Bucky hated having facial makeup applied. Every time he went on television, they put it on him, and every time he objected, they explained that everyone, even the president, even the pope, wore makeup for television. And every time they told him that, he rattled off thirty or forty current baseball and football players who didn’t wear makeup during postgame interviews (and he’d occasionally toss in a mud-spattered jockey who’d just ridden a winner on an off track). It didn’t make any difference; as much as he complained, they applied the makeup. He drew the line at their wanting to damp down his hair and then blow-dry it to make it look thicker.

“I am not Cary Grant!” he would snap. “I don’t have to look like a romantic lead.”

“Cary who?” was the usual response from the young makeup artists.

He would update it to Burt Lancaster, then Sylvester Stallone, who weren’t quite the romantic stars Grant was, but after that he was out of names because he’d been too busy the past thirty years to watch any films and see who women were swooning over these days.

Jason Brent leaned against a wall, looking vastly amused.

“You’re supposed to be protecting me,” growled Bucky.

“I’d rather watch you squirm.”

“You’re fired.”

“That’s the fifth time this month,” noted Brent amiably.

“I guess I’d better not fire you again this month. You’d never think to start counting the fingers on the other hand.”

Brent chuckled. “Come on, Boss. It’s just makeup. They put it on you every time, and you bitch every time. It hasn’t done you any harm yet.”

“They’re supposed to be listening to me, not looking at me,” muttered Bucky.

“Then make it a radio address.”

“You’re fired again.”

“You can’t,” said Brent. “Not until you hire me back first.”

“I don’t mind having a deadly killer in my employ,” said Bucky, “but if there’s one thing I hate, it’s an uppity one.”

Brent laughed again, and this time Bucky joined him.

Ed Camden entered just then, couldn’t figure out the joke, and waited patiently for them to calm down.

“Anything more?” asked Bucky at last.

“Like what?” replied Camden. “You saw the damned diary.”

“Have you checked to see if anyone else kept diaries?”

“Bucky, most of them are dead, and the handful who aren’t are spread all the hell over the country, probably the world, and I just got the damned diary the day before yesterday.”

“Have you talked to Aaron Walker’s shrink?” persisted Bucky. “Was he prone to delusions?”

“He didn’t have a shrink,” said Camden.

“You checked?” said Bucky, surprised.

“I haven’t worked for you all these years without knowing a little something about how your mind works,” replied Camden. “No shrink, no aberrant behavior, no DTs, no nothing.”

“Damn!” said Bucky. “I have to address, I don’t know, thirty million people in a few minutes, maybe forty million . . . and all I’ve got is guesswork and supposition.”

“What are you going to say?”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

“You know . . .” began Camden.

“Yeah?”

“You could still cancel it. They’ve got DVDs and films they can run on a minute’s notice, probably even some old Sid Caesar or Ernie Kovacs kinescopes, any number of things for emergencies.”

“I paid for the time,” said Bucky adamantly. “I’m going on.”

“You’re going to make some crazy statement in front of zillions of people. Why?”

“Crazy?” demanded Bucky.

“It’ll sound crazy,” persisted Camden. “Myshko played golf on the Moon. They smuggled a woman aboard the ship. They brought back a little green man. Whatever it is, whether you wind up being able to prove it or not, it’ll sound crazy—and we’re planning a Moon trip in just a few months, for all I know even sooner.”

“Your government has been keeping a secret for half a century,” said Bucky. “It’s time to bring it out into the light of day.”

“We don’t have proof of anything yet.”

“Then I’ll encourage some viewers to help find the proof.”

“Bucky, you’ll encourage forty-three wackos. The remainder of the forty million will think you’re crazy or a clown.”

“Let ’em,” said Bucky.

“Think of what it’ll do to our Moon shot!” urged Camden. “Weren’t you the guy who didn’t want it to look like you were easily bamboozled?”

“I’ve decided that this is more important,” answered Bucky. “And it’ll get more people interested in what we’re doing.”

“They’ll think it’s being orchestrated by a looney tune!”

Bucky shrugged. “I repeat: Let ’em.”

“I don’t know how many years you’ve spent building your reputation,” said Camden, “but it’ll only take one telecast to destroy it.”

Bucky stared at Camden for a long moment. “That’s the way I was thinking yesterday. I was wrong.”

“In what way?”

Bucky smiled. “Who’s going to fire me?”

Camden stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“Who’s going to say I can’t go to the Moon?” Bucky continued. “I think what I’m going to suggest is correct. But if I’m wrong, the only thing that will change is the public’s perception of me, and since I’m never running for political office, I don’t give a damn about that. You’ll still have a job, none of my corporations will miss a step, we’ll still send a rocket to the Moon, the IRS will still harass me every year. The only people it might affect are Jason and his crew. If everyone thinks I’m a harmless idiot, there’ll be fewer attempts to kidnap or kill me.”

“There have only been two since I came to work for you five years ago,” noted Brent.

“Good,” said Bucky. “Then if I’m right, you can apply for early retirement.”

Brent laughed again, and Camden just shook his head in defeat. “Well, I tried,” he said at last.

“And believe it or not, I appreciate it,” said Bucky. “You’re trying to defend my image. The thing is, my body may need protection from time to time, but I’ve reached the point where my image can take care of itself.” He paused. “Whatever we find, whatever we see and experience up there, we’re going to bring back proof, and once we do, what they think of me will have nothing to do with the importance of anything we find.”

“All right,” said Camden. “Do it your way. Hell, you always do.”

“That’s why most of my staff has been with me for years. I never have anyone to blame but myself.”

“So what are you going to say?”

Another smile. “Why don’t you listen?”

And another sigh. “I will.”

Gloria entered the dressing room.

“Ah! A fourth for bridge,” said Bucky.

“I’m glad to see you’re not nervous,” she said. “I’m just here to tell you you’re on in six minutes.”

“Who’s introducing me?”

She frowned. “You never said anything about that. I assume one of the announcers from the network.”

“That’ll be okay,” replied Bucky. “Though I’d have loved to have had Jerry Culpepper do it.”

“It’d cost him his job.”

“I know,” said Bucky. “Then he’d have no compunctions about coming to work for me.”

“I never know if you’re kidding or not,” said Camden.

“Tell him, Gloria.”

“Half the trick is never letting them know if you’re kidding,” she replied.

“Right,” agreed Bucky. He stood up and looked at himself in the mirror, adjusted his tie, studied his face, and ran his fingers through his hair. “So it won’t look like they groomed me right before I came out,” he explained, then looked around. “Now where did I put that damned book?”

“You mean the diary?” asked Camden.

“Yeah.”

“I know you paid good money for it, but if you hold it up in front of the camera, you’ll cost Ralph D’Angelo his job.”

“He won’t go broke before he finds another,” said Bucky. Suddenly he stood still, shrugged, and turned to the door. “What the hell. You never know when we’ll need a friend in Baltimore.” He stepped out into the corridor. “Which way do I go?”