Bucky shook his head. “Absolutely not. I don’t want the White House or anyone else seeing any of this until we’ve had time to study and analyze them back home.”

“I figured as much,” said Gaines. “But they’ll be encrypted.”

“They’ll be the most important thing ever sent from one machine to another. How long do you think it’ll take the CIA or the FBI to break through the encryption after they’ve intercepted them?”

“What’s the matter, Bucky? We’ve made the most significant discovery in the history of man, and suddenly you sound paranoid.”

“We aren’t the first to discover whatever this is,” said Bucky grimly. “You’re only paranoid if they’re not out to get you.”

33

Marcia Neimark and Phil Bassinger climbed into the command module and began removing their space suits.

“I wish I could say the air smells fresher,” remarked Bassinger.

“Settle for there being more of it,” said Bucky. He stared at the two of them. “I can’t tell you how much I hate you for being the ones to land while I was stuck up here.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” replied Neimark.

“Really,” said Bucky. “Just be ready to spend the entire return flight describing everything you saw, every step you took, every sensation you felt.”

“Or you won’t feed us?” asked Bassinger with a grin.

“For starters.” Bucky’s tone was so serious that they couldn’t be sure he was kidding. Suddenly, he looked around. “Well, where the hell is it?”

“Come aft and have a look.”

Bucky half walked, half floated to the back of the ship, where the two curved plates were secured.

“You know,” he said, “if I saw these atop an ancient church or temple, or even an old, abandoned legislature building, I wouldn’t give them a second glance.” He paused and stared at the plates. “And yet they were responsible for three Moon flights and the expenditure of who knows how many billions of dollars. Why did we do it?”

No one had any answers, and, after a few moments, he made his way back to the front of the ship.

“So what do you think?” asked Gaines.

“Doesn’t quite stir the sense of wonder the way this does,” said Bucky, waving a hand at a viewscreen. “We’re not Earthbound anymore. I found a way; so will others. And now that I’ve shown that we don’t need the government to do it, man is coming back out here again and again. The human race’s greatest shame is that we turned our back on it for fifty years.” He stared out at the stars. “Damn, I hope it is an alien artifact! Once we know for sure they’re out there, nothing will hold us back!”

“Calm down, Bucky,” said Neimark. “You’ll have a stroke.”

“No I won’t,” he said. “Once upon a time, when I thought I’d experienced and accomplished just about everything, I’d have accepted a stroke with equanimity. But now that I’ve been up here, now that I realize I haven’t set foot on Mars yet but that I can during my lifetime, now that I’ve seen what we’re carrying back home, I intend to die with the greatest reluctance.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Neimark.

34

Cunningham, like any president, had grown accustomed to criticism. But the flavor was changing. Usually, attacks charged him with bad judgment. Now they were suggesting he’d allowed himself to be deceived, that there was a conspiracy at the heart of the government, and he had no more sense of what was going on than the voters. Where was the president who’d campaigned as the man who could make government work?

Brian Colson ran a clip of the vice president, speaking barely a week ago, lamenting that many of our troubles would go away if people could just have a little confidence. “The biggest single problem we have,” the VP had commented, “is that we’ve lost our willingness to trust the people we vote in. Don’t ask me why. Maybe we all see too many conspiracy movies.”

“I guess that’s what it is, Jogina,” Brian told his guest. “Too many movies.”

The lead editorial in The New York Times delivered a lecture on presidential responsibility. “It’s time, Mr. President,” it said, “to go after the truth.” The Miami Herald commented that he probably meant well but was simply out of touch. “What else does Mr. Cunningham not know?” The London Times admitted to being shocked that he had not, when evidence of the backdoor Moon flights—as they were now being called—first surfaced, asked a few hard questions “of the right people.” The only media type he knew of who’d come to his defense was Harold Baskin of Rolling Stone, who suggested that maybe the president had been just as surprised as the rest of us. “It’s not always easy for a CEO to find out what the techs are doing out back.”

“That may be true,” replied Len Hawkins on All-Star Round Table, “but I think I’d rather have a president who’s trying to keep the truth from us, for whatever reason, than one who doesn’t have a clue.”

Lyra was waiting for him when he trudged up to his quarters for lunch after a painfully long morning. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine.” His tone suggested he didn’t need any sympathy.

She didn’t blink. “George, I know you’ve heard me say this before, but I’ll say it again: I’m sorry you didn’t go into accounting.”

“Me, too.”

“You know,” she said, “they’re all idiots.”

“They think I’m the idiot.”

“I’d like to see any of those people, see Blackstone, especially, come in here and try to deal with the problems you have to handle every day. He’d be a basket case by the end of the first week.”

Harry Culver called. Harry was the senior senator from Ohio, who’d encouraged him to go for the White House. Who’d been his mentor when he was just getting started in politics. “Just ride it out, George,” he said. “You’ll be okay. You should be used to stuff like this. As soon as the next scandal hits, it’ll go away.”

But it wouldn’t, and he knew it. The world had changed with the advent of electronic communications. Presidents, beginning with FDR, were on the record. Nixon, despite a long career of postpresidential public service, would never get past You won’t have Nixon to kick around anymore. Or I am not a crook. Bill Clinton, who’d been a major contributor to global stability, would always be remembered as the guy who didn’t have sex with that woman. Jimmy Carter’s crisis of confidence comments, which had morphed into malaise, would live forever. And George W. Bush could spend the rest of his days rescuing kids out of burning buildings, but he’d never live down Mission Accomplished.

For Cunningham, the Bermuda Triangle remark had already become part of the media landscape. Yes indeed, Ask Mr. Blackstone—Worst of all, he was left with no answers. What actually had happened up there, Mr. President?

He had no idea.

—

When he got back to his office, he summoned Ray. “What do we have on Cohen’s briefcase?”

“Nothing yet, George. To be honest, I’m not sure where to begin.”

“Whatever was in there, Ray, Nixon apparently fumbled away his presidency trying to get it back.”

He almost felt sorry for Nixon. He’d watched the old film clips, read Mason’s biography The Plumbers and the President, and understood why the country had turned against him. The truth, he thought, was that Nixon had simply not been emotionally capable of handling the pressures at the White House. Nixon’s basic problem was that he’d had a thin skin, and that’s a serious handicap on the big stage. Especially when you’re sending people into combat. And, of course, those were the Cold War years, when a misjudgment could have killed everyone on the planet.