The Cassandra Project (5 page)

Godwin appeared on-screen. He was a long, angular guy with a polished scalp and a white beard. “Jerry,” he said, “how are you?” On the few occasions Jerry had seen him, he had radiated serenity. A nuclear war could have broken out, and Godwin would have remained perfectly relaxed. He smiled and somehow managed to suggest that he and Jerry were old friends. “We wanted to invite you to appear on the show.”

“Bill, I’m seriously tied up.”

“Come on, Jerry. You can make time for us. I mean, that’s your job, isn’t it?”

Damn.
He didn’t have an easy way out. “When did you have in mind?”

“Well—” Godwin delivered a smile. “How about tonight?”

“You normally restrict the show to political guests, Bill. What would we be talking about?” He wasn’t sure why he bothered to ask.

“What the future looks like from NASA’s point of view. And, of course, we’d be interested in knowing what the dustup was between you and Frank Kirby today.”

“The show originates in New York, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“There’s no way I could get there.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have to, Jerry. We have people in Florida. They could come in and set you up, and you’d do the show from your office. Or even your home, if you like. Your call.”

“I think I better pass. I’m seriously on the run at the moment.”

“Okay. Sure. Whatever you want. But I have to tell you that we’d have no choice but to make an announcement that you declined an invitation to appear.”

“Come on, Bill. You’re not really going to make an issue of this, are you?”

“Jerry, the guy gets a community service award, then gives it back before he’s even out of the building. It’s a human-interest story. And I know you want to explain your side of this.”

“Have you invited Mr. Kirby?”

“We have. But he won’t be able to make it.”

“Are you going to make an announcement about
that
?”

“No need to. Look, we’d like to have him. But you’re really the guy we want. You’re at the center of this.”

Jerry stared out at the sky. It was growing dark. Approaching rain. “What time?” he asked.

—

Mary stiffened. “Al Koestler?” She stared at him out of the monitor. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jerry. There’s no way you can win.”

“If I’d ducked, you know what they’d have said.”

“I know.” She looked down, scribbled a note to herself. “Okay. Do it.” Her features softened. “You’ll be all right. Koestler’s just a windbag.”

Limit the damage. It’s all you can do.

—

They would do the broadcast from Jerry’s home. It was a good choice. It had been a long day, and he needed to get away from the office. He ate at his favorite restaurant, Dixie Crossroads Seafood in Titusville, but never tasted the food.

The TV crew arrived shortly before seven and began setting up. Mary called to reassure him. “You’ll get through it all right, Jerry,” she said. “Just hang loose.”

A makeup guy patted powder on his nose and cheeks. Then a young woman explained about the lights on the cameras and how he should talk to the lens. It was all stuff he knew, that anybody knew, but he let her go on. “You won’t be on until the second segment,” she explained. Her name was Shirley. Unlike Koestler, she seemed reasonable, and he would have preferred to have her conduct the interview.

A bright moon was visible in the trees. While Jerry stared out at it, they moved the wingback chair away from the window and put it beside a desk, then set up a camera so that the desk would occupy the background. As eight o’clock approached, a young man who seemed to be the director suggested he sit down in the chair. Jerry complied.

He’d done interview shows before, during his years as a campaign front man. But nothing on this scale, nothing on cable news that would go out to the entire nation. And never confronting a loudmouth host whose primary goal was to make his guests look silly.

Then it was time. Shirley switched on the monitor, and he watched the intros to
Koestler Country
. Koestler appeared, relaxed in a book-lined studio. He was in his fifties, sporting a smile that suggested the rest of the world was deranged but he would set it straight. He had thick red hair and always dressed casually. Tonight, it was a light blue pullover shirt and an azure sports jacket. He was looking through a sheaf of notes as the camera panned in on him, and a piano played the show’s bouncy theme. He looked up, suddenly aware of the presence of an audience. “Hello, Mr. and Ms. America,” he said. “Welcome to
Koestler Country
.” He smiled and laid the papers on a side table. “Tonight, we’ll be looking at who really controls the environmental protections in the United States, why a former astronaut showed up on the Space Coast for a public service award from NASA and promptly gave it back, whether we’re doing the right thing shutting down our military and naval bases around the world, and, finally, whether our continually advancing technology is destroying our kids’ ability to talk with one another. Our first guest this evening is Eliot Kramer. Eliot is an economist and was a member of the last administration’s corruption watchdog group.”

