Joker Moon

by George R. R. Martin

  She didn’t say it, but I did. “Because they aren’t a threat to the patriarch’s pleasures.”

  She barely nodded and, in fact, began to cry softly. “I thought they’d be safe, that they were safe and cared for. Then, once it started to happen to me—” She had written to one of her former sister wives, and learned that Amos and Orson had been cast out and were living raw and homeless somewhere in the Arizona Strip. “I had to go.”

  I put my arms around her. She was trembling and sniffling, but determined to tell me all.

  She’d found a small place in Las Vegas, and a job at a casino (I didn’t ask but suspect it was not dealer or waitress), then performed a search and rescue on the boys, bringing them there and finding a halfway house that would take Orson. “He’s going to be twenty-one and can’t support himself, though he’s smart, so smart.”

  “What about Amos?”

  “He’s twenty-three and actually had some schooling. I don’t think he’s as smart as Orson, but in Vegas he can fit in. He’s a janitor at the casino.” I didn’t know what to say, and it was obvious. She was less teary now, and a bit more resentful. “You want to know what I’ve been doing, that’s it. Supporting two damaged boys.”

  “Where are they now?” I tried to sound neutral even as Eva-Lynne stiffened in my arms.

  “Both at Orson’s house. Amos likes to be with his brother, says he’s the only one who likes him. And it’s so nice to see you finally taking an interest.”

  I have poor impulse control when challenged. “How could I take any interest when I didn’t know about them, and then you left me?”

  She slid out of my arms. “You didn’t make an effort, not to find out about them or what I was going through.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” I said, even though I didn’t agree with her description. “And I can see why you wouldn’t have anything to do with me … so why are you here?”

  She just shook her head. “Good night, Cash.”

  She grabbed her purse, wiped the back of her hand across her eyes in a gesture that was more suitable to a girl of five, then headed for the stairs.

  As I stomped through the quiet main house back to the guest quarters, I found Alice Witherspoon in the kitchen, alone except for a bottle of red wine and a half-full glass.

  The bottle was on the counter, the glass was in her hand, and she was drinking from it.

  Southern charm and composure: She did not react like a person caught in the act, completing her sip and gently setting the glass aside. “How was the tender reunion?”

  “Surprising and enlightening,” I said.

  “Reunions can be like that.” She reached for the glass again. “I’m prepared to offer you a drink, but won’t be offended—”

  “Thanks, no. But please…”

  She inclined her head and took another sip. “By the way, I am aware that this is likely to become a problem for me, if I’m not careful.”

  “Has it been in the past?”

  “No more so than for any young woman of my position. Thank God I learned to avoid the amber liquids.”

  “So wise.”

  Another sip. “You only have another week with us.”

  “I miss the place already.”

  She could not have missed the sarcasm. “Has it been so bad?”

  “In all honesty, working with Theodorus has been fascinating. Meeting you has been—gratifying. The sense of being the unknowing subject of some intrigue, unappealing.”

  “Welcome to my world, Cash.”

  “I imagine that growing up in a … powerful family”—I almost said rich—“would be a serious challenge. Then having your son…” I realized that I should just shut up.

  Because Alice was crying. “It’s been horrible.”

  “But he seems—”

  “Oh, Theodorus has been a marvel, trying to cope, make a new life for himself. He gets that from his father, believe me. I’d have curled into a ball and died.”

  And there was a moment. An offer of comfort, a hug, was clearly acceptable, possibly even mandatory. Alice’s posture demanded it.

  But I was paralyzed. Hell, this was twice in the last twenty minutes that a woman had collapsed in tears while talking to me. “You’re strong,” I said, weakly.

  She shook her head several times, as if trying to convince herself. Then she uttered a ragged, “Yeah,” forced a smile, and walked out.

  Leaving the bottle, half-full, and the glass.

  I stared at them for far too long. But ultimately left them untouched.

