“They landed. I was left alone in the ship. I orbited eleven times, then they hooked up with me again. Never said a word about what they were doing down there. I knew it was hush-hush, and, of course, it had to have been planned all along. I never asked them why or what they had done. I couldn’t be sure the ship was secure. When we got back, got away from everything, I asked, but they’d been sworn to silence, same as I had. After that, I never saw them again.”

“Did they bring anything back up to the ship?” asked Weinstein. “Rocks, pebbles, anything at all?”

Bartlett shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“How could you not know?” persisted Weinstein. “You weren’t at the controls twenty-four hours a day. You had access to the rest of the ship.”

“Oh, they didn’t bring anything aboard the ship,” said Bartlett. “But I don’t know what they might have left in the lander. I never got into it during the flight, and I never saw it again after we came home.”

“That’s very interesting, Amos.”

“You think so?”

“Don’t you?”

Bartlett shook his head. “I find it scary, not interesting. What the hell did they do that half a century later nobody knows anything about it?”

“That’s what your president wants to find out.”

“He’s the president, isn’t he?” said Bartlett. “Why doesn’t he just order NASA to turn everything over to him? I mean, you can’t keep secrets from your president when he wants them, can you?”

Only if his name is Ford, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Bush 2, Obama, or Cunningham, thought Weinstein wryly. Then he remembered that he’d only gotten half his answers.

“I have another question or two, Amos.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

Bartlett nodded. “You want to ask about the earlier flight, Myshko’s, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” said Weinstein.

“I don’t know. They took off, did some orbits, came back, and there was never any indication anything unusual had happened. I didn’t realize there’d been anything out of the way about the Myshko flight until they started talking about it a couple of weeks ago. If they actually went down, too, they sure as hell didn’t tell any of us.”

“Who told you not to say anything?”

“An admiral. Castleman, his name was. I wasn’t to say anything to anyone. Not even let anybody know there was anything to tell. After that, no one ever mentioned the landings again. We had debriefings, and it was as if everything had proceeded according to the officially announced plans. I was told that everything that happened was top secret, and that if I divulged anything I’d be locked away for the rest of my life . . . but that’s just what’s happened to me now. And I’m tired of having this hang over my head.” A rueful smile crossed the old man’s face. “They won’t believe you either, you know.”

“One man will,” said Weinstein, getting to his feet and walking toward the door.

“Who?”

Weinstein turned to face Bartlett. “The one who counts.”

20

It was Jerry’s first day on the job for Press of the Dells, a midsize Wisconsin publisher. He hadn’t sought the job; like all the others he’d been turning down until he realized he was running out of money, it had sought him—or his reputation, to be honest. You could fill a dozen books with what he didn’t know about the publishing business—indeed, people already had—but at least it wasn’t the government, and if he had to tell an occasional white lie, it didn’t make him feel as if he was lying to the world at large about vitally important issues.

His job was loosely defined: at-large editor, which meant that he wasn’t responsible for any particular line of books (the house published both fiction and nonfiction in various categories), and assistant to the publisher, which was even more loosely defined but essentially meant that he was the middleman in both directions between the literary press and the stockholders on the one hand, and Cliff Egan, the middle-aged publisher, on the other.

At least, he thought, I’ll be dealing with rational people instead of paranoids who see conspiracies behind every statement.

That comforting thought lasted all the way until midafternoon of his first day, when Millicent Vanguard (which he was sure couldn’t be her real name) burst into his office.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “How may I help you?”

“It’s happened again!” she snapped. “And it’s got to stop!”

He looked past her, through the open doorway, into the hall. “Has someone been annoying you, Miss Vanguard?”

“Him!” she screamed, tossing a magazine down on his desk.

He picked it up. Wisconsin Reviews Magazine. “I’m not acquainted with this. Can you explain, please?”

“Harley Lipton!” she said. “That little carbuncle on the behind of humanity!”

“What exactly did this little carbuncle do?” asked Jerry.

“Just read it!”

He picked up the magazine. “What am I looking for?”

“Page twenty-seven!”

He turned to page twenty-seven, and began reading aloud. “I am as willing to suspend my disbelief as the next man, but when it comes to the sludge that passes for a Millicent Vanguard novel, I find I cannot suspend my appreciation of plot, characterization, and the proper use of the English language. Her latest, Kiss These Dead Lips, is even more ludicrous than her Grave Lover. If I may paraphrase the late, great Henny Youngman, take my Vanguard books—please!”

“Well?” demanded Millicent when Jerry had finished. “What are you going to do about it?”

He was at a loss for an answer. Finally, he said, “Are you asking me to edit your next book?”

“No!”

“Then what?”

“I want you to get Harley Lipton fired!” she screamed.

“Just because he doesn’t like vampire romances?” he asked mildly.

“What better reason is there?” she demanded. “And they’re paranormal romances.”

“I can’t get a man fired just because he doesn’t like a book.”

“But he hasn’t liked my last seven!” said Millicent. “He’s clearly prejudiced against not only me, but the entire paranormal romance field. He has no right to be writing reviews.”

“Maybe you could speak to his editor,” suggested Jerry.

“I did! The fool wouldn’t listen, any more than you do!” She turned on her heel and stalked out.

Ah, well, they can’t all be Ernest Hemingway or Joseph Heller, he thought. Besides, would facing a drunken Hemingway, who was probably carrying a gun, have been any better?

Then he thought of Millicent Vanguard again, and thought, Yeah, probably.

—

The next day brought new interactions with the artists to whom the reading public had entrusted the preservation of the culture and the language.

First came a phone call from James Kirkwood, who was two years late on a biography of Wisconsin Senator Willis McCue.

“I wasn’t aware of the book,” Jerry had replied. “I’ve only been here a couple of days. But McCue is running for reelection next year, and he’s down nine points in the polls. I think you’d better get it in fast, before he’s out of office and people forget who he is, or was.”

“You’re supposed to encourage me, not depress me, damn it!” snapped Kirkwood.

“I am encouraging you,” said Jerry reasonably. “I’m encouraging you to deliver the manuscript.”

“When I’m ready!”

“Remember what I said. I don’t see how we can use it if you wait much longer.”

“You sue me for nondelivery, and I’ll sue you for harassment and mental cruelty!” yelled Kirkwood, slamming down the phone.