“Yes. I’m sorry. That was a mistake. I called Hershel Wexler, so Nathaniel does have family coming in, but you’re right. I should have called you, too.”
Myrtle’s voice was calmer. “You said the FBI was investigating?”
“Yes, and they’re the same ones who were looking into the Cygnus Six.” That was a matter of public record, so not breaching any clearance issues.
We crossed nine hundred meters and still had plenty of room before the cloud ceiling. I set the plane level and waited for Myrtle or Helen to respond. I wanted to tell them about the sabotage. Hell. Clemons should tell everyone. But I also knew the realities of situations like these. The only way to keep secrets was to not tell anyone, and if they were trying to catch a saboteur without tipping their hand, the fewer people who knew, the better.
Helen asked, “Do you think there is a link between Nathaniel and the Cygnus Six?”
“I don’t know.” That would be completely true if I didn’t know about the sabotage. “But the FBI will almost certainly still be there on Monday and I’m betting Clemons will let them start questioning people.”
“Again?” Myrtle’s sigh was loud over the VOX. “Eugene got pulled in for questioning when the Mars team was prepping for launch.”
Helen said, “You should do some tricks. People will wonder why we’re flying in a straight line.”
I did not need more prompting than that. I started with the basics, just a simple wing over. Technically, it was a move that allowed one to convert speed to height, but really it was just fun. I pulled up into the steepest climb I could and then rolled while banking, maintaining my back pressure to keep the Debonair’s nose over the horizon while we pushed into that turn. Dropping the nose into a dive was better than a roller coaster.
I ran us through a chandelle followed by a dip into a lazy 8 topped off with a couple of steep turns. For the last of the turns, I did a sixty-degree, so we pulled 2 g as I kept the plane level, partly to see how Myrtle handled gravity—she’d been living in 1/6 g for over a year—but mostly because I loved being pressed into my seat and feeling the plane’s response.
The maneuvers weren’t enough to clear my head. I was too conscious of the other women in the cabin. I could feel them thinking through the causal chains and possibilities.
After I had played for a while, I leveled out. “Myrtle, do you want control?”
“Yes,” she groaned. “I really do have to prep for this check ride.”
Here’s the interesting thing about the IAC. It’s an international organization, with astronauts from different countries. They allocate seats based on how much money each country contributes to the effort, with America getting some additional “hardship” seats because the Meteor had hit us. So the IAC has their criteria for who can qualify, but each country also has its own criteria for who can apply.
The United States still has on the books that you need a pilot’s license to qualify as an astronaut candidate. Mind you, the number of people who actually fly in space are a tiny proportion of those of us who go up. Why, might you ask, would a nation restrict who can apply by some archaic rule?
Well … if you want to limit the application pool to people with disposable income and a certain background, then a rule like this would be very useful. Hell. The 99s used to have an unspoken rule that they didn’t accept Negroes, which is why there were so many Negro aeronautic clubs in the United States. Funny, that. I can’t imagine the correlation …
At least the IAC proper had gotten rid of the pilot rules. You had to pass a physical and a battery of tests, because no one wanted to kill an astronaut with the forces of launch, but otherwise getting a seat was open to anyone.
I trimmed the craft so we were flying level and waited until Myrtle had her hands on the yoke. I said, “You have the aircraft.”
Myrtle gave the response, “I have the aircraft.”
I let go and let her fly. I waited until I saw the muscle in her jaw relax and her shoulders lower. And then I waited until she had done a turn to the left, then to the right, getting a feel for the plane. She pulled back the yoke for a climb, which was a little rough and sloppy, as if she weren’t using enough rudder to keep the turns coordinated. I very consciously kept my own shoulders down.
Oh, she’s a fine pilot, but flying on the Moon was not at all like flying in atmosphere. Her reaction times were a little off. You have to anticipate with a spacecraft in very different ways than an aircraft, because there’s no air to slow down your forward inertia.
When she leveled out again, I finally asked them. “All right. What, if anything, do you want me to do? About the FBI, I mean.”
“Honestly, I’m thinking more about Nathaniel.” She opened up to full throttle, pulling up so our feet were on the horizon, and then took us into a smooth roll to the right. “The NAACP put together a checklist for responding to police or the feds years ago. You should hear Eugene’s bullet points sometime. He sounds white as marshmallows in Jell-O.”
I blinked. “Wouldn’t that make them less white?”
“Oh, honey…” Myrtle laughed at me. “Why do white people hate food so much?”
That was not a question I could answer or refute. But it also raised another issue. “Nathaniel’s pantry was empty. What do you think about a phone list asking for casseroles so we can stock his freezer?”
Myrtle’s eyeroll was almost audible. “Elma was always after him when they were with us. I swear, that man can get so lost in a problem I think he’d starve before he remembered to eat.”
I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t about remembering. “His brother-in-law is coming out to help with convalescence.”
“Hershel’s a good man and—” The engine changed pitch.
The prop sputtered and became visible as the engine died.
Whatever Myrtle was going to say dropped away. She turned the plane back toward the airfield, while climbing to convert airspeed into altitude. That was exactly right. She’d be set up well to take us into a glide if we couldn’t get the engine back.
