“I can’t imagine a better way to cut off what’s left of our funding, Cal.”

“Seriously.”

“I think there’s simply a communication breakdown somewhere. I’m trying to settle it now.”

“Okay. Send the pictures. Do you have descriptions of what they’re supposed to be?”

“I have the mission parameters.”

“All right. Send those, too.”

“One other thing, Cal—”

“Yes?”

“If you see anything unusual, anything you wouldn’t expect, let me know, okay? But nobody else.”

A wide smile appeared. “What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know, Cal. Anything odd.”

—

It was a Friday night. Jerry had been dating Susan Cassidy on and off over the past few months. Susan was a librarian in Titusville. She was not exactly gorgeous despite her raven hair and dark eyes. But she was smart, and she was the type of woman who grew more attractive as you got to know her. He was sitting with her at the Olive Garden on Merritt Island enjoying his spaghetti and meatballs when his phone buzzed.

Jerry was not one of those people who’d sit with a friend, or a date, and talk on his cell. But he saw that the call was from Cal. “This is important,” he told Susan. “Bear with me, okay?”

She smiled and nodded. No problem.

“Yes, Cal,” he said. “What have you got?”

“Not a thing, Jerry. Everything that’s supposed to be there is there. I can’t find any missing parcels of ground. The missions pretty much covered the entire area.”

“You’re sure.”

“I ran them through the data file. Everything’s correct.”

“Okay, Cal. Thanks.”

He turned the phone off, dropped it into a pocket, and said, “Sorry.” Then he went back to the meatballs.

Susan’s eyes drifted past him. She raised her wine, sipped it, put it back down. “Is there a problem?”

“No. Everything’s fine.”

“My experience over a lifetime, Jerry,” she said, ‘is that when people say ‘everything’s fine,’ it usually isn’t.”

He grinned. Shrugged. “It’s no big deal, Susan.”

“Is Blackstone going to do another TV show?”

“It’s not anything like that.” He explained about the lunar photos.

“You think they saw something up there, and they were hiding it?”

“No. I don’t.” He tasted his wine while he thought about what he wanted to say. “You know, Susan, I’m always amazed at how easily we get sucked into crazy notions. I think we all have a predilection for fantasy.”

“And this Cal didn’t find anything missing?”

“No. Nothing deleted from any of the pictures.”

She smiled. “That must be disappointing.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh, come on, Jerry. Wouldn’t you love to discover there’s a big mystery of some sort going on? Something the government’s been covering up for half a century?”

He laughed. “Listen, babe, my job’s complicated enough. I don’t need any mysteries.”

“Jerry.” It was almost a sigh. “Where’s your romantic side?”

“That only shows up when you’re in the area, Susan.”

“Ah. Well spoken, Lancelot.”

He lifted his wine to her. “I calls them the way I sees them, sweetheart.”

“Of course. I’d expect no less.” She touched glasses. “Jerry. About the pictures. There’s another possibility.”

“What’s that?”

“Maybe there was something they didn’t want anyone to see. So they did make them unavailable.”

“But we have the pictures. There’s nothing missing.”

She shrugged. “Proves nothing. They could have photoshopped them. Maybe they simply replaced them with other pictures.”

—

The following day he called Cal again. “I hate to ask you about this,” he said, as the professor began frowning, “but I need something else. It occurred to me that somebody might have replaced the original pictures. Photoshopped them. Is that possible?”

“Is it possible? Sure it’s possible, Jerry. Almost anything is possible. You can’t travel faster than light. And you can’t travel in time. Except forward, one day at a crack. Otherwise, anything goes. What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Cal. But I want to eliminate the possibility that the original pictures were replaced. Is there a way to do that?”

“Sure,” he said. “But listen, Jerry. First of all, I’m buried these days. And anyhow, even if I weren’t, it’s not my field of expertise. You want a professional for something like this.”

“Can you suggest anyone?”

“I don’t think there’s anybody here who would qualify.” He smiled. “Something like this, I’d take to NASA.”

—

His old girlfriend still looked great even though the years had begun to pile up. She was African-American, a graduate of LaSalle University in Philadelphia, and a rabid baseball fan. The Phillies, of course. She was the only woman Jerry had ever really loved. But the chemistry hadn’t worked on her side. He’d been smart enough to make sure the breakup hadn’t erupted into a cascade of hard feelings. And he’d stayed in touch, more or less. But he was reluctant to ask a favor. The rush of emotions that came from being near her had not abated over the years.

Last he’d heard, she was still single.

—

She smiled at him out of the display, told him she was glad to see him again, and asked how he was doing. “You seem to be making news,” she added.

“Not sure how I got in the middle of it, Mandy,” he said.

“Story of your life, Jerry.”

He laughed. “It’s just a series of communications problems.”

“Okay.” She gazed at him skeptically. Tilted her head. His heart started racing. It was as if he were back in high school.

“I could use your help, Mandy.”

“What do you need?”

“I want you to look at some Moon pictures. The lunar surface. We have the dates when they were supposed to have been taken, by probes and satellites. In the late 1960s. And the locations. I’d be grateful if you could tell me if they are what they’re supposed to be.”

She looked at him. “How’ve you been doing, Jerry?”

“Okay,” he said.

“Married yet?”

“No. Not yet. I’ve got a candidate, though.”

“Good,” she said. “Lucky woman.”

That hurt. But he kept going. “How about you?”

“Been too busy, I guess.”

The conversation trailed off. She was, he thought, trying to find a way out. She didn’t want to do the lunar pictures. And she was uncomfortable in his presence. “Okay,” she said finally. “But, Jerry, keep my name out of it. Okay?”

11

Bucky spent the night in the office. He didn’t do it very often, but for those occasions when he needed to, a luxurious bedroom suite had been installed on the top floor—he hated calling anything in an office building a penthouse—complete with shower, steam bath, state-of-the-art sound and video systems, and fifty of his favorite books.

He could have had his driver take him home, but he’d have had to run the gauntlet of the press, which had left about a dozen members camped out in front of the building and another handful at the exit to the underground garage.

The most recent polls said that 80 percent of the public thought he was a flake, so why, he wondered, was the press still after him? Then he realized that a billionaire flake was probably worth more copy, vocal and written, than just about anyone other than (and, on some days, including) the president.

He spent half the night watching reruns of famed boxing matches, one of his passions. He saw the seventh round Long Count, Sonny Liston’s first-round dive in Maine, Mike Tyson turning to putty when he realized he couldn’t bully or terrorize Evander Holyfield, Arturo Gatti and Mickey Ward meet three times in the squared circle to show onlookers what the sport was all about. He watched Max Schmeling, who didn’t want the weight of the Third Reich on his shoulders, collapse under it in less than a round, and Muhammad Ali show lightweights and bantamweights how to stick and run.