Jim! Conrad said to Harrison. Good to see you.
Hey, Pete, Lovell said.
Shaky! Say, that was weird this morning, weren’t it?
Lovell laughed.
It sure was, he said.
What happened? Harrison said.
We ran into each other at dawn, Lovell said, in the parking lot, sneaking off base to come here.
We had strict orders not to tell anyone—including each other, Conrad said.
And we followed our orders to the letter, Lovell said.
My money’s on this being about space, Conrad said.
Smart money’s on a new type of rocket plane, Lovell said.
Here? Deke said.
Maybe, Lovell said.
X-15B is already being designed by North American, Harrison said. Then the X-20 will follow it.
That the one they’re calling the Dyna-Soar? Deke said.
Dynamic Soarer, yeah, Harrison said.
They’re space-planes, sure, Deke said, but they’re a way off.
Too far off, Conrad said. My guess is, they’re in a funk after the Vanguard fuckup.
That was bad, Deke said. Real bad.
Why the hell did they televise it? Harrison said. It made us look stupid.
Stupidest thing I ever seen, Conrad said. Two months after the Sputnik, Khrushchev laughing at us already; here’s our chance and the thing doesn’t make it six inches off the goddamn pad! Just does this little fart then collapses and—
Boom, Harrison said.
Boom, Conrad said. What a joke.
What was it they called it? Deke said. Kaputnik?
Something like that, Harrison said.
So I’m sticking with space, Conrad said.
The men fell silent and scanned the room.
No Yeager? Lovell said.
No college degree, Harrison said.
Damn shame, Deke said. I thought they wanted the best?
Well, they’ve only called in test pilots under thirty-nine, under five-eleven with at least fifteen hundred hours of jet experience—and a college degree, Lovell said. Which must rule out a bunch of fellas.
Crossfield? Walker? Conrad said.
Too old? Deke said.
Civilians, Harrison said.
Right.
A man shut the door at the back.
Here we go, Harrison said.
The men took their seats and stared at the podium. A short man walked onto the stage. He looked as comfortable on it as the men felt in their suits.
Gentlemen, good morning, he said. My name is Doctor Robert Gilruth; you may call me Doctor Gilruth. We’ve asked you here today to discuss Project Mercury.
He had their attention.
As you are probably aware, Gilruth continued, in October, the president expanded the role of the National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics to include vehicles able to extend beyond the confines of the atmosphere. The highest priority of this new National Aeronautics and Space Administration is to put an American into Earth orbit within three years. The program, headed by myself, is called Project Mercury. We’re looking for the best pilots for these missions. The hazards will be considerable. As such, the first men in space will be chosen on a volunteer basis. Should any man decide not to volunteer, it will not be entered onto his record, nor will it be held against him in any way. The NASA will be a civilian agency, so every man would keep the same military status and rank.
Deke turned to Harrison.
Civilian? he said. That don’t sound good.
Gilruth, gently perspiring under the hot lights, explained that the space vehicle was to be a funnel-shaped capsule, just six feet across and nine high. The volunteer would be strapped to a form-fitted couch, sealed inside, and placed atop a ballistic missile capable of three hundred and fifty thousand pounds of thrust. A man on the ground would light the missile and fire it into space.
That is the stupidest thing I ever heard, Harrison said to Deke.
Any questions? Gilruth said.
The men murmured a mixture of amusement and incredulity. A few raised their hands.
The missions will be controlled automatically from the ground, Gilruth said, in response to the first question. The pilot will have no control over the capsule during the flight.
No landing, he said. The capsule will splash-down in the ocean.
No prototype of the capsule has been built yet, he said. We’re putting together some first-rate blueprints.
Well, I see your point, he said. A reputation for blowing up is perhaps a little strong … but, yes, there have been a few incidents with the Atlas in the past and it’s being worked on.
Harrison sat back in his seat. No flying? It wasn’t even a ship or a craft, it was a goddamn tin can. They sealed you in, shot you into the sky like a cannonball and prized you out in some remote and turbulent part of the Atlantic. Assuming you survived the ride, of course. The only prerequisite skill seemed to be the ability to take it. Sure, if the thing malfunctioned up there, the pilot could take over, push a button, fire the retro-rockets to pop it out of orbit and splash-down prematurely, but that was about it. No, a real pilot would take her up, fly the thing himself, grease it in like a man and make it to Pancho’s in time for beercall. That’s how it was done. Harrison looked up to Gilruth on the stage. The man was good; Harrison gave him that.
The first men in space, Gilruth said, will be known as astro-nauts, meaning star voyagers.
That night, the men were put up in hotels around town. Harrison was in the Marriott on Fortieth Street with Lovell, Conrad and a few others from Pax River. They dumped their bags as soon as they arrived and met in Schirra’s room, pulling chairs into a circle like it was a séance. They wanted to chew over this Project Mercury business together, in private; Schirra even locked the door.
