I know about the journal.” His voice took on an edge, and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what he meant by it, but I can tell you it was a routine flight. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Okay? Anything else?”

“Why is the question so irritating?”

“Look. I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Culpepper, but I’m sure you understand how silly this is. Do you have anything else?”

“Amos. Is it okay if I call you that?”

“What exactly is it you want from me, Mr. Culpepper?”

“If I can get a release for you, will you tell me what happened on that flight?”

It was only there for a moment, a brief quiver, teeth sucking his lip, eyes suddenly focused somewhere else. Then he came back. “If you’ve anything serious to ask, I’ll be here.”

Bartlett broke the connection.

—

There was no one left at NASA from the 1960s. In fact, Jerry knew of only one person living on the Space Coast who had been part of Agency management when Apollo XI went to the Moon: Richard Cobble, who’d been one of the operational people during the glory years. Cobble, until recently, had been active in a support role, serving with the Friends of NASA, a group of volunteers who helped wherever they could but mostly threw parties. Increasingly, during recent years, they’d taken to talking about the “good old days.”

Jerry checked Cobble’s record. He’d arrived at the Agency in 1965 as a technician. Eventually, he’d risen to become one of the operational directors.

“He’s out bowling,” a young, very attractive woman told him. Probably a great-granddaughter. “I’ll let him know you called.”

Cobble returned the call just as Jerry was leaving to go home. It was obvious that, wherever he had been, it had had nothing to do with bowling. He was in his mideighties. Unlike Amos Bartlett, he looked it. His eyes had no life left in them, and his shoulders were bent with arthritis. His jaw sagged, and he drooled as he looked out of the TV at Jerry. “How’s life over at the Center?” he asked. “I haven’t been there for a long time.”

“It’s quiet,” said Jerry. “Not a whole lot happening.”

“I know. It’s sad. I never thought things would go this way.”

Jerry kept him talking for a few minutes, about the state of space travel, about what might have been. And, when he thought Cobble receptive, he asked about the Myshko and Walker missions. “We keep hearing rumors that they landed in ’69. Before Armstrong. Richard, does that make any sense to you? At all?”

“No,” he said. “I can’t imagine why they’d have wanted to do it. I mean, I know that the guys in the ships would have liked to make the landing. But they weren’t going to go down without NASA’s okay. And they didn’t have it. Even assuming one of them had been a maverick, how could they have kept it quiet for a half century? We’ve both worked for the government, Jerry. You know how the government is at keeping secrets.”

“Is there any way it could have been done without your knowledge?”

Cobble was seated in an armchair. But he didn’t look comfortable. He started to say no, stopped to rearrange himself, and started again. “Look, Jerry, anything’s possible. I wasn’t actually in a position during that year, during ’69, when I had a handle on things. Is it possible they could have done it? Sure, it’s possible, but do I believe it? Why don’t you ask me if I believe in Area 48?”

“I think it’s Area 51, Richard.”

“Whatever.”

“Okay. Thanks. If you think of something, let me know, okay?”

—

Barbara stuck her head in. “Anything else, Jerry?”

“No, Barb,” he said. “See you Monday.”

The phone rang. It was Cobble again. “There was one thing, Jerry. There was something back then, I think it was the same year, ’69, they called the Cassandra Project.”

“Cassandra?” That was the project Cary Blankenship had referred to.

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure it was ’69. Anyhow, I’m not sure it ever really existed. I just remember the name because there were rumors. But I don’t recall anybody who actually knew anything about it. So— Oh, hell, it’s probably my imagination. My memory doesn’t work very well anymore.”

“Do you know anything about it, Richard?”

“No. Just that—Well, let it go. I don’t know what I’m talking about.” He clicked off.

Barbara was still standing in the doorway. “Who’s Cassandra?” she asked.

Jerry googled it. “I think she was the Greek woman who could tell the future.” There were multiple entries. “No, I guess she was Trojan,” he said.

There was also a Cassandra software system, a Cassandra school for actors, a Cassandra chain store that sold furniture. But of course there was nothing connecting the term with spaceflight.

“So she could predict the future,” Barbara said. “Any reason why NASA might name a project for her?”

Jerry read the entry. “Maybe there is. Nobody ever believed her.”

7