It coughed. The prop fluttered and caught, spinning back up to speed. It was over so fast it might not have happened. Maybe water in the line.
She let out a shaky breath. “Well, they’ll do a simulated emergency in the check ride. So, thanks for—”
The engine cut out again.
Myrtle kept the plane level and optimized its configuration for best glide, feathering the prop. Behind us, Helen went completely silent—not out of fear, but to keep the lines of communication clear. We were eight to nine kilometers from the landing strip and, critically, it was behind us. At the Debonair’s best glide speed, we were not going to make the turn and get back, no matter how much altitude Myrtle exchanged for speed. I leaned to the side, scanning for fields in which to set down. I’d scouted this on previous flights out of habit, but you never knew when someone was going to add irrigation or a barn.
And then the engine caught again. Shit. This was, believe it or not, worse than a complete engine failure. An intermittent partial engine failure meant that Myrtle would be caught between thinking she could make it back to the airport and the very real possibility that it would cut out again.
Which it did.
I glanced at her. Her face was tight and her entire body was focused on working the problem. I did not want her trying to make the airfield in order to spare my plane a rough landing. “There’s a cornfield at ten o’clock.”
She nodded. “Copy.”
Since she was task-saturated, I took the radio. “Tower, Debonair one zero declaring an emergency. We have an engine failure and are setting down in a cornfield approximately eight kilometers northwest of the landing field.”
Myrtle had her lower lip firmly between her teeth. She was used to flying in vacuum.
I reached forward and took the yoke. “I have control.”
“You have control.” She recited the litany and let go.
I pointed our nose down a little from where My
rtle had it to get our speed up to L/D-max. Lift over drag … Lift is maximized, drag is minimized. Once I got us there, I set the trim, and aimed us toward the cornfield. Besides being nicely in front of us, our angle of approach would be into the wind. I needed our touchdown speed to be as low as possible.
With one hand, I released the latch to crack the door. At my side, Myrtle did the same. It wasn’t in danger of flying open, because the wind was keeping it shut, but if we bent the airframe with the landing, this would allow us to get out of the plane. In case it caught fire or something.
Opening doors is not a thing you do in vacuum, by the way.
I could feel the drag on the plane as I went full flaps to get us even slower. The field grew more detailed and I kept my focus shifting between the instruments and looking live at the corn. These landings always looked like they were going to be so smooth and then—
The new corn caught at the landing gear, filling the cabin with the harsh pop, pop, pop of stalks striking the metal frame. The plane hissed and bucked as we came down on furrowed ground. The windows became a chaos of green that shook and rattled us like the Jolly Green Giant was playing craps.
I slammed forward against my belt as we stopped.
“Nice landing,” Helen said, and she wasn’t being ironic. The plane rested neat and level amid a sea of young cornstalks.
Myrtle picked up the mic. “Tower, Debonair one zero emergency down northwest of the field. All safe.”
I looked over at her. “Feel ready for your check ride?”
TWELVE
POLIO VACCINE BANNED
Special to The National Times
CHICAGO, March 31, 1963—Tests of a new anti-polio vaccine developed under the auspices of the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis have been banned temporarily in Illinois, Dr. Roland R. Cross, State Health Director, disclosed yesterday in Springfield. It was learned that Dr. Cross ruled against using the vaccine in Illinois on the advice of a technical advisory committee that consulted with him in Chicago yesterday. Dr. Cross said that he had written the foundation asking for further evidence that the vaccine was safe before his office would permit it to be tested as part of national field trials the foundation will start May 8.
Dealing with arrangements to get the plane back to the hangar had made me run horrifically late. I ran into our bedroom, nearly tripping over Marlowe, who tried to twine between my legs. Dancing around my cat, I tossed my handbag on the bed. “Sorry I’m late but—” My sentence sublimated in my mouth.
Kenneth was in his shirtsleeves. He’d lit candles. There were flowers on the table, and a butler’s tray from the kitchen stood at the foot of the bed with a wooden bowl on it and a wine bottle standing next to the decanter.
This looked like an apology dinner.
I glanced over my shoulder through the little parlor to the patio. The grill was sending shimmers of heat into the evening air.
Definitely an apology dinner.
Kenneth had that furrow between his brows that he gets when he’s been concentrating all day. It takes hours to smooth it out. He crossed the room in a rush. “Are you all right?”
“What…?” I looked at the butler’s tray. It had the ingredients to make a Caesar salad lined up. Very, very much an apology dinner. When I am in one of my “states” the only food that seems remotely appetizing is a Caesar salad and a rare steak. “Don’t we have the opera tonight?”
“Hang the opera.” He rubbed his forehead as if the furrow were going to dig its way through his skull. “You could have been killed.”
I blinked at him. He clearly knew about the plane coming down. I’ll admit that I’d entertained thoughts of not telling him. Not for long. Just maybe not before the opera. “How did you know?”
He waved his hand toward the phone. “Medgar Davis called.”
“And how did he know?”
To my astonishment, Kenneth blushed. “I … I have someone monitor air traffic when you’re up.”