There were six of them, sat in a circle, filling their glasses from a bottle of scotch being passed around. Lovell, Conrad and Schirra, he knew pretty well. There was another navy guy, Al Shepard, an experienced test pilot who’d previously been an instructor at Pax River. Harrison knew him by reputation. The other man was from Edwards, Gordon “Gordo” Cooper, but wasn’t involved in either the X-series or Fighter Ops, so Harrison didn’t know him. Deke, along with Howard Lane and a few others from Edwards, were staying in another hotel across town.
So, gentlemen, Lovell said. What do you think?
The men looked around at each other.
It ain’t the X-15, that’s for sure, Conrad said.
It’s hazardous duty, that’s for sure, Schirra said. I’m not worried about putting my ass on the line, I’m worried about putting my career on the line.
The men around Harrison nodded in agreement. The quickest way to screw up your career was to get caught up in some crackpot program that floundered on, leaving you two, three years behind in flight test and promotion. Schirra was higher up the ladder than most of his navy brethren, and had the most to lose.
It’s the most harebrained thing I’ve ever heard, Harrison said.
Suppose it works out how they say? Lovell said.
We’re not all in line to fly the X-15, Gordo said. No offense, Jim.
None taken.
First man in space, Shepard said. I could live with that.
They haven’t even built the damn thing yet, Conrad said.
Even if they do, Harrison said, you’re not gonna be able to fly it at all. You’ll be a guinea pig; a lab rabbit, with sensors taped all over and a thermometer up your ass. Anybody goes up is gonna be nothing more than Spam in a can.
I’d feel a hell of a lot better if it wasn’t the Atlas, Lovell said.
I heard its walls are so thin they collapse if they’re not pressurized, Shepard said.
Lighter it is, faster it goes, Conrad said.
And the higher it blows, Lovell said.
Schirra, who’d gone silent, said, we used to call this kinda thing innovative duty. He stopped smiling. Any one of us would be nuts, he said, to get tied up in this. And you, Jim, he sa
id, looking at Harrison, you’d be nuts to walk away from something like the X-15 for some lunatic Rube Goldberg thing like Project Mercury.
Damn straight, Conrad said.
Well, Harrison said, been real good seein you fellas, but I expect I’ll be headin home.
He took the elevator back to his room. What a crock, he thought. Still, there was something about it he couldn’t shift. He felt something, but didn’t know why. He thought about Lindbergh, the Spirit of St. Louis; wind and wood and wings; the gray sea below, cold Atlantic air burning his face. It was almost eleven. He opened the door to his room. A note had been slipped under it. He sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the telephone, and dialed home.
Honey? he said. I just got a message to call you. Is everything okay?
Jim, she said.
What is it? he said. What’s the matter?
I’m pregnant, she said.
He was home by dawn. He slung his bag down and embraced his sleepy wife standing in the kitchen.
Thought you’d decided to stay? she said.
Couldn’t keep away, he said, arms around her middle. How come you’re up?
Been sick again, she said.
Again?
That’s why I went to see Doctor Roberts in the first place.
When were you sick?
Uh, I don’t know; yesterday, couple of times the day before; last week.
You didn’t tell me?
Why would I tell you?
You were sick!
Yeah.
And I’m your husband.
And?
And you should tell me this stuff.
She put on a pot of coffee, glanced out the window, got out the milk.
You gotta tell me this stuff, hon, he said, leaning against the counter. I need to know.
Jim, there’s a whole entire crater full of stuff I don’t tell you about, she said.
What? But why wouldn’t you tell me if you were sick?
You were at the base the first time it happened. Few weeks ago. I felt better after. And that was it. Sometimes, believe it or not, I don’t want you distracted, especially if you’re flying some important program.
She poured the coffee into two chipped mugs and set them down on the round table. The morning sun fell across it like a drunk.
So I deal with it myself, she said, sitting down. Like all that trouble last year with Hank Roosey.
What trouble with Hank Roosey? he said, joining her at the table.
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.
What trouble with Hank Roosey?
It doesn’t matter, she said.
What he do?
I took care of it.
I want to know.
It doesn’t matter.
Matters to me.
No it doesn’t, she said. You just can’t stand not knowing. You have to control everything, because if you’re in control, everything will be okay, right? But let me tell you something. That’s not how life works. And you know what? When this little thing—she pointed at her belly—comes out, there’s gonna be a whole heap of chaos in your life that you’ll have zero control over. So get used to it.
Okay, he said, picking up his mug.
Okay?
Okay.
Okay then, she said. I’m sorry, I’m a little cranky right now.
I’d better get used to that too, right? he said.
A laugh escaped her. She looked at him over her mug.
It had something to do with a hog, she said.
I knew it! That miserable sonofabitch—
Jim, forget it, it was eleven months ago. I took care of it. The point is I knew you’d get worked up like this so I didn’t tell you. Just like three weeks ago when I woke after you left for work and was sick in the sink. I thought I’d eaten something bad. Or the week after that when I was hurling most of the afternoon. I just assumed it was some bug. So when it didn’t seem to be going, I called up Doctor Roberts and made an appointment. I would have told you about it but you were in Washington for the briefing. I did tell you when Doctor Roberts called me with the test results; at least, I tried to, I had to leave a message.
