Late that night, after he’d sent Sabina on her way, and Jason Brent had driven him home, he walked out to the deck behind his villa, drink in hand, and stared up at the full moon in the cloudless sky.

Well, I’ve got the whole country talking about it now, he thought. I wonder what the hell really did happen up there.

A growing excitement encompassed him as he realized that he was actually going to find out.

10

After Morgan Blackstone signed off, Jerry’s phone started ringing. CBS, Fox, The Orlando Sentinel, The New York Times. What was his reaction to Blackstone’s comments? Did Jerry really believe there’d been secret landings? Could he imagine any reason why there might have been?

Jerry tried to respond by saying the story was impossible to take seriously and he’d have to let it go at that. But nobody cooperated. If he couldn’t take it seriously, what was the confrontation with Frank Kirby all about? “I just don’t know what the truth is,” he told The Philadelphia Inquirer. “The conspiracy theory makes no sense. So no, I don’t agree with Blackstone. Sometimes I wonder if Walker and Myshko planned the whole thing just to give us something to talk about.” And when The Los Angeles Times told him that was crazy, he agreed.

Jerry would have been grateful to see Morgan Blackstone just go away. Retire somewhere to a mountaintop and fade from view. No, not fade. Vanish altogether. Exit stage right.

He’d watched Blackstone’s catastrophic TV appearance with a sense of growing horror. If the issue had been perceived as a trifle eccentric before, it was now outright lunacy. The guy came off as a thoroughgoing nutcase. Jerry had been munching a tuna fish sandwich when it started. Five minutes into the rant, he very nearly threw it at the TV. Then he began wondering whether this was how Mary perceived him. He and Blackstone were, after all, saying the same thing. But there was a difference. Jerry was more inclined to imply that something wasn’t right with the official story. Blackstone had taken an earthmover to it. Furthermore, Jerry was known to the general public. His was the face of NASA. People knew who he was, and they had no reason to doubt his good sense. Everybody trusted him. Blackstone, on the other hand, for all his money, had never been a public figure. Now he was becoming one of the best-known people in the country. MSNBC delivered an instant poll showing that 98 percent of those polled could identify him, and that four out of five classified him as deranged. Or worse. One of the “political advisors” on CBS commented that he also had the effect of scaring people. “Look,” he said, “they know this guy is going to be launching rockets.”

And therein lay the problem. Blackstone had stirred up such a commotion that Jerry could not hope to pursue the matter quietly. Thanks a lot, Bucky.

Barbara was at her desk when he arrived at the office the next day. She looked at him with a mixture of dismay and sympathy. And there was something else, something in her tone that suggested she no longer saw him the same way. She’d been his secretary for a year and a half. In fact, she’d been more than that: She’d been a friend. But when he walked in that morning, it was as if a gulf had opened between them. It wasn’t that she’d grown distant. But as if they no longer knew each other.

Ordinarily, if a major NASA story had broken during the course of an evening, it would have been front and center when he came into the office. Jerry, did you see what they were doing in the space station? Or, had he heard about Commander Ryan and the stripper? But on this day, she’d simply looked his way, eyes half-averted. “Hello, Jerry,” she’d said, with a weak smile. “How’s it going?”

How, indeed?

Mary hadn’t called yet. She couldn’t have been happy.

He pushed back in his chair and focused on the photograph of himself and three Girl Scouts gathered in front of a test rocket in the museum. It had been taken only last month

The kids were from Troop 17, based at one of the local churches. Suddenly, it seemed a long time ago. A happier time—

—

He was scheduled to interview Petra Bauer, a NASA physicist, later that morning. Jerry was a regular contributor to NASA TV. It was, in fact, the aspect of his job that he most enjoyed. His biggest laugh line always came when he claimed that his earliest ambition was to be an astronaut, but that he had a problem with heights. The line probably worked because people could see the truth in it. One look at Jerry told you he was not a charge-the-hill kind of guy. Mostly, Jerry was about getting along. He had social skills that wouldn’t quit, a talent for making people like him. He was a good speaker, and he had a passion for spaceflight. As long as other people were doing it.

He was a perfect fit for his job. Or he had been until Sidney Myshko’s long silence turned up.

Blackstone was convinced there’d been a landing. Jerry thought maybe it had happened. Something clearly had been going on. But he could not imagine any reason for the secrecy. So explain yourself, Bucky. Come up with a theory. Give me a scenario that makes sense.

His phone beeped. “Mary’s on the line,” said Barbara.

He picked up. “Good morning, Mary.”

“You saw Blackstone last night?” She sounded tired.

“I saw him, yes.”

“This thing just won’t go away.” He heard music in the background. Mary had a taste for symphonies. “I’d like very much to get rid of it, Jerry.”

“I’m sorry it’s been causing a problem.”

“It isn’t your fault. I’d probably have done the same thing if I’d been in your position. I’ll admit that it’s got me wondering, though. Still, I just want it to stop.”

“What’s the latest?”

“Armbruster and Collins, this morning. They’re already talking about cutting back on our budget.” Two members of Congress who’d based their careers on getting rid of what they called wasteful spending. NASA had always been near the top of their list. “The problem is that we’re being associated with Blackstone. With this whole goddamned story.”

Jerry listened to birds singing in the trees. Their lives looked so much better than his. “I got a lot of calls from the media last night,” he said. “Asking for a reaction. But I backed off. Told them I didn’t know any more than they did.”

“Did they let you get away with that, Jerry?” Her voice hardened.

“Yes,” he said. “Up to a point. They tried to get more. But—”

“Okay. Good. I think that’s exactly the right tack. We need to keep a low profile for a while. Let Blackstone carry the ball.” She paused, and he locked in on the music. Rachmaninoff, maybe? The classical composers all sounded alike to him. “By the way—” She frowned. Bad news coming. “I’m replacing you on the interview today.”

He growled under his breath. “You really think that’s necessary?”

“It’s a precaution, Jerry. I think, for a while, the less the public sees you, the better off we’ll be.”

Jerry let her see he was unhappy. “Okay. Whatever you say.”

“Later, when things calm down, we can go back to normal.”

“Who’s going to do the interview?”

“Martin.”

Martin Moreau was the personnel chief at the Space Center. He outranked Jerry, and though Jerry would not have admitted it even to himself, he would be a good replacement. Well, adequate. He didn’t have Jerry’s style. Jerry’s showbiz approach. But nobody did. Not along the Cape, anyhow.