Kramer walked in past a set of dark curtains. He wore an artificial smile. “Good to see you again, Al,” he said, as Koestler rose to shake his hand. Then they both sat down.

“Last time, Eliot,” said the host, “we talked about the degree to which corporations control the efforts to do something about the environment. Has that changed at all?”

“It has, Al. It’s gotten worse. And in my view, it’s time to put some of these people in jail.”

—

“So, Jerry,” he said, inviting him in, “what’s happening with NASA these days?” Al Koestler was not a fan of the space effort. “Once you got beyond Earth orbit,” he was fond of saying, “there’s no point in continuing. It’s cold, dark, and empty out there. No place to go. Nothing to bring back.”

“We’re still doing exploratory work.”

“What, actually, are you exploring?”

Jerry was taken by surprise. He’d expected an immediate focus on Frank Kirby. “The outer planets. We’ve learned a lot these past few years.”

“For example?”

“We have a pretty good idea why Uranus rotates on its side. You know that, right? That it’s completely tipped over?”

“How would that affect us, Jerry?”

“Well, there is no direct impact. But— You
are
familiar with the term ‘blue sky science’?”

“Of course. That’s science that doesn’t do anything for us. But it’s fine. I just don’t think the taxpayers should have to pay for it.” He continued in that vein for several minutes. And finally took a long, deep breath. “NASA gave an award to one of its former employees this morning. It went to Frank Kirby for community service in Orlando, Jerry. Am I right?”

“Yes. That’s correct.”

“Kirby, I understand, has a long history of taking care of battered women and kids in trouble. A genuinely good guy.”

“Yes. He is. We were pleased to have the opportunity to recognize all he’s done.”

“Let’s play a clip. This took place shortly after the award ceremony.” Koestler glanced up at a screen set back among the books. Jerry watched himself again talking with Kirby, watched the conversation morph into a confrontation, himself matched against a kindly man in a wheelchair.

Then Kirby shoved the plaque at him.
“Here, Jerry, you can have it. And if we weren’t in polite company, I’d tell you what you could do with it.”

They froze the picture. “Jerry,” said Koestler, “why would anybody care who was on the capsule radio?”

“It just seemed odd, Al. It was no big deal, and I was surprised he got annoyed.”

“Is there a suggestion that Myshko and his partner, um, Crash Able—I love that name, don’t you?—weren’t
in
the capsule during that period?”

“I asked him about it simply because the AP reporter had asked. That was all. I thought maybe it was an interesting question. I didn’t even know if it was true. Didn’t realize that Frank was upset, or I wouldn’t have said anything.”

“Well, okay. But what was that about the rocks?”

“The rocks?”

“The Navy guy who said he saw one of the astronauts bringing back some rocks?”

“I think he said
with
rocks.
Rocks
is a code word. It’s a Navy expression for being nervous. As in ‘he was rocked by the experience.’” That was a stretch, but Jerry hoped it would get him past the question.

“Why was Kirby so upset, do you think?”

“I just don’t know. I’m certainly sorry I brought it up.”

“But he was angry at
you
. You say you don’t know why?”

“No, I don’t. I guess there was a misunderstanding of some sort.”

“In what way?”

“I’m not sure, Al. I’m really not. The only thing I can say is that I have a great deal of respect for Frank Kirby, and I want to take advantage of this opportunity to apologize if I gave offense. And obviously I did.” Jerry looked directly into the camera. “I’m sorry it happened, Frank. And I’d like to make it right.”

—

Mary called him minutes after the show. “You did good, Jerry. I thought you came away from it about as well as you could. Let me know if you hear from Frank.”

—

Kirby called the following morning. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have blown my stack like that.” He looked down at Jerry from the TV screen, which was mounted beside a picture of Jerry and Myra Hasting, editor of
The Florida Times-Union
.

“It’s okay. It was my fault, Frank.”

“Let’s just forget it, okay?”

“Yes. That’s a good idea. You’ll be wanting your award back, I hope.” Jerry grinned.

“That would be nice, yes.”