What tests did he do?
Blood test; had to pee in a cup—let me tell you, that wasn’t easy.
I’ll bet.
Then he asked me a bunch of questions.
Like what?
General stuff—how much I smoked, what I weighed, family history—that kind of thing.
Harrison sat back in his chair.
He mention anything about you expectin? he said.
Not til he called, she said. I think he suspected at the time but didn’t want to give me any false hope.
What—how—did this happen? Harrison said.
You want me to draw you a diagram?
Is he sure?
Yeah, Jim, it’s real; this is happening.
But—
I know, I think I was in shock too when he called and told me. I had to sit down. I didn’t think that happened to people. I just sat on the floor and cried. He was very understanding. He talked me through the whole thing.
So how…?
You’re gonna love this: he doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know?
He said some women, a small fraction, once diagnosed, can go on to have children, but it’s dependent on them ovulating, even if very infrequently.
And that’s not something you’ve done?
I mean, I can’t remember last time I had a period. It’s been years.
You tell him that?
Sure, he knows that, she said. But he says sometimes these things just happen, and we should be happy when they do. Said that there’s plenty in the world to worry about, so why add to it?
Harrison didn’t say anything.
Look, she said, I know it’s a shock. You get used to one thing then everything gets turned on its head, but this—this is amazing—
It’s a goddamn miracle, is what it is, he said, cracking a grin. My beautiful wife! he said, banging his hands on the table. We need to celebrate!
Well amen to that!
Wait—everything’s okay with the baby, right? I mean, does the condition—is it dangerous?
Everything’s fine, Grace said. No reason why there should be any problems. No reason at all.
Doc Roberts say that?
He did.
And you’re seeing him again?
Next Tuesday.
Next Tuesday.
Wanna come?
No thank you, he said.
There you go, she said.
He drunk his coffee and stared at her.
So, May, huh? he said.
Yup.
Guess I’d better figure out a nursery.
Pancho proclaimed it a genuine miracle by Jesus Christ himself and cleared a prime space on the wall above the bar for the first baby photo. She said it was about time they had some goddamn life in the place instead of a bunch of pudknockers who couldn’t fly for hog-shit. The men hollered at the swollen moon and the coyotes howled at the men. At midnight Pancho threw the others out and fetched a bottle of Glenfiddich that she said Howard Hughes had given her on Hell’s Angels and Glennis raised a toast and Pancho insisted they call the baby Florence if it came out a girl and Grace laughed and said we’ll see and they talked and drank til dawn.
Ridley lit a cigarette, sighed, sat down at his desk. Harrison was listening to the radio. It was early April. The sky was cyanide blue.
You still listening? Ridley said across the room.
Uh-huh.
Why in God’s name are they holdin a press conference before anyone’s gone up?
Beats the hell outta me.
Who’s that?
That, my friend, is Walter Bonney, Harrison said. The NASA’s director of public relations. Listen in, it’s quite a show.
What’s goin on?
Well, they got all seven of the Project Mercury pilot-volunteers sat up there onstage and Bonney’s got
the press askin them questions.
Bet they love that, Ridley said.
Nobody’s asked them about their flyin experience yet though; not a damn word on it.
What they talkin about then?
You want a coffee? Harrison said.
Yeah.
Harrison walked over to the pot. The question just asked, he said, pouring them each a cup, was if their wives or children had anything to say about them volunteerin for the program.
You’re not serious, Ridley said, sitting forward in his chair.
Sure am, Harrison said.
What the hell they say to that?
Not much.
Figures.
Until they got to Glenn.
The coast-to-coast guy?
Yeah, Harrison said. Glenn comes out with a whole goddamn speech about how he couldn’t go on with something like this without the backing he gets at home. Starts talkin about his wife’s attitude to his flyin career—the whole thing; I swear, I nearly choked up he was so goddamn sincere.
Since when does the attitude of his wife—
Beats me. Here—
He handed Ridley a mug.
Thanks.
Then he was off again talkin about church and Sunday school and God and family—
Who shoved an apple pie up his ass? Ridley said.
Not the Marines I’m guessin, Harrison said. You see him on that show?
Hmm, yeah; think so.
Name That Tune.
With the kid singer?
Yeah.
Charming sonofabitch.
Yeah.
Harrison sat down with his coffee and turned up the volume on the radio.
Why are they having a press conference again? Ridley said.
To introduce the world to America’s first astro-nauts, Harrison said. He sipped his coffee. You hear what I been hearin?
Sending a monkey up first? Jesus, I laughed my ass hard off when Walker told me.
Funniest damn thing I ever heard, Harrison said. A monkey’s gonna make the first flight!
Oh, boy, Ridley said, beginning to laugh.
A guy called from some newspaper yesterday, Harrison said. Told me he wanted to ask the X-15 pilots how we felt about not being part of Project Mercury.
What’d you say?
I told him Project Mercury didn’t really require a pilot, there wasn’t any real flyin involved. Plus I didn’t want to sweep monkey shit off the seat before I sat down.
The Last Pilot: A Novel Page 7
