—

Suddenly, he was looking at a depleted morning. He sat listening to the clock while his resentment grew. He thought about going up to Mary’s office and offering his resignation. That way you won’t have to worry about my reminding people about NASA.

Why did no one else care? Other than Blackstone?

Even Barbara had backed off.

“Jerry?” Her voice. “You have a visitor. A Mr. Collander?”

“Who?”

“Joseph Collander. Security just called. He’s apparently down at the entrance. Says he would like to see you. “

“Did he say what about?”

“Myshko.”

Another crank. “Tell him I’m out. Tell him I’ve gone to Egypt on a goodwill tour.”

“Jerry, he says his father worked for us back in the sixties.”

Jerry hesitated. He didn’t want to get in any deeper. On the other hand—“Okay. Let me talk to him.”

Barbara switched him over. “Dr. Culpepper?” The voice was thin. It seemed reluctant, hesitant.

“I don’t have a doctorate, Mr. Collander,” Jerry said. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Culpepper, my father was a computer technician for NASA back during the sixties and seventies. I might have something you’d be interested in hearing.”

Jerry took a deep breath. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

—

Joseph Collander did not match his voice. He was a big guy, the type who might have been a linebacker in his earlier years. He was dressed informally, which of course was standard along the Space Coast. Casual open-neck shirt with a University of Florida emblem on the pocket, and a Rays baseball cap. “Mr. Culpepper,” he said, “I’m sorry to take up your time. I was watching that guy on TV last night. Blackberry or something—

“Blackstone,” said Jerry. He led Collander into a conference room.

“Yeah. That’s it. And I know you were involved in it, too. The business about maybe somebody landing on the Moon before Neil Armstrong.”

“What did you want to tell me, Mr. Collander?”

“Joe, please. And, to answer your question as honestly as I can, that press conference last night, I know this will sound crazy, but it reminded me of something my dad told me years ago.”

“What’s that?”

“You know that the first time we got a look at the back side of the Moon was when a Russian probe took pictures in, I think, 1959. We got some pictures ourselves during the sixties. They distributed them to the media, and they were big news for a while. Then we stopped.”

“Making the pictures available to the media, you mean.”

“Yes. My dad said they were still getting pictures, but nobody got to see them. Including my dad and the people working with him. There was no indication whether they’d been classified. I mean, there wouldn’t be any reason to classify them unless they’d spotted a Soviet base back there. Then, after a while, everything got back to normal.”

“Your father was seeing the pictures again.”

“Yes. There was never any explanation, or even an admission by higher authority that it had happened. In fact, he was told he was imagining it. And when he pushed a little, they told him to shut up.”

“When was this?” asked Jerry.

“It was before my time, Mr. Culpepper. It always bothered my father that they’d do something like that and then lie about it. But he swore it happened.”

“Can I get you some coffee, Joe?”

“No, thanks. It tends to keep me awake all day.” They both smiled at the joke.

“Is your father—?”

“He died fifteen years ago.”

“Is there anybody else you know of who could back up the story?”

“There were a bunch of NASA retired guys living around here at one time. They used to go to lunch together and everything, and I guess they still do. But I don’t think any of the ones from my father’s era are left now.”

“Did you ever hear any of the others mention the censorship?”

“I really don’t recall, Mr. Culpepper.”

“Jerry’s good.”

“Jerry. Okay. But now that I think of it, I do remember something else. My dad said that when the analysts got access to the pictures again, there was still a problem. There was an area they were never able to see. It was never visible. As if the pictures had been cropped.”

—

Jerry called Al Thomas at the Huntsville Archives. Al looked as if he was having a busy day. “What do you need, Jerry?” he asked.

“Al, during the sixties, we took a lot of satellite and probe pictures of the back side of the Moon, right?”

“We took some, yes. Mostly from probes.”

“Were any of them ever withheld?”

“You mean classified?”

“Yes.”

“Not that I know of. Hold on a second.” He was back after about three minutes. “No, Jerry,” he said. “The lunar pictures, all of the ones taken by the United States, were distributed to interested researchers as soon as they became available. There’s no indication any of them were ever held back.”

“Okay. Can you forward a complete set to me?”

“Jerry, that’s a lot of pictures.”

“It’s important, Al,”

“Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

Jerry glanced down at the note he’d written himself. “One other thing.”

Thomas sighed. “What is it?”

“Mission parameters. I could use them, too. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“All right. I’m not really sure what we have. But I’ll dig everything out. Are you in a hurry?”

—

The pictures came in as Jerry was getting ready to leave for the day. There were hundreds of them, and they were all dated. He brought them up on his display and got lost among craters and ridges and bleak lunar plains. He looked for something, anything, that might have caused someone at a high level to conclude there was a problem. And he felt like an idiot doing it. He had been transformed into a geek at a science-fiction convention.

But there was nothing. No extended time period during which pictures were missing. No secret Soviet base. No automated rocket launcher filled with missiles. No vacuum-breathing Moon people living in a crater.

He read the mission plans. He examined maps of the far side of the Moon and tried to see whether any areas that should have been in the photos were missing. He went down and ate a quick dinner in the cafeteria. Then he went back to his office and looked at the maps some more.

The problem was he didn’t really know what he was doing.

In the morning, he called Cal Dryden, a physics professor at the University of Central Florida. Cal was an enthusiastic supporter of NASA whom Jerry had met at a fund-raising luncheon a year earlier. A secretary told him Professor Dryden was in class, but she’d leave a message. Thirty minutes later he was smiling out of the display. He seemed to get heavier every time Jerry saw him. He’d grown a beard, which was probably a bad idea because it carried streaks of gray and made him look a few years older. Though maybe that was the effect he wanted.

“Hi, Jerry.” He was seated in an armchair with a wall of books behind him. “What can I do for you?”

“Cal, I have some pictures of the back side of the Moon. From the late sixties. I was wondering—” How to phrase this? “I think they might be incomplete. I was wondering if you could take time to look at them for me.”

Cal’s brow creased. “What do you mean ‘incomplete’?”

“There might be areas that should be there but aren’t. You know, where we have maybe both sides of a section of ground but the middle’s missing.”

“You want me to find the missing pieces?”

“I want you to determine whether there are any missing pieces.”

“Jerry, you say these pictures are from the sixties?”

“Yes.”

“So why would anybody care?”

“It’s hard to explain, Cal.”

He took a deep breath. “I assume it has something to do with the Myshko flight?”

“It might. I don’t know. But I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself.”

“Okay. But hell, Jerry, what’s going on over there? You guys trying to start rumors about secret missions?”