  I awoke the next morning feeling better than I should have. It might have been pride in my restraint on sexual or alcohol-related fronts—or just knowing what had been going on with Eva-Lynne. I had obviously slept soundly, since Ridley was gone, and so was Quicksilver. I would have bet a lot of money that no one could have gotten my ship away without waking me.

  After breakfast in the servants’ dining room, an event I was beginning to enjoy (who doesn’t enjoy having breakfast prepared?), I headed up to Theodorus’s room, a bit apprehensive should I meet (a) Sampson, (b) Eva-Lynne, or (c-z) Alice.

  I saw none of them, realizing that Sampson was probably off with Ridley and Quicksilver, and that Eva-Lynne and Alice were likely off together … elsewhere, surely with some discussion of my failures as a human being.

  Oh well.

  Theodorus was still bubbling over General Sampson’s presence in the household, wanting to talk about the Moon and nothing but the Moon. As one of three humans to have been there, one could rightly expect me to be the source of some information, but Theodorus surely knew by now that all I had to offer was a set of twelve-year-old personal impressions … the desert landscape under that frightening black sky, the fear, the confinement in Quicksilver, the hour I spent scuffling on the lunar surface while wearing a stiff, ill-fitting pressure suit.

  Aside from my intimate moment with Eva-Lynne, and the undeniable feeling that, at age twenty-six, I had finally done something worth doing, I had no insights to share. Fortunately, Theodorus was in a manic mode, spinning his own fantasies of lunar fortresses scanning the skies for alien invaders, dispatching defense drones and cruisers as needed.

  It was fun, if exhausting.

  After lunch, Malachi Schwartz intercepted me on my way back to the RV. “Bertram Neal woke up.”

  I scurried to keep up with Schwartz. “That’s good, right? If he’d died, I’d be facing murder or manslaughter charges.”

  Schwartz stopped and faced me. His expression suggested that he might be explaining basic arithmetic to a three-year-old. “You might have been better off if he’d died, since he is a joker and authorities in Kentucky aren’t noted for their eagerness to pursue such matters.”

  “Even if the joker is well connected.”

  “Especially then. Well-connected families are prone to downplay the presence of jokers in their lineage.” Yes, he said that with no apparent awareness of our current situation. I had concluded that Schwartz was not all-seeing, all-knowing.

  Perhaps his unconcealed glee at my predicament affected his judgment. “Now he’s awake and telling what he knows. We were able to … forestall an investigation by those troopers. But now there will be warrants.”

  “Let me turn myself in.”

  “Tempting, Mr. Mitchell, but I fear it would sadden Theodorus to see you in jail, even on an assault charge. And Mr. Witherspoon is very old-school about external threats to those to whom he has granted hospitality.”

  “Then we should just leave—Ridley and I can run, saving everyone a lot of grief.”

  “How far do you think you’d get with your two very distinctive vehicles? I would give it twenty miles, and now you would have a fugitive charge added to your impressive list.”

  “What do you suggest, then?”

  “Go about your duties here. Though I would encourage Mr. Hough to complete whatever project he has been working on.” He smiled that mean little smile again. “The term of your employment he
re has little more than a week to run.”

  Then he skittered off with what was definitely a lighter tread. Some jokers just enjoy trouble—for others.

  When I stumbled outside I saw that where my pumpkin-seed spaceship usually sat there was a large shipping crate perhaps six feet on a side, strapped down and covered with warning labels saying FRAGILE and rush.

  Ridley was emerging from the guesthouse with a plate of food, last night’s leftovers from the looks of it. “It’s too late for my birthday,” I said.

  “It’s not a present,” he said between bites, and unnecessarily.

  “What is that, and where’s Quicksilver?”

  “Ship’s over at Goose Creek with the general.” He used a last hunk of bread to swipe up sauce on the plate, then set it on the truck bed and climbed up. “He’s testing the jets and configuring guidance and communications.”

  “I’m guessing this crate is part of whatever he’s doing.”

