“You saw the press conference?” he asked, knowing damned well she had. But he needed a moment to organize his defenses.

She pointed back down the passageway in the direction of her office. Then she spun on her heel and Jerry—though he walked beside her—followed her back. She didn’t say anything more until the door had closed behind them. Then she exhaled. “Jerry,” she said, “that was supposed to be a celebration out there.”

It was indeed. Jerry had expected to spend the morning talking about moonwalks and robot missions to Jupiter and Voyagers and the International Space Station. He’d been ready with Buzz Aldrin’s famous line about not getting so lost in cleaning up social messes that we forget about the stars, and Neil deGrasse Tyson’s comment that he was tired of driving around the block, boldly going where hundreds had gone before, and that he would gladly sign on for a ride to a new world. He’d had a dozen other quotes ready to go that, somehow, hadn’t shown up. “I know—” he said. “I didn’t expect—”

“Jerry. You let the situation get away from you. Anything like that happens again, just admit there’s a misunderstanding somewhere and move on. Don’t stand there talking it to death. That business with Sidney Myshko—”

“I’m sorry, Mary.”

“I thought you were smarter than that.” She sighed. “Don’t ever let them take control of the conversation. Anytime you do that, you’re going to lose.” She sat down behind her desk and shook her head. “We’ll need to find out what happened, if we can, and put out a formal statement. The damned thing’s already gone viral.”

“You’re kidding,” I said.

She touched her keyboard, and the display lit up. She’d done a search for Sidney Myshko Jerry Culpepper. The screen showed 28,726 postings. He leaned forward to get a better look:

When Did We Really Go to the Moon? NASA Spokesman Culpepper Hasn’t a Clue

Confusion at NASA: Government Can’t Get Its Facts Straight

These Are the Guys in Charge of Space Shots?

Did Somebody Land on the Moon Before Armstrong?

Conspiracy Theorists Back in Force

It Was Neil Armstrong, Dummy

—

Jerry stopped at his secretary’s desk on the way into his office. “Barbara,” he said, “get Al Thomas for me, please.”

He went inside, closed the door, and collapsed into a chair. Amazing how trivial stuff becomes such a big deal. Especially in government.

The office walls and the desk top were covered with framed pictures from his career. Jerry standing beside President Cunningham at a NASA dinner. Jerry chatting amiably with the governor of Florida. Laughing it up with Senator Tilghman. Shaking hands with Jon Stewart. Jerry was up there with all kinds of celebrated people from the political and entertainment worlds. But there wasn’t a single photo of an astronaut.

There weren’t any astronauts anymore. Hadn’t been for years.

He’d been watching the news before going down to the luncheon. Ironically, he’d left the TV on, and it was now running an old Star Trek. Captain Kirk giving orders to raise shields and man battle stations.

His alert dinged, and the Enterprise blinked off and was replaced by Al Thomas’s amiable features. “Hi, Jerry,” he said in his trademark baritone. He sounded like an action-movie star. In fact, he was a skinny little guy with thick glasses. “I was about to call you.”

Al was in Huntsville, where he oversaw NASA’s archives.

“You saw the press conference?”

“I heard about it.”

“What happened? Where’d that thing come from?”

“I don’t know. I have my people going back over the record now, trying to figure it out.”

“Was it really in the package?”

“Oh, yes. I was hoping it wouldn’t be there. It would save a lot of work. The records from that era aren’t exactly digital. Something like that can be hard to find. We’ll need a little time.”

“Who was the CAPCOM?” The guy on the NASA end of the transmissions.

“Hold on a second.” Al was thumbing through documents in a folder. “Here it is. Frank Kirby. I thought that was his voice. He was there for most of the missions during the lunar era.”

“Assume it is their voices, Kirby’s and Myshko’s, is there any way that could have happened? Might it have been, for example, a practice run-through of some sort?”

Barbara’s radio was playing in the outer office. Sounded like the Downtowners singing about women and bullet trains. “Sure,” Al said. “It could have been anything. Probably, they were just screwing around during off time, playing out what they desperately would have liked to do. All those guys wanted to make the landing. But sure, it had to be something like that.”

“Okay, Al. Look, let me know if you get something more, okay?”

“Absolutely, Jerry. Umm—are they upset over there?”

“It’ll pass. Mary doesn’t like it much when the organization looks silly.”

“Yeah. They’re on my case here, too. I can’t believe they actually expected me to vet all that stuff.” He sounded rattled. “Anyway, I’m sorry we made a problem for you.”

—

Jerry wondered whether he should mention the incident in the NASA blog. He didn’t want to do anything to extend the story, but he’d be perceived as ducking it if he didn’t say something. He started a response, It doesn’t take much to excite the media. Then deleted it. It’s never a good idea to attack the reporters. He grinned. Especially if you’re a public-relations guy. Maybe substitute public for media. Yeah, that might do it.

Barbara’s voice broke in: “Jerry, you have a visitor.”

He glanced at his calendar. Nothing was scheduled. “Who is it, Barb?”

“Morgan Blackstone.”

Blackstone? The overhyped cowboy billionaire who was always talking about taking America into space? What the hell could he want with Jerry? “Okay,” he said, as if Blackstone stopped by every day, “send him in.”

He tapped his keyboard and brought up a proposal Mary had made for an unmanned Mars mission. It had gone nowhere. He was gazing steadily at it, pretending to be absorbed, when the door opened. He held up a hand, busy at the moment, have a seat, be right with you. Jerry tapped the display a couple of times and made a face. Then he looked up.

He was accustomed to dealing with people in high places, but he felt immediately intimidated. Blackstone was one of those men who could walk into a party at the White House and take over the room. He towered over Jerry, who, at five-eight, disappeared easily into crowds. An irritating smile suggested he was bestowing a favor merely by being there. Thick black hair and an unruly mustache added to the cowboy mystique. He obviously worked out a lot, and he walked like John Wayne. He’d have looked perfectly at home with six-guns strapped to his hips.

Despite all that, Jerry could have tolerated him except that the son of a bitch made a habit of criticizing NASA. The Agency was a waste of government funding. Bureaucrats bound for Mars but traveling by dog cart. A few weeks ago, on Meet the Press, he’d commented that NASA had gone to the Moon a half century ago, come home, and been sitting on the front porch ever since.

Jerry did not normally rise when men came into his office. But somehow he found himself on his feet. “Please,” he said, “have a seat, Mr. Blackstone.” He indicated the wing chair, which was his preferred location for visitors. It was a bit lower than the other chairs. “What can I do for you?”

Blackstone ignored the chair. “You can start, Jerry, by calling me ‘Bucky.’”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Bucky.” The billionaire came forward and shook his hand. Jerry leaned back on the desk, and Blackstone finally sat down. “How’s everything going with Blackstone Enterprises?”

Blackstone nodded. “Well enough,” he said. “I guess the truth is that we’re having an easier time than NASA.”