“What’s that stuff?” asked a reporter, pointing at them.

Blackstone came forward, carrying a microphone. “That’s what we hope to find out.”

“Did they come from Myshko’s ship?” asked another. Cunningham recognized her as the A.P.’s Jenna Hawkins.

“I’ve no idea.”

“Oh, come on, Bucky,” said a voice from the crowd. “Take a guess!”

Bucky grinned. He was having the time of his life.

—

After Blackstone left, Jerry took his place, Jerry in his trademark suede jacket and dark brown tie, smiling, holding up his hands, asking for order, inviting more questions. He was still trying to quiet everything down when Ray called.

“George,” he said. “You saw it?”

“Yes, Ray.”

“The telephones are ringing. We’re going to have to get a statement out posthaste. You want me to put something together?”

Ordinarily, the assignment to create a first draft would have fallen to the press secretary. Who was presumably home asleep. But Cunningham had neither the time nor the inclination for that. “This is kind of a special case, Ray. My God, aliens. Is that really what it was?”

“I don’t know, George.”

“I’ll take care of it. I’ll get something to you in a few minutes.”

“Okay.” He hesitated.

“What, Ray?”

“It could still be a hoax, George. We don’t know they actually found those pieces of metal up there.”

“I suppose that’s possible. But what would Blackstone have to gain by making up a wild story that would fall apart so easily? He knows he’d be found out. No, I think we can believe what he’s telling us.”

“Okay. I hope we have it right.”

“Ray, I’m not sure what I’m hoping for now. By the way, where’s Weinstein?”

“Should be pulling up out front shortly.”

“Okay. Let me get this press release taken care of, and I’ll be down.”

—

Easier said than done. His first inclination was simply to proclaim that he was on the case. That the White House had been as surprised as anyone else at Blackstone’s discovery but that he wasn’t prepared to say more than that until he’d looked into the matter.

But that would have been a bad call. Michelle Morris would be here shortly with something from President Nixon that, he assumed, would provide an explanation.

What the hell had they stumbled into? The early flights had been made at the height of the Cold War. Had this been some sort of behind-the-scenes game between the U.S. and the Soviet Union? Maybe we’d wanted to set up a site on the Moon to launch missiles? Or maybe just get the Soviets to think we were doing that? So there’d been secret missions. Did that make any sense at all? Was it even possible?

No.

It had to be aliens. But Cunningham had grown up in a family of real-world skeptics. He’d spent a lifetime laughing at people who thought there was a major conspiracy about Roswell, who claimed they’d been kidnapped by UFOs.

He called Ray. Told him to wait in the Oval Office. Then he headed downstairs.

—

“Tell them,” Cunningham said, “that we’ll be putting out a statement within the hour.”

“Okay.” Ray looked uncomfortable. “When we do, what will we be saying?”

“Depends on what Ms. Morris tells us.”

“Suppose she has nothing? I mean, I hate to be negative, but it’s not really likely Nixon’s going to be able to shed any light on what happened tonight.”

Cunningham shrugged. “If so, we’ll just tell them we’re looking into it. That we have no answers either.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d hate to have to do that, but I think we’re in a situation where we might have to just fall back on the truth.” He grinned. It was a line that politicians often used. “By the way, they’re here. Security tells me they’ve just entered the grounds.”

—

The Nixon Museum director, accompanied by Ray, came into the oval office and smiled nervously at the president, who rose from his couch. She was carrying the locked box. “Mr. President,” Ray said, “I’d like to introduce Michelle Morris.”

“Mr. President,” she said, “I’m honored.”

“The pleasure’s mine.” Cunningham extended his hand. The box was made of dark-stained wood. It was large enough to hold a couple of oversize books. It did not, however, seem heavy. She tightened her grip on it and clasped his hand. “Now,” he continued, with a smile designed to put her at ease, “let’s see what this is all about, shall we?”

She handed it to him. He set it on a coffee table ringed by three armchairs. “Please be seated, Michelle.” He indicated one of the chairs.

A small padlock secured a hinged lid. Michelle showed him the key. He was reaching for it when a strange expression appeared on her face. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“My instructions,” she said. She reached into a pocket and produced a folded envelope. “Sir, they say nobody but you is to see what’s in the box.”

Cunningham held out his hand. “May I see that?”

She gave the envelope to him. He opened it and extracted a piece of letterhead stationery. Richard Nixon’s name was printed across the top, above his San Clemente address. The document was dated April 30, 1990, and was signed RN. With a flourish.

It was addressed to the Director of the Nixon Presidential Library and Museum.

The attached package is under no circumstances to be opened except as provided below, nor is its existence to be made known save to your successor. It is to be kept in a secure location.

In the event that a sitting president of the United States inquires about a secret package, or indicates he is aware of its existence, or believes such a package may exist, and he stipulates a connection with the Apollo program, it may be turned over to him. But no one else, including the director, may be shown its contents save at the express pleasure of the president. He should be advised that it might be best to make himself aware of the contents before allowing anyone else to see them.

Michelle was looking directly at Ray. Cunningham showed him the letter. Ray read it, nodded, and got up. “Call me if you need me, Mr. President.”

Michelle also started to rise. Cunningham signaled Ray to sit down. “I’m sure we can trust Mr. Chambers,” he said. He turned the package over. “Michelle, you have absolutely no idea what’s in here?”

“No, sir.”

“How long have you known about its existence?”

“I just found out when your man came looking, and we initiated the search. It was in storage.”

“The previous director didn’t say anything?”

“No, Mr. President.”

“Okay, thank you, Michelle. There’s a lady outside who’ll show you to your quarters.”

She beamed. “I’m staying here?”

“Yes, ma’am. You will have one of our best rooms.”

—

“I wanted to carry the box for her,” said Ray. “But she wouldn’t let anybody touch it.”

“She takes her instructions seriously,” Cunningham said. He inserted the key, twisted it, and listened to the lock click open. He lifted the lid and looked down at plastic packing material. Beneath it was a nineties-style videotape. It carried a label, marked simply RMN.

Beneath the videotape lay more plastic. He pulled it back, revealing a mahogany-colored plaque with a silver plate. No. Two mahogany-colored plaques with silver plates. Both plates were metal, and both were inscribed with several lines of characters. The characters were in a foreign alphabet. Or, now that he looked at it, different alphabets. Otherwise, the plaques were identical. “That one’s Greek,” said Ray.

The letters on the second one looked vaguely Hebraic.

“I think you’re right.” Ray frowned. “It shouldn’t be hard to find out for certain.”

Cunningham moved them under a table lamp. “The Greek one is seven lines. This one is eight.”

“You think it’s the same inscription?”

“Could be.” He picked up the videotape. “I wonder if we have anything that will play this?”