  Ridley slapped the side of the unit. “It’s your space suits.”

  In 1968, Quicksilver had carried two primitive space suits, essentially high-altitude pressure suits that the late Mr. Tuominbang’s team had modified with extra layers of protection in order to allow the wearer to survive in total vacuum, which is to say, on the lunar surface.

  “Where were they?”

  “Some warehouse in California. Tomlin, somewhere.”

  “That’s the Air Force base.” I am frequently surprised by how little Ridley knows.

  It turned out that Sampson had made a request to have the suits shipped here even before arriving in person. “He says there’s a guy at Goose Creek who can shine these things up or whatever.”

  “Well, they were only worn once.”

  I brought him up to date on related matters, notably Neal’s awakening. For a man who frets easily, Ridley took the news well. He said, “You should look at this.”

  He handed me the newspaper, the Charleston Post and Courier. Finally.

  In a box on the upper left was this headline:

  MOON FLIGHT TRUTHER AWAKENS

  BETS ON THEORY

  And it was a story about Bertram Neal recovering from his coma and then instituting an honest-to-God prize for the first proven flight to the Moon. So now there was a quarter of a million dollars waiting to be claimed … “If the participants in this mythical 1968 ‘mission’ have proof, such as lunar samples or pictures, time to produce them.”

  Neal had apparently assembled a damned tribunal that included a professor of geology named Gold from Cornell, whose name I recognized, and a bunch of strangers.

  “He didn’t do this himself,” I said. “He’s been in a goddamn coma.”

  Ridley nodded to the paper. “Says that he was working on it all along. Probably why he ambushed you in the first place.”

  I didn’t like the notion that Ridley knew more than I did, especially on this subject, so I flipped to the continuation. “Wonder where the money came from?”

  “All I know about money is how not to get it.” That made me laugh. It appeared that Neal had concocted some clever little insurance scheme with Lloyd’s of London, putting up a few thousand dollars and betting that no proof of our landing would be revealed by June 30, 1981. This Neal may have been a troll, but he was a clever troll. “That’s less than ten weeks from now.”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you taking these suits over to this base?” Ridley nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Goose Creek Air Force Base was only ten miles down the highway. A small operation compared to Tomlin, it was largely hidden by trees, much like the Witherspoon estate. Only when you reached its main gate did you really see admin buildings, barracks, hangars, a control tower, and several distant radomes scattered around the runway. The aircraft were largely transports, and a few helicopters.

  It struck me, as the gate guard waved us through, that I had not been off Witherspoon property in two weeks. We drove to an old, clearly unused hangar at the far end of the base. Inside we found Quicksilver on jacks and looking shinier than the first time I’d seen her a dozen years ago. Several men and women in coveralls were at work, a couple of them in the open hatch, others on the exterior or underneath.

  It was all being overseen by General Sampson. “What do you think of our girl?” he said, beaming.

  “Ready for the prom,” I said. “Or a long-distance flight, say, back to the Moon.”

  “That has come up.”

  “Just out of curiosity, when? And when was anyone going to tell me? Since I would have to be part of it. Unless you’ve figured out some magic beans space drive.”

  Sampson looked embarrassed. “I’ve wanted to go again for years. You had to face skeptics and I’m sure that was annoying, but my career got killed.”

  “You wound up with two stars.”

  “Should have been three or even four.”

  I have just never understood true ambition and arrogance on that scale. “Flying to the Moon again and back won’t make you a super galactic general now, so what’s the point?”

  “Pride in a real accomplishment.”

  “Or getting killed. Have you forgotten that we almost died?”

  He literally shrugged. “There’s a risk every time you take off, or walk down the street.”

  “Not quite as high.”

  He pointed to Quicksilver. “We’ve swapped out the old comm and nav for new systems. She’s safer now than she ever was.”

  “Safer without ever really being safe.”

  “A new flight would give inspiration to a country that really needs it right now. And to young people.”

