“Okay.” Camden stared at him. “I don’t know why the hell you had to bring this up in the first place. Who cares if another American set foot on the Moon before Armstrong did? What difference can it possibly make at this late date?”

“I don’t know,” answered Bucky. “And until I do know, I’m going to keep digging, keep holding it up to the light and getting others to help me unearth the truth.”

“The only others will be wackos who live for conspiracy theories.”

“Like the wackos who believed that the president of the United States was covering up a break-in? Or perhaps the wackos who believed a different president of the United States was lying under oath, in court, about a sexual encounter?” Bucky allowed himself the luxury of a satisfied smile. “You know, sometimes—not always, not often, but sometimes—the wackos are right.”

Camden sighed deeply. “Okay, you’re not going to back off this thing. I’d better go prepare for the press.” He held an imaginary microphone to his mouth, “No, he doesn’t have long conversations with the ghost of Teddy Roosevelt. No, he doesn’t spend a lot of time speaking in tongues. No, he hasn’t asked me to put a leash on him and walk him out in the rose garden.”

“I like the last one,” said Bucky. “Be sure you use it.”

Camden muttered an obscenity under his breath, turned on his heel, and left.

Bucky turned back to the television, but it was reporting the standings in the current golf tournament, and he shut it off.

“You really think she’s a dupe?” asked Gloria.

He shrugged. “Who knows? But something happened, and they can deny it to Kingdom Come. All it’ll do is make them look foolish when it comes out.” He lit a Havana cigar. “Actually, that’s the least of their problems. You’re a senator. Do you go out on a limb for a president who’s been caught lying? You’re a governor. The president asks you for a favor: hold back on this, don’t propose that yet, whatever. Do you accommodate a guy that the public no longer trusts?”

“But if you’re right, every president since Nixon has lied about it.”

“True,” he agreed. “But they’re not dealing with Congress or running for reelection. You’ve heard the old expression, ‘What have you done for me lately?’ The flip side is: ‘Which of you has lied to me lately?’”

“Maybe all this publicity will convince President Cunningham to come clean—always supposing there’s something to come clean about,” said Gloria.

Bucky shook his head. “He’s already denied that anything happened. That’s his story, and he’s stuck with it.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “What if he’s right?”

“He’s not.”

“What if he is?”

“Then I’m going to look damned foolish for a few months or a few years, but it won’t affect the Moon shot.”

She sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Bucky.”

He smiled at her. “I hope so, too.”

Gloria looked out the window. “It’s starting.”

“What’s starting?”

She pointed at the various trucks and vans lined up at the building’s entrance. “CNN, Fox, ABC, NBC.” She frowned. “I don’t see CBS yet.”

“That’s odd,” replied Bucky. “They’re in Cunningham’s hip pocket. You’d figure they’d be first in line to make a fool of me.”

“They just pulled up,” Gloria informed him.

“Good,” said Bucky. “I hate it when things don’t make sense.”

“If you want to avoid them,” suggested Gloria, “you can take the elevator down to the basement, walk the tunnel to the factory, and I can have a car waiting for you.”

“I’m not avoiding anyone. I’ll let Camden talk to them for maybe five minutes, until the stupidest questions are out of the way, then I’ll go down and meet them.”

A tall, slender woman with incredibly thick bifocals stood in the doorway to the office and rapped her knuckles against the molding.

“Not now, Sabina,” said Gloria. “He’s just leaving.”

“It’s all right, Gloria,” said Bucky, getting to his feet. “Come on in, Sabina. Did you find what I want?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Blackstone.”

“Kill the ‘sir’ and the ‘Mister.’ I’m just Bucky.”

“Yes, Bucky.”

“Good. I’ll be back after I face the mad dogs of the free press,” he said. “But start tracking him down. In fact, do it from here. Then I won’t have to hunt you down to see how we’re doing.”

“All right,” she said, looking around.

“There’s only one desk,” said Bucky. “Sit down and use it.”

“Yes, sir . . . Bucky.”

“Okay, I’m off to slay the dragons, or at least hold them at bay.” Bucky walked to the door. “I’ll be back when they run out of dumb questions and dumber threats. Gloria, get her set up on computer number three.”

Then he was walking to the elevator. Jason Brent joined him as he left the office and fell into step behind him.

“Let me guess,” said Brent. “You’re gonna save Camden from the press?”

“Fair’s fair. He thinks he’s saving me right now.”

“I don’t suppose I can talk you into a Kevlar vest?”

“Not today,” answered Bucky. “Hell, the ones who hate me most will have the most vested interest in keeping me alive so everyone knows I’m a kook and a liar.”

“I never looked at it that way,” said Brent. He smiled at Bucky. “Are you?” he asked, only half in jest.

“What difference does it make as long as your paychecks don’t bounce?” replied Bucky. “But for what it’s worth, something did happen up there on the Moon, and I am damned well going to find out what it was.”

“You mean we are going to find out,” said Brent.

“Not to worry,” Bucky assured him. “No one’s going to attack me on the Moon.”

“Most of those guys from 1969 are dead.”

“Most of those guys from 1969 would be in their nineties,” said Bucky. “They’re entitled.”

The elevator reached the ground floor, and they got out, walked through the front entrance, and found themselves facing a dozen cameras and twice that many reporters.

Bucky stepped forward to where a series of microphones had been set up. “I trust Mr. Camden has been treating you all with the dignity and decorum that becomes your occupations?”

“We love you, too,” said the reporter from The New York Times.

“They been getting vicious?” Bucky asked Camden under his breath.

“Anxious and eager, anyway,” said Camden.

“Okay, take off. Then when I leave, they won’t have anyone to talk to.”

“Except each other,” said Camden. “These days they’ll interview each other, and that’ll pass for news.”

“Don’t worry about what you can’t change. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Camden left, and Bucky faced the assembled reporters. “All right, ladies and gentlemen. Here are the ground rules. If you have a question, raise your hand. If you speak without being recognized, I won’t answer. Second rule: If you ask the same question twice, or the same one someone else asked, I won’t answer.

“Third rule: If you use any insulting pejorative toward me, this press conference is over, and none of my staff will lift a finger if your colleagues choose to tear you apart.” He paused long enough to make sure his instructions had been heard and understood. “Okay, ABC first.”

“Have you any comment on Maria Carmody’s statement, or her plea to you to leave her father alone?”

“I’ve never even met her father,” said Bucky. “My understanding is that he’s been dead for quite some time, so I can hardly be bothering him.”

“She denies that anything untoward happened on Sidney Myshko’s January 1969 flight,” said Fox News. “What have you to say to that?”

“That I’m sure it’s a comforting thought to grow up with,” answered Bucky. “How old was she when he flew to the Moon? And if he was a willing part of a governmental cover-up, do you think he’d have confided in a young daughter, however many years later?”

“All you’re doing is uttering denials!” yelled CBS. “How about some facts?”