“All right,” he said, turning to the sergeant. “I’d like to see Bartlett now.”

“This way, sir,” said the sergeant.

“Can you tell me anything about him?” asked Weinstein, as they walked to an elevator.

“I know he flew one of the Apollo missions, sir, one of the ones before we landed on the Moon.”

The sergeant punched the button for the elevator. It arrived, and they got in and started up. “Anything else?” asked Weinstein.

The sergeant shrugged. “Just that he was moved here to keep him away from the press.”

“Why?”

“I really don’t know, sir. He seems a nice old guy, but of course I’ve only seen him a couple of times, once when he arrived and once when I took him to one of the labs for some tests.”

“Tests for what?”

“You’ll have to ask the medical staff, sir.”

The doors opened, and they stepped out onto the fourth floor.

“When I’m done, do I just walk back to the elevators and go down to the main floor and out the front door?” asked Weinstein, who was sure it couldn’t be that easy.

“In essence, sir,” said the sergeant. “I’ll be standing outside Bartlett’s room while you speak to him. The door will be closed, so neither I nor anyone else can overhear you. When you’re through, just open the door, I’ll escort you back down, you’ll sign out, and I’ll arrange transportation for you.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.”

The sergeant finally smiled. “Your tax dollars at work, sir.”

They walked down the sterile, unadorned corridor, took a left, and stopped in front of a door.

“This is it?” said Weinstein.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay. I’ll take it from here.” Weinstein opened the door and stepped into the room. A very old man, who looked even older than his ninety-two years, sat propped up in his bed, watching a televised baseball game on the TV screen that hung on the far wall. He noticed Weinstein but didn’t turn off the set or even lower the sound.

“Good afternoon, Amos,” began Weinstein.

“Shut up!” said the old man. “There’s two out and two men in scoring position.”

Weinstein stopped speaking and looked around the room. The old man had a pile of books on his nightstand, and didn’t seem to be attached to any monitoring devices. The place smelled of chemicals, cleansing fluids mostly, but then so did the rest of the hospital. There was a phone on the table, hidden behind the books, and a pair of glasses folded atop the stack of books. A window overlooked the parking lot.

“Damn!” muttered the man as the batter struck out, and the game ended. “Okay,” he said, turning to Weinstein. “You’re not a doctor or an orderly, so what do you want?”

“My name is Milt Weinstein, and I’m here to talk to you.”

“You can tell Bucky Blackstone to go to hell!” snapped Bartlett. “I’m not saying anything.”

“I don’t work for Blackstone,” answered Weinstein.

“Then what are you doing here?” asked Bartlett suspiciously.

“Like I said, I want to talk to you.”

“Well, I don’t want to talk to you.” Bartlett folded his shriveled arms across his chest.

“Maybe if I tell you on whose behalf I’m speaking, you might change your mind.”

“Maybe it’ll snow in August, too,” said Bartlett.

Weinstein pulled a chair up next to the bed and sat down. “Okay, Mr. Bartlett. You don’t want me here. I’d rather be three dozen other places. But this is my job, and I’m not leaving until I get what I want. How long it takes is up to you.”

Bartlett glared at him. “All right,” he said at last. “Who are you working for?”

“Ever hear of George Cunningham?”

Bartlett muttered an obscenity. “I knew it!”

“Well, at least you realize he’s got the clout and the money to keep me here until I get what I came for.” Weinstein smiled.

“Why can’t everyone leave me alone?”

“Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll see to it,” said Weinstein.

“You’re just a flunky. You can’t make promises for him.”

“You’ve only got one thing anyone wants, Mr. Bartlett. Once you tell it to me, the president’s got no further interest in bothering you, and he can see to it that no one else does either.”

“How?” demanded Bartlett. “This place is like a prison, and if I go back to the home, everyone will find me there.”

“I’m sure we can arrange the equivalent of the witness protection program,” said Weinstein. “New name, new state, all expenses paid for.”

“They’d find me.”

“They wouldn’t even be looking for you. Besides, how old are you?”

“You’re saying I’ll die before they find me.” Bartlett shrugged. “Probably you’re right.”

“Then shall we talk?” said Weinstein, pulling out a video device the size of a matchbook. “Don’t mind this. It’s just to make sure I don’t misquote you.”

“First things first. Prove you work for Cunningham.”

Weinstein pulled out his ID card and handed it over.

“I could get fifty of these printed up in an hour’s time,” said Bartlett. “You must be able to get your boss on your cell phone. I want to see his face when he’s answering you.”

“I can’t bother him in the White House just to prove I work for him,” said Weinstein. “The man’s got a country to run. This is small potatoes.”

Bartlett stared at him for so long Weinstein was afraid he was going comatose. Finally, he nodded. “All right. Ask your questions.”

“Thank you.” Weinstein leaned forward. “You were on one of the Moon missions prior to Apollo XI, right?”

Bartlett nodded. “Yeah. I was the command module pilot for Aaron Walker. But you know that.”

“Tell me about the mission.”

Bartlett closed his eyes, sighed, then opened them. “Everything seemed in order. We took off on schedule, jettisoned our boosters on schedule, reached the Moon on schedule, orbited it the first time on schedule. It was a picture-perfect mission up to that point.”

“Then what?”

“Then we orbited it again.”

“And?”

“And again.”

Weinstein grimaced. “What aren’t you telling me, Mr. Bartlett?”

“Every word I’ve told you is God’s own truth!” he snapped.

“I never said it wasn’t,” replied Weinstein. “I asked what you weren’t telling me.”

“I want a cigarette first.”

Weinstein actually laughed. “In a hospital? Lots of luck.”

“I want one!”

“I’m sure you do.”

“And I’m not saying another word until you get me one.”

“Then we’re just going to stare at each other until one of us falls asleep,” said Weinstein.

Bartlett stared at him. “Damn. You’re smarter than she was.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Blackstone’s spy.” A pause. “Cunningham has more competent people than Blackstone does.”

“Thank you for the compliment.”

“I didn’t say good people, I said competent,” replied Bartlett.

“I thank you anyway. Six of one—”

Bartlett stared at him. “You have qualities. I’ll bet you’re great at rigging elections.”

“Never tried,” said Weinstein. “Can we get back to the subject?”

“Blackstone’s lady?”

“The Moon flight.”

“Aaron and Lenny are both dead, you know,” said Bartlett. “I’m all that’s left.”

“I know.”

“And look at me.”

“You’re doing okay, Amos.”

“Sure I am.”

“So what really happened up there?”

His eyes brightened. “What the hell. Maybe someone ought to know the truth while I can still tell it.”

“Makes sense to me,” said Weinstein encouragingly.

“All right,” said Bartlett. “You want to know what happened? Blackstone already knows, but he can’t prove it.”

Weinstein wanted to ask if he meant that there was a landing, but he knew better than to say it first. Sooner or later, someone might claim that he was leading a senile witness. “So tell me, Mr. Bartlett.”

“Call me Amos.”

“All right, Amos.”

“They took the lander down to the surface on the far side,” said Bartlett.

Weinstein checked his video device to make sure it was working. “You want to say that once more, Amos?”