  “Theodorus Witherspoon doesn’t need more inspiration.”

  “Not just him. And now there’s a financial issue.”

  Sampson gave me a look that made me want to punch him. “I could use the money, but I don’t need the money.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about you.”

  It took me maybe four seconds to understand who he meant: Eva-Lynne.

  “Assuming I say yes to this, what’s the goal? Take a flag we can plant?”

  “Did you read the prize rules?”

  “There are rules?”

  He waved that away. “We bring back photographs of our steps, lunar soil samples, and, if possible, a piece of the relay station.”

  “Did that ever work?”

  “For a while, though it never did what Tuominbang wanted.”

  No, because he got dead.

  “Space Command would bounce signals off it every few weeks for several years, but nothing ever came back. It was proof that we landed.”

  “Are we sure some Takisian didn’t steal it?”

  He smiled. “More likely the solar panels got dusty and the batteries died.”

  “So we would have to go back to the same spot.”

  “The new nav makes that easier.”

  “You keep forgetting that it’s me doing the heavy lifting.”

  “You seem to be in good shape. Your buddy Ridley and Malachi Schwartz said you hauled Quicksilver from West Virginia.”

  “Nowhere near as far as the Moon.”

  He slapped me on the back, all hail-fellow. “But going to the Moon is just a couple of big lifts, not several hours straight.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “You’re fighting this, Cash, and you really don’t want to.”

  In fact, here’s where, somewhat in the manner of a wild card turning, a new Cash Mitchell emerged. I had been adrift all my adult life, rarely committing to anything, never making a decision. Even my first trip to the Moon was just something that happened.

  No longer. “I’m not fighting,” I told Sampson, and shook his hand. “I’m in.”

  Sampson made me try on my space suit, which still fit even though it smelled like machine oil and something worse. The techs then took it away to make sure it was airtight and to test connections with a small oxygen pack.

  Then Quicksilver was hauled out to a taxiway where Sampson
burped each rocket, the three mains and a dozen smaller steering jets, in turn. I had to join him in the cockpit for this boring nonsense, and then demonstrate my heavy lifting for the team, popping our ship up to a hundred feet with only my pinkie finger on the tiller.

  Sampson had had a TV camera installed in the cockpit, so the support team had an inside view of the moment when, at our peak altitude, Sampson fired one of the side steering jets.

  And it blew.

  Viewers below saw Sampson and me flung to one side, then Sampson performing some quick magic with the primary control stick. For me it was like being in a nearby earthquake, a sudden but notable jolt.

  Before I had time to panic, Sampson had stabilized us and set us down safely.

  My heart rate was elevated and my mouth was dry. But Sampson was merely shaking his head and flipping switches on the control panel. I guess he was used to such moments. Without a word, we clambered out to find the team already swarming Quicksilver, examining the damage. Ridley was waiting for me. Bless him, he looked worried. “How are you doing?”

  I held out my hand, which was still trembling. “Same as ever.”

  Then I turned to Sampson, who was peering at the blackened hole in Quicksilver’s skin where a steering rocket used to be. “Back to the old drawing board, huh?”

  “We can replace and patch this in a week.”

  “No doubt. But it failed. Don’t we want to know why?” I may have signed on, but I didn’t want to be foolhardy.

  Sampson smiled, and for once it made me want to punch him. “There are usually only two or three reasons a rocket like that fails, and they’re easily repaired.”

  “Until next time.”

  And now he became an Air Force general, all steel. “I am confident that this vehicle will be ready and safe for launch by the end of next week.”

  “What’s the rush? The prize deadline isn’t until June 30.” You’ll laugh, but I was actually thinking about my ongoing commitment to Theodorus—and the final payment.

  “Positions of Earth and Moon. Don’t you look at the sky? We’re just past new moon; it’s night on the Ocean of Storms. We’d like to arrive at lunar dawn. But,” he said, and left that word hanging.