Cunningham was given a tour of the Center that evening. He stood beside one of the old Atlas rockets, admired a command module, and talked with a few astronauts who’d been brought in specifically for the event. Jerry was part of the group of nine or ten NASA people following him around. Now that the press conference was over, Mary had eased her restrictions. Eventually, as they emerged at the base of one of the launch towers, the president looked Jerry’s way. Their eyes connected. The president smiled. “Hello, Jerry,” he said. “Busy time for you, I guess?”

Cunningham had all the physical attributes of a leader. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with leading-man features. He was in his forties, the youngest chief executive since Jack Kennedy. People naturally liked him. His ratings, even during these difficult times, remained high. And the country absolutely loved the First Lady, Lyra, who might have been a beauty queen in her younger days. Lyra had a self-effacing sense of humor and, in the view of some, had been the most effective campaigner on either side in the 2016 election.

And then, without warning, Jerry’s opportunity arrived. The president, still looking his way, smiled. “What’s all the ruckus about the Moon flights, Jerry?”

The world stopped momentarily. A warm breeze was coming in off the ocean, and he could hear tree limbs moving gently. All conversation died. Off to one side, he saw Mary. Her gaze focused on him, her lips tight. No smile. No give.

“Don’t know, Mr. President,” Jerry said. “I guess some people get excited pretty easily.”

Cunningham smiled and moved on.

Jerry stood, looking at a wall. Avoiding Mary.

Dumb.

Cowardly.

—

The reception went off smoothly. An array of former and current NASA people showed up to pay their respects. Jerry knew many of them personally. They wandered up to him with expectant smiles, generally restricting their comments to how good it was to get back to the Space Center, but they all looked at him with a glint in their eyes. He’d become one of those guys who believed in Roswell and the abominable snowman.

Of the few who mentioned the Myshko story to him, Larry Jurkiewicz stood out because he’d preceded him as press officer. “You’re out there all the time,” Larry said. “It’s easy to screw up. You say the wrong thing, and you’re stuck with it.” He looked genuinely sympathetic. “Just hang in, Jerry. After a while, it’ll go away.”

He wasn’t sure precisely when it happened, but by the time the evening had ended, he had come to terms with his failure to bring the issue up directly to the president. It could have done no good. If Cunningham knew anything and wanted to make it public, he would already have done so. Since he apparently didn’t know anything, there was nothing he could contribute to the conversation.

—

In the morning, he accompanied the presidential party to the First Presbyterian Church in Titusville. He sat quietly in back during the ceremony and listened to the pastor welcome his guests before speaking briefly on the requirement to love one’s neighbor. “It isn’t all about money,” he said. Jerry remembered church visits during the campaign, when the preachers had routinely pitched thinly disguised messages at the candidate. We need to see that both sides of the evolution issue are taught in the schools. Or whatever. But the pastor’s sermon, based on the directive to love thy neighbor, showed no sign of a political imperative.

When it ended, the Secret Service sealed off the church while the president left. By the time Jerry got outside, he was gone. The worshippers lingered for a time. The pastor, Adam Tursi, stood by the front door, shaking hands and talking with parishioners. Jerry overheard part of it: “I like him,” Tursi said to a small group on the church steps. He looked amiable, with an easy smile, his gray hair ruffled by the wind. “The president seems like a good man. But I miss the sound of the launchings. I sit in my office, and the only thing I hear now is the birds.” He glanced over at Jerry, apparently trying to figure out whether he knew him. “Birds,” he said again, “and an occasional police siren.”

An hour later, Jerry watched film clips at home showing Marine One lifting off from the space facility. Eventually, Mary called.

She smiled at him from the screen. “It went off like clockwork, Jerry. Well done.”

9

Bucky was poring over the latest cost-analysis figures for the Moon shot when Gloria Marcos entered his office. “I thought I said I wanted to be alone for an hour while I read all this stuff,” he said, making no attempt to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“It’ll hold,” she said. “Turn your television on.”

“To what?”

“Any cable news channel. They’re all running the same thing.”

A well-dressed middle-aged woman was standing at a podium, answering reporters’ questions.

“Who is she?” asked Bucky.

“Maria Carmody,” answered Gloria.

“Should that mean something to me?”

“She’s Sidney Myshko’s daughter.”

“And?”

“Just watch.”

The question was garbled, and there were no microphones being passed around the audience, but Maria Carmody’s answer was crystal clear:

“I repeat: My father never set foot on the Moon,” she said adamantly. “Does anyone here seriously think he would have been the first man on the Moon and then spent the rest of his life not telling anyone, not even his only child?”

“Bucky Blackstone thinks it!” yelled a reporter, and the assembled journalists broke out in laughter.

“I am not convinced Bucky Blackstone has the capacity to think seriously about anything,” she said. “I’m sure if he had his way, they’d be digging my father up to examine his feet for moondust.”

Another outburst of laughter.

“She’s killing you, Bucky,” said Gloria softly.

“I haven’t been up to bat yet,” he replied.

“What was that half-hour address to the nation?” she shot back.

“Spring training,” said Bucky. “Now be quiet. I want to hear this.”

“Have you any message for Bucky Blackstone?” asked a reporter.

She stared into the camera. “Mr. Blackstone, I don’t know you, and I don’t know why you’re doing this . . . but I implore you: If you have a shred of human decency, let my father rest in peace!”

“She’s good,” said Bucky softly. “I wonder if she believes all that, or if someone in the administration has coached her?”

“You don’t coach tears like that in a woman who’s never acted,” noted Gloria.

“Assuming that I believe for a moment that every woman on Earth can’t cry on cue, she could just be nervous,” replied Bucky. “Or since she’s new to this, she might not know enough not to look directly into those spotlights. They’ll make anyone’s eyes water.”

“You’re reaching.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I am. But there’s one thing I’m not reaching about: Washington has been lying since 1969.”

Camden wandered in just then. “Oh—I see you’re watching it. I was going to alert you.”

Bucky turned away from the image of Myshko’s distraught daughter. “What do you think?”

“Seriously?” said Camden. “I think I’m going to spend the next couple of months defending your sanity when I should be publicizing the Moon shot.” He paused and stared at Bucky. “Can I be totally honest?”

“That’s what I pay you for.”

“No, you pay me to manipulate the press and the public, honestly when I can, dishonestly when I have to.”

“I stand corrected,” Bucky growled. “Go ahead and say what’s on your mind.”