“The wealthy I’ll take full credit for,” said Bucky. “The playboy I resent. Or at least I resent never having had the time to be one. Anyway, I am not stating any of this as a scientific certainty. I’m inclined to say you dragged it out of me”—he smiled—“but the fact of the matter is that what I’ve told you is all supposition. Logical supposition, I think, and I’d bet half my remaining fortune that we ascertain that this metal wasn’t created on Earth, but we don’t know anything except that Sidney Myshko and Aaron Walker did land on the Moon because we found the landing stages from their ships.”

“Why would ten presidents lie about it?” asked ABC.

“I don’t know,” answered Bucky. He was losing patience answering the same question every two minutes. “And maybe lie is the wrong word.”

“In what way?”

“When presidents keep various aspects of national security secret, no one accuses them of lying.”

“Are you saying this is a national security matter?” demanded MSNBC. “That we are in danger of being attacked by alien beings?”

Bucky shook his head. “No. I’m not saying anything like that. I just used national security as an example. There are a lot of things that presidents, and senators, and representatives, and generals, and for all I know, blacksmiths, don’t tell us about. Most of it isn’t national security. I’m not in the panic business, and I think it would be a good idea if you weren’t either.”

The man from MSNBC didn’t look as chagrined as Bucky felt he should have, so he stared at him until the reporter shifted uncomfortably and dropped his gaze.

“All right,” said Bucky. “I’ve told you what I know, which isn’t much, and I’ve suggested where you might look for answers, which, of course, is up to you.” Sure it is, with three billion people watching or listening to this. “Now you are free to interview scientists Marcia Neimark and Phil Bassinger, and pilot Ben Gaines. When you’re done, Jerry Culpepper, the spokesman for the Blackstone Enterprises space initiative, will provide you with more background for your articles and reports.”

“Have you got anything else to say?” asked The Wall Street Journal.

“Yeah,” said Bucky. He looked into the cameras. “Start saving your pennies, because when we and other companies begin offering commercial flights in space, whatever it costs, you’ll get your money’s worth. I’ve done a lot of things in my life, been a lot of places, but I’ve never experienced anything like this. I feel”—he searched for the words—“emotionally blinded and deafened just by being back on Earth.” He pointed out the open doors toward the sky. “Now that I’m here, all I want to do is get back there.”

Then, accompanied by Jason Brent and Gloria Marcos, he excused himself and left.

—

“Well,” he asked, when they were all seated in the private office that had been constructed for him, “how’d I do?”

“I think if you wanted to make President Cunningham uncomfortable, you couldn’t have planned it better,” said Gloria. She paused and stared at him. “Did you want to upset him?”

“Not especially,” said Bucky. “One thing not a single member of the press thought about, or more likely cares about, is that if all those presidents thought it was essential to keep this thing secret, they must have had a reason.”

“Son of a gun!” exclaimed Brent in surprise.

“Five’ll get you ten that not one of them considers that before they stake out the White House.” A bittersweet smile crossed Bucky’s mouth. “We’ve been on opposite sides of this, or at least not on the same side, but Cunningham’s a decent man, and for all I know, he has an excellent reason for covering up the Myshko mission, though now that they know about it, they’ll never leave him alone until they get the full story.” He leaned back on his chair. “I feel sorry for the poor bastard.”

38

Lyra had gone to bed. The volume on the TV was set low, and Cunningham was violating Secret Service protocols, standing near the curtains, drinking a rum and Coke, looking out at the sliver of moon hanging over the capital. Not much point being president of the United States if you can’t look out the window. The Moon is one of those things everyone takes for granted. Like spaghetti and meatballs. Or most of the people in our lives. We don’t notice them until they’re not there anymore. Or they start causing trouble.

The Moon is for lovers.

Well. Maybe back in the old days. He raised his glass to it.

And, reluctantly, to Bucky.

Behind him, NBC was replaying the arrival of the Myshko. He could just hear Cal Peterson’s voice describing the scene. He seemed awestruck. A reflection of the arriving lights moved across the window.

“Here it comes,” said Peterson.

He sighed, lowered himself onto a chair arm, adjusted the volume, and watched. The night sky was filled with stars. Abruptly, the picture split in two, one showing the incoming spacecraft, the other a crowd of several hundred standing anxiously behind security lines. Not bad, Cunningham thought. It was almost eleven o’clock out there.

He was looking across an illuminated landing field, probably from a perch atop one of the hangars. The lights were growing steadily brighter, descending out of the night. Peterson kept talking about what a great moment it was for mankind, and what a debt of gratitude the nation owed Bucky Blackstone, and, by the way, tune in tomorrow for a complete recap of the mission.

It was hard not to be jealous.

It was too dark to be sure how close the Myshko was to the ground. Then, abruptly, it was visible in the field lights, its gray metal body sleek in the style of a corporate jet except for the twin rocket engines in the rear. The crowd began to applaud. The voice went quiet as the vehicle touched down, rear wheels first, then the nose, and the applause grew, turned into shouts and clapping and somewhere, out of sight, a band began to play “Fly Me to the Moon.”

Yes, indeed. One of the great moments in history. He wondered how Bucky could have overlooked managing things so they’d have landed during prime time instead of an hour before midnight, 1:00 A.M. on the East Coast. He was probably not as good at public relations as people gave him credit for. Or maybe he just didn’t give a damn. The president shook his head. He’d begun to think too much like a politician. Not a good sign, not for a guy who thought of himself as so much more.

The vehicle slowed and came to a stop. Then guys with lights fanned out onto the field, directing the pilot toward a pair of tow trucks. Peterson was going on about how a new era in space exploration had begun. The Myshko pulled in behind the trucks, lines were attached to the undercarriage, and they began pulling it toward one of the hangars. As it disappeared inside, a new voice, a woman’s voice, broke in. “Cal,” she said, “we’ll be getting a statement shortly from Mr. Blackstone.”

—

But first there were journalists interviewing each other. Magnificent day for the United States. Proud to be an American. Tell you the truth, Bill, it’s an important day for the entire world. And what do you think about those descent stages on the Moon? Where’d they come from? Then doors must have opened somewhere and suddenly the president was looking at the interior of the hangar, dominated by the Myshko. Lights were on, and the astronauts, still in their gear, were standing near the ship while security people tried to keep order. Off to one side of the spacecraft, two pieces of curved gray metal rested on tables. Both had jagged edges, as if they’d been ripped from a larger piece. They were different sizes, but the curvature and the complexion looked identical.