Cunningham had a copy of the translation on his desk:

Intelligent life is rare. When we discovered your cities, your boats, your dwellings, we wanted to join with you in mutual celebration. Our first action was to send an ambassador. But you killed him. Without provocation. Our judgment was perhaps hasty. And in error. We should not have trusted you. Nevertheless, we wish you good fortune. By the time you reach this place, if indeed you ever do, we hope you will have changed.

“My translator,” continued Nixon, “informed me that the language dated from about the first century A.D. And Aramaic, as you may know, was the language in Israel from about 500 B.C. to A.D. 70.” He stopped and waited, as if Cunningham needed a moment to get the point. “If we had released that information, you know the conclusion people would have jumped to. We were already in the midst of a war, and the country was coming apart. The last thing I needed, on top of everything else, was to have a major religious battle break out. So I kept it quiet. NASA sent a second mission to destroy the dome, to blow it apart and bury it.

“If the truth hasn’t already come out, Mr. President, I urge you to restrain it as best you can. For the good of the nation.”

Cunningham had stopped it there.

“It was the right move,” said Ray.

“I agree.”

Ray was trying to appear reassuring, but Cunningham knew him too well. He was getting ready to attempt a sale. “Times have changed,” he said.

“I suppose. We don’t have a war on our hands.”

“We have an obligation to be honest with the nation.”

“No.”

“You won’t even consider it?”

“No. I won’t.”

“George, this is the scientific discovery of the age. You can’t continue to hide this.”

“Let it go, Ray.”

“But why not do it? You wouldn’t have to take a stand. Just release the data. People will draw their own conclusions about it. If organized religion takes a hit, so be it. It causes half the problems in the world, anyhow.”

“And maybe eases the other half. Look, Ray, life can be a tough ride. For a lot of people, their religion is all they have to hang on to. We’re not going to undermine that.”

“It’s going to happen eventually. You’ve seen the numbers.”

“Fine. Whatever happens, happens. First off, we don’t know the truth. Secondly, religion may or may not disappear from people’s lives. But if it does, I won’t be party to it.”

“Okay. You’re the president.”

“None of this gets beyond this office. Right?”

“Of course not. I won’t say anything. But be aware that the people at the Nixon Museum will almost certainly let the press know you got a package from Mr. Nixon. And that it had something to do—”

“If we have to take some heat, we will.” Cunningham restarted the program.

Nixon straightened his shoulders. “One final point I’d like to make, Mr. President. When the plaque first came into my hands, I had to find someone to translate. We weren’t even sure what the language was. John—John Ehrlichman—had a friend who was a professor at George Washington University. I forget his name. But he did the translation for us.

“He never knew how we’d acquired the plate. Or at least, he didn’t unless John told him. But I doubt very much that happened.” He thought about it. Shook his head. “No. No chance. In any event he—the professor—assured us that none of what he’d seen would go any further. But we didn’t realize he’d made notes. Kept them, despite his assurances no written record would be made.

“We put the plate away, intending it should never see the light of day. I’d thought about destroying it, but that seemed inappropriate.” He stopped, and he seemed focused on another time. Another place.

“In June 1972, I got a call from John. The professor had informed him that he’d lost materials relating to the translation. Worse, he’d been socializing with the Democrats. With Larry O’Brien, and he thought he’d left the briefcase in his office. At the Watergate. O’Brien claimed he knew nothing about it.

“I have no idea who I may be speaking to, or how long it has been since I left the stage. It may be twenty years. It may be centuries. But I want to make the statement to you that I could never make to the American people: The reason for the break-in had nothing to do with politics. It was for the benefit of the nation. For that reason and no other.

“I should add that O’Brien, it turned out, did not have the briefcase. The idiot professor had left it in the hotel restaurant. But the guys who went in, and paid the price, never said anything. They never mentioned the professor’s notes.” He looked out at Cunningham. “I owe them. The country owes them.”

And the screen went blank.

—

Ray sat back in his chair. “So where do we go from here, George?”

“We’ve arrived at the last act, Ray. It’s over. Blackstone will give the voters an answer. He knows we handed it to him. He won’t be able to figure out why, but he’s indebted to us, and he knows it. So I don’t think we’ll take too much heat from him.” Cunningham got up and walked over to the window. The sky was heavy with clouds. No Moon that night. “We’ll announce tomorrow that Blackstone probably has it right. The people from the museum will think that’s what was in the package. And it’s done.”

“Well, I hope you’re right.” Ray extended his right hand. “Congratulations, Mr. President.”

—

The president was going over legislation that had just arrived for his signature when Kim called him. “Mr. President,” she said, “Mr. Blackstone is on the line. I don’t know how he got this number, but—”

“It’s okay, Kim. Have him hold for three minutes, then put him through.”

Cunningham went back to reading a bill to upgrade the national parks. Or, perhaps more accurately, trying to read it. He was uneasy about the call. And he was looking at his watch when the phone began blinking again. He pressed the button and Blackstone’s image appeared on-screen. “Mr. President,” he said. “We should talk.”

42

Two Secret Service men ushered Bucky into the Oval Office, then took up positions on each side of the doorway.

“You don’t want them here,” said Bucky, indicating the two men. “What we have to discuss is private.”

Cunningham, seated behind the large mahogany desk, faced the Secret Service men and nodded.

“But, sir—”

“He’s an old friend,” said Cunningham.

“Frisk me first if it’ll make you feel any better,” added Bucky.

“We already did, sir,” said one of them.

Bucky looked surprised. “When?”

“Electronically,” came the answer. “When you entered the White House, and again when you entered the office.”

“Isn’t science wonderful?” said Bucky. “Not only can we reach the Moon, but we can frisk a man without touching him.”

The two men looked at Cunningham questioningly.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Leave us.”

They exited, closing the door behind them.

“I’m not so naïve to think that this isn’t being recorded on both audio and video,” said Bucky when they were alone. “Just make sure you get to the tapes or disks or whatever the hell you’re using before anyone else does.”

“It can be arranged,” said Cunningham. “Perhaps you’d care to tell me why you think it will be necessary. And please be quick about it. I have a meeting in ten minutes.”

“Cancel it.”

“No one gives orders to the president of the United States,” said Cunningham firmly.

“Then I’m requesting you to cancel it. Please.”