Jim was an old friend. If the stories about disarray among the troops were correct, Jerry would probably be hearing from him.

He went to Darby’s for breakfast. It was a nice break. Darby’s was down at Cocoa Beach, overlooking the ocean. He couldn’t eat there on a workday; it was too far out of the way. But it was perfect for a Saturday. Or for somebody no longer gainfully employed. He pulled into a half-empty parking lot. It was already hot, and no breeze came in off the ocean. They were predicting a high over a hundred.

He went inside, decided he wasn’t going to worry about his diet, ordered bacon and eggs and a side of pancakes. Then he sat there, waiting for his breakfast to arrive, looking out over the Atlantic and listening to the rumble of the surf. If Tilghman called, he would accept. Jim was from Pennsylvania, and even though Jerry didn’t know much about the politics in the Keystone State, he was a quick learner.

Maybe this was going to turn out to be a break for him. He’d enjoyed working at NASA, but the reality was that, whatever might happen there, his career had stalled. There’d been nowhere for him to go. If he’d remained at the Space Center for the next two decades, he’d have still been doing the same job.

Jerry wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with his life. He’d been a history major in college and had expected to launch a teaching career. That had seemed natural enough for him. He was one of maybe three kids in the speech class who weren’t terrified of getting up in front of everyone and delivering a few comments on how they’d have responded, say, to the Cuban Missile Crisis. The instructor, Professor Clement, had cited a study tabulating the things that people feared most. Death had come in second. Public speaking led the way.

Jerry, though, was a natural. He loved performing.

Maybe eventually he’d run for office himself. Representative Culpepper from the great state of Ohio. He liked the sound of it.

—

There were more job offers waiting when he got home. He’d received invitations from two talk shows to sign on as a regular panel member. One was the politically oriented Slippery Slopes, but the other was Dark Energy, on the Science Channel. He wished he had the background to do the Science Channel, but he’d get lost as soon as they started talking about quantum mechanics or string theory.

There were a couple of feelers from politicians, both in Ohio, both in local races.

But if he was going to get back into politics, he might as well go for the top. Rather than wait for Tilghman, he decided to take the first step. He called the senator’s office. The woman who answered identified herself as Sally. She obviously didn’t know him. Neither his name nor his face. “How may I help you, Mr. Culpepper?” she asked.

“I’m a friend of the senator’s,” he said. “Is he available?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “He’s not here at the moment.”

“Would you tell him I called?”

“Yes. May I ask what this is about?”

“I suspect he’ll know, Sally.”

“Very good, Mr. Culpepper. Thank you for calling.” And the screen went blank.

Jerry looked at the time. It was slightly after ten. Ordinarily, at that hour, he’d have been getting ready for his appearance on the NASA Channel. Going over the topics, constructing some spontaneous remarks, coming up with optimistic assessments on current projects.

It was painful. The organization he’d served so well had forced him to leave when he was coming to its defense. Because he wouldn’t allow it to get further sucked into this web of lies and doctored photos and whatever else.

—

He called Ralph D’Angelo.

“I was about to call you,” Ralph said. “What happened?”

“I was asking too many questions.”

Ralph was in his office. He pushed back in his chair and rubbed his hands across his few remaining strands of gray hair. “Are you telling me there’s actually something to that Moon story?”

“Yeah. Something happened.”

“What, precisely?”

“I don’t know, Ralph. But the photos of the Moon, the back side near the Cassegrain Crater, were doctored. All the pictures between 1959, which were the first ones, until after the Walker mission, were not what they were supposed to be.” He explained in detail. “I can send them to you, if you like.”

“So whatever was going on, the Russians were in on it, too?”

“Apparently.”

“Jerry, that’s crazy. That was the height of the Cold War. They wouldn’t have cooperated with us on anything.”

“I know. It makes no sense.”

“You have any kind of theory at all?”

“I got nothing, Ralph. I can’t imagine what the hell was going on.”

“We could publish the pictures, and all that would happen is that NASA would say there must have been a mistake, it’s a long time ago, who cares?”

“I know.”

“All right. I appreciate your getting to me on this. But we’re going to need something a little more substantial, Jerry. You know what I mean?”

—

Jim Tilghman didn’t return the call. Jerry knew he should take the hint, but Tilghman had told him any number of times how much he would enjoy having him around to work on his campaign. You’re just the kind of guy we need. And, of course, there was always the possibility that his message had gotten lost in the stack, that Tilghman had never seen it.

He waited until Monday before calling again. He got someone else this time. Wanda. “This is Jerry Culpepper,” he said. “I’m a friend of the senator’s. Is he available?”

“I’m afraid not at the moment, Mr. Culpepper. May I have your number, please?”

Jerry sat through most of the morning, thinking maybe he should break down and take the NFL job. Then, shortly before lunch, the call came in. “Mr. Culpepper?” Wanda again. “Please hold for the senator.”

Jim Tilghman had grown up in the Appalachians. He looked like a mountain man. He’d been an offensive guard at the University of Pennsylvania, spent two seasons with the Eagles before concluding that his Maker hadn’t really intended him for pro football. (Jim was an intensely religious man, a quality that didn’t hurt him with the voters.) He’d gone to law school, become a prosecutor in Harrisburg, and later a judge. “I want to apologize for not getting right back to you, Jerry. We’ve been buried around here and, to be honest, it just got away from me.” His black hair was neatly combed, but his goatee was missing. He was somewhat ahead of schedule. Goatees, Jerry knew, were never beneficial during election years. “What can I do for you?”

“Jim, I guess you’ve heard I left NASA.”

“Yes, Jerry. That’s a pity. You were the perfect guy to have out front.” He hesitated, as if he was about to say something more. But he simply repeated himself: “It’s a pity.”

“Well, it was getting uncomfortable for me.”

“The Myshko thing.”

“Yes.”

“I can see how that could have happened. It was all a long time ago, Jerry, whatever it’s about. Something like that makes everyone uncomfortable. Do you know anything that hasn’t been made public?”

“Not really.”

Another pause. Then: “So what can I do for you, Jerry?”

That should have told him. In the past, Tilghman had always been forthright about his interest in securing him for his staff. “I’m thinking about getting back into politics, Jim.”

“Really? You planning on running for office?”

“No. I don’t think I have the qualities to win an election for myself.”

“I understand.”

“Actually, I’d like to sign on to your campaign. If you think you could use me.”

“Jerry, to tell you the truth, I don’t really have a staff position open.”

“Oh.”

The senator’s face reflected regret. “Wish I could.”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Jerry.” Tilghman looked around, apparently checking to see whether anyone could overhear him. “I’d love to have you. But right now’s not a good time.”