“Excuse me.” I’m not sure that I’ve heard something so sweet and so infuriating at the same time. “Well. I’m not sure what to think about that. Definitely not flattered by your confidence in my skill.”
He winced. “Baby, you know it’s not that.”
I did. He was a worrier. It drove him to try to fix things and make the world a better place, but it also kept him up at night fretting about all the things that he couldn’t fix and— “Wait. Do you do this when I’m on the Moon, too?”
Kenneth turned and walked to the butler’s tray. “You know, in the early days, they gave everyone a squawk box, so we could hear you.”
It was a rite of passage back in the day. The IAC would bring in a box wired directly from Mission Control so the families could hear their loved ones on a mission. There are too many of us now. “Do you still get one?”
“Not personally, no.” He picked up the decanter and held it in front of the candle to check for sediment. “But I will admit that, as the governor of Kansas, it seemed prudent to have a squawk box installed at my office in case there’s anything we need to know for public relations. It’s in the press office and they have instructions to contact me if there are any anomalies.”
“Kenneth Talbot Wargin. You are a crafty son of a bitch.”
“Wine? It’s a right bank Bordeaux from…” He tilted the bottle so he could see the label, which told me that Chu had picked it out for him. “It’s a Lafleur. Forty-nine.”
“Yes, please.” Right bank Bordeaux. Not only had Kenneth remembered that I liked Merlot, whatever he’d said to Chu had caused him to pick a stunning pre-Meteor vintage.
I kicked my heels off and let my aching feet sink into the carpet. Sometimes I don’t realize how much they hurt until I stop. With a sigh, I sank into the green brocade chair and took the rest of the weight off my feet. Marlowe hopped into my lap the moment it presented itself and began making biscuits on my thigh. “Well, now you know I’m fine. I’ve set planes down without power before, so there’s no need to skip the opera.”
He pulled the cork out and set it on the table, aligning it with the edge. “There is, actually.”
I straightened in my chair. “Now you’re concerning me.”
Kenneth didn’t answer immediately, concentrating on pouring wine into the goblets we’d picked up in Venice on our honeymoon. He carried one over and sat down facing me. “There are two reasons.” He sighed, turning the stem of the glass in his hand. “I’m not sure where to start.”
This was so unlike him that a chill seemed to invade my veins. “Darling…”
He took a sip of wine and sat for a moment staring at the floor. “I looked at the calendar.”
This was a daily activity for a public servant, so I waited to find out what he’d seen. My throat was as dry as if I were breathing pure oxygen. Swallowing, I lifted the wineglass and took a sip. It was lavender and wet clay and fig.
And Kenneth was still staring at the floor.
“I counted how many days there are till you leave for the Moon and it’s not a lot. Six days, to be precise.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, running his hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking about our conversation concerning Nathaniel and how we both got angry at the other one for hiding things. And then the plane coming down today…”
“I was going to tell you.” I sat forward. “After the opera, I’ll admit, but I would have told you.”
“That’s the thing. We wait until the right time, but I looked at the calendar and realized that there isn’t a right time. So … so I’m not going to wait any longer.”
Oh God. I could see where this was going and set the wine down. People will think our marriage is in trouble. What had he been hiding? The air in the room seemed to grow attenuated. Hypoxia was possible on Earth, but not likely in our bedroom.
“On your last trip, I … I had a heart attack.”
“A … a heart attack.” I reached for my glass of wine an
d nearly knocked it over. I had been so afraid of another end to that sentence and this was worse. “Jesus. Were you ever going to tell me?”
“I just did.”
“Yes, but—” I squeezed my eyes shut. “When? I mean, when did it happen?”
He wet his lips. “About two weeks after launch.”
“I could have come home!” One day to Lunetta. Three there to acclimate and transfer supplies to the trans-lunar shuttle. Three to fly to the Moon. A week on the Moon for refitting … The trans-lunar shuttle would still have been docked and I could have gone back on it. “Why didn’t you … Oh. Because I would have come home.”
“There was nothing you could do. And I couldn’t tell you in the clear without risking someone hearing and that would sink any hope of my presidential run and—” He swallowed. “But it’s why I didn’t want you to go … I’m fine. All right? It wasn’t a major heart attack. But I’m not rated for spaceflight anymore. Ever.”
I stared at him. “I feel like there is a dichotomy here. How can you be simultaneously fine and also not rated to fly?”
Kenneth cleared his throat and stood. “The IAC’s goal is to establish a base for humanity off the planet. Their threshold for risk, relating to health, is more conservative than—”
“So you are at risk for another one?”
He drummed his fingers on the butler’s tray and picked up a clove of garlic, peeling the paper from it. “Yes.”
“And still planning on running for president, which is not known as a job without stress.” I picked up my wine and took a healthy drink from it. “I’ll tell Clemons I can’t go.”
Kenneth threw the garlic clove into the bowl. “No. I want you to go.”
“Are you serious? After you’ve been complaining you didn’t want me to go for the past several days. After you told the press that we were going to live here on the Earth.” Which made sudden sense now. “After you had a goddamned heart attack and didn’t tell me?”
The Relentless Moon Page 11
