Jerry didn’t care much for Diane. She was okay in a routine social setting, but she enjoyed trying to make him look foolish. Of course, that was true of reporters in general, but she was particularly good at it, especially when she smiled. She was smiling then. Whatever. Best to get her out of the way early. “Jerry,” she said, “why does the government need a NASA Hall of Fame when they already have one for the astronauts? I mean, aren’t you really putting this thing up simply to distract attention from the fact that NASA’s closing down?”

“We’re not closing down, Diane,” he said. “It’s true, we’ve entered an era of austerity. No one’s denying that, but we’ll still be here when your grandkids show up to take one of the tours. Look, there are good times and bad. That’s inevitable. We’ll ride this one out, as we always have. As to the Hall itself, the astronauts have, since the beginning, been our go-to guys, the people out front. The problem is that they are so significant, and so visible, we tend to miss others who’ve also made major contributions—the scientists, the engineers, the computer specialists. We’re a team. We’ve always been a team. From the first day, back in 1960. Without the support people, the ones behind the scenes, the achievements of the past sixty years would never have happened. So the Hall of Fame is a way for us to recognize everybody, including some major contributors the public has never really known about.”

Jerry was quiet and shy except when he had an audience. Then it seemed as if a different personality took over. He smiled easily, connected with everyone, and enjoyed his work. It was a valuable capability, especially in those rapidly darkening times.

The hands went up again. He looked over at Quil Everett, from NBC. Quil was tall, lanky, prematurely gray, with a vaguely British accent. “Jerry, where do you think NASA will be in ten years?”

Jerry glanced at the ceiling, as if NASA were headed for the stars. “Quil, if you can tell me what the fiscal situation will be for the government, I could probably answer that question with some precision. If we get the resources, I think you’d be surprised at what we might accomplish. If not, at the very worst, we’ll be right here, waiting for the future to arrive.”

Barry Westcott, from USA Today, was next. “Jerry,” he said, “when Gene Cernan brought the last Moon mission home, he was turning out the lights on the entire American manned space effort. Wouldn’t you agree that’s exactly what happened, just that it’s taken a long time for us to realize it? The biggest thing we’ve done since has been to send robots around the solar system.”

That brought a deadly silence. “Let’s keep in mind,” Jerry said, “that it wasn’t Cernan who turned off the lights. It was Richard Nixon. The Agency was ready to move on. But we were caught in a war, there was no money available. And the truth is that we had a president who really didn’t care that much.” That was over the line. He wasn’t supposed to criticize presidents, past or current, but thinking about Nixon always got his blood pressure up.

And the moment arrived: Warren Cole lifted a hand. Cole was from the AP, and he was seated in his customary spot up front, frowning, staring down at something on his lap. It looked like a copy of one of those garish tabloids,

“Jerry,” he said in a warning tone, “have you seen the current copy of The National Bedrock?”

The press officer smiled politely. “No, I haven’t, Warren. Guess I missed it this week.”

“They have a story about some of the material put out by NASA a few days ago.”

The Agency had released a mountain of documents, audios, and videos going back to its first year, tracking the history of the U.S. space effort. Jerry had been looking through them that morning. Building his sense of what might have been. He’d seen a copy of the original 1960 message distributed through the armed forces seeking volunteers for an astronaut program. The video of John Kennedy speaking to Congress in 1961, promising that we would land on the Moon before the end of the decade. Walter Cronkite describing the liftoff of Apollo XI. And boxes of documents recording everything, from ordering the upgrading of computers at the Johnson Space Center in Houston to detailed reports on the losses of the Challenger and Columbia, and the deaths of Roger Chaffee, Virgil “Gus” Grissom, and Edward White in a training accident.

“There’s a lot of stuff there, Warren,” he said. “Is there something specific you’re interested in?”

He got to his feet. “May I play something for you? From the audios?”

“Sure. But keep it short, okay?”

Cole held up a gooseberry. “They recorded part of a conversation between Sidney Myshko, who was the commander on one of the early lunar flights, and Mission Control. It was an orbital mission in January 1969. Six months before Neil Armstrong landed on the Moon. There’s only a minute or two, and it’s packaged with a lot of other communications. But this one segment is particularly interesting. The first voice is Myshko’s. And you should be aware that the mission at that time had reached the Moon and was in orbit.” He thumbed the device.

MYSHKO: Houston, approaching launch point.

HOUSTON: You are go for launch.

MYSHKO: Four minutes.

HOUSTON: Copy that.

MYSHKO: It’s incredible, Houston.

HOUSTON: Keep in mind we are going to lose communications when you pass over the horizon.

MYSHKO: Roger that. (Pause) We are in the LEM. Ready to go.

HOUSTON: Good luck, guys.

Jerry frowned. He couldn’t get past the first line. “Approaching launch point.”

“Jerry, this is supposed to be strictly an orbital flight. And it’s several months before Apollo XI. But they’re talking as if they’re getting ready to go down to the surface.”

“That can’t be right, Warren.”

“Want me to play it again?” The place had gone dead silent.

“Please.”

“We are in the LEM.” The LEM, the Lunar Excursion Module, was the vehicle that would have served as the lander had they been going to the surface. “Ready to go.”

“Warren,” said Jerry, “there’s obviously a communications breakdown there somewhere.”

Cole lifted the gooseberry. Stared at it. “I guess. Can you explain how a breakdown like that could have occurred?”

Jerry tried laughing. “I’d say it was a joke. In case any reporters were listening.”

“Seriously, Jerry.”

“All right. Look, this is the first time I’ve heard this. So I have no way of knowing what was going on. I suspect they were just rehearsing. We all know how these flights are. You do everything as you would on the actual mission except land. That’s not hard to believe, is it?”

“It just seems very odd.”

There’d been two other test flights to the Moon after the Myshko mission. One commanded by Aaron Walker in April, and Apollo X, by Thomas Stafford, in May. Then Apollo XI had launched, and the world changed. “Warren, these details are a bit before my time.”

“Mine, too, Jerry.”

There was a rising buzz in the room. Cal McMurtrie, seated behind Cole, was asking Cole if it was true, was that really in the package, where was it exactly?

“Well,” said Jerry, “there’s obviously been a gaff somewhere. It’s probably just a ground-based test run of some sort. Is it dated?”

“January 14, 1969.”

“Let me check on it, and I’ll get back to you.” He looked around the room and picked someone who traditionally gave him no trouble. “Sara.”

—

Mary Gridley was NASA’s Administrator. She was a decent boss even though hers was a purely political appointment. As, for that matter, was Jerry’s. She was waiting for him out in the corridor. “What the hell happened?” she said. It was less a question than an accusation. Mary was tall, taller than he was, and she had a voice like a drill. She was one of the smartest people Jerry had ever known and fully capable of manipulating anybody to get what she wanted. But she concentrated her efforts on making NASA work rather than centering them, like other bosses in Jerry’s experience, on her own career. She had little tolerance for screwups. And it was evident from the look in her eyes that somebody had screwed up. He was pretty sure he knew who it had been.