“I’ll ship it this afternoon.”

“Thanks, Jerry. And one other thing?”

“Sure.”

“That business with Sidney Myshko. Forget it, okay? It’s just confusion over a bad joke.”

—

Jerry was grateful to put it aside and get back to his normal routine. Fortunately, the media have a short memory. The disappearance of Sidney Myshko from the Apollo transmissions all those years ago needed precisely two days to drop out of the news. Then, as he was getting ready to quit for the day, he got a call from Ralph D’Angelo. Ralph was a friend from Jerry’s days at Wesleyan University. He was a columnist for
The Baltimore Sun
.

“Long time,” Jerry said. “How you been, Ralph?”

“Still working, Jerry.” He hadn’t aged well. Ralph looked twenty years older than he actually was. His hair was gone, his forehead was wrinkled, his eyes were glazed. Jerry suspected he had health problems. Or worse.

“I hear you. These aren’t exactly the best of times.”

“I’ve noticed. Listen, I have a question for you.”

“Sure.”

“You know Aaron Walker retired here? The astronaut?”

Aaron Walker. Jerry needed a moment. He was one of the early Apollo guys. Had been on a test flight, the one immediately after Myshko. “I didn’t know he’d gone to Baltimore,” Jerry said.

“A few years ago, he walked into a liquor store right into the middle of a holdup. Got killed.”

Jerry recalled the story, of course, though not where it had happened. “Yes,” he said. “I remember. Sad end for a guy like that.”

“He left a journal. You ready for this? In the journal, he says he landed on the Moon.”

“He wasn’t on any of the flights that landed, was he?”

“Not according to the record.”

“Well, okay. Then there’s a mistake somewhere.”

“It’s
his
writing, Jerry. We’ve checked it. Anyhow, what with this other stuff about Myshko, we’re going to use it. I can send you a copy if you like.”

“Ralph, it’s a false alarm.”

“Well, I wanted to give you a chance to comment. Why don’t you take a look at what he said? You should have it now. I can wait.”

The journal entry was dated April 21, 2009:

Hard to believe it’s been forty years since my stroll on the lunar surface. Oops, forgot I’m not supposed to say that. Wonder what that thing was, anyhow?

“What do you think?” said Ralph.

“Is that it?”

“The context is interesting.”

“How do you mean?”

“He was describing a day at the ballpark. He’d gone to the Orioles-Yankees game. He gave up when Robinson Cano homered in the seventh. It gave the Yankees, I think, a 9–2 lead. He got up and left.

“That night he commented on it in his journal:
‘That was it. I’d had enough. Sitting up there when I should have been out somewhere celebrating the biggest event of my life. Of anybody’s life.’
Then he tosses in the line
‘Hard to believe . . .’
”

“Where’s it been all these years?” Jerry tried to sound skeptical.

“Jane said she’d forgotten he kept a journal. She found it after he died. She’d never really looked at it, beyond reading about when he’d first met her mother. The mother’s been dead a long time. Then when this stuff started about Myshko, she got curious and went back to it.”

“Who’s Jane?”

“Jane Alcott. His daughter. His only child, in fact.”

“Who has the journal now?”

“I do.”

Jerry looked out at the launch towers. “How does the entry read for April 21, 1969?”

“There isn’t one. We have an entry for April 3, describing his feelings, his anticipation, for the flight. Then there’s nothing until May 2. Three days after he got back.”

“On April 21, they were orbiting the Moon?”

“Yes.”

Jerry was getting a cold feeling in his stomach. “So what’s the May 3 entry say?”

“Just how glad he was to see his family again. To be back on solid ground. That sort of thing”

“What does his daughter think?”

“She says she never noticed the ballpark line. She says she was not a baseball fan.”

“I think Amos Bartlett’s still alive,” said Jerry. Bartlett had been one of Walker’s crew.

“We called him,” Ralph said. “Bartlett was the command module pilot. He told us it must be a mistake. Or a joke.”

Jerry nodded. Of course. What else could it be? “That should settle it,” he said.

“Do you have a comment, Jerry?”

“Sounds to me as if Walker was dreaming. Thinking about what might have been. Maybe he’d lost touch with reality. Started making up stuff for his journal.”