The Cassandra Project

by Jack McDevitt

  Eve Harrigan, an engineer at Houston, sympathized with Jerry’s situation. “It was strange, though,” she told Grant. “I can understand why people might think something was going on.”

  Grant got the message and changed the subject.

  The menu choice was between catfish and New York strip. Jerry went with the catfish, accompanied by mashed potatoes and a swirl of vegetables that he couldn’t identify. The conversation at Jerry’s table wandered onto the subject that currently occupied everyone’s attention: the future of NASA in an era of tight funding. The reality, of course, was that NASA had been put on hold during the Vietnam War, and had never really gotten off the dime afterward. Presidents came and went, promising great things, a new state-of-the-art vehicle, a return to the Moon, a Mars mission, a rendezvous with an asteroid. All the stuff they’d been doing on The High Country.

  The catfish was good.

  The waiters followed up with strawberry shortcake and vanilla ice cream. Jerry and his companions were still indulging themselves when Mary stood, went to the microphone, and adjusted it. She introduced herself, led a round of applause for the president, and welcomed the assorted guests. “Mr. President,” she said, “we know you’ve always been intrigued by spaceflight. And I have no doubt you’re going to help us move forward with plans to send a manned mission to Pluto.”

  She’d intended it to be funny, but a hush fell over the room, and she realized immediately the remark hadn’t gone well, wouldn’t be interpreted as she’d intended, but would instead sound like a criticism of the administration. But it was too late, and she did the only thing she could, turning it into an oops moment. “I have a talent for blowing my lines,” she said, with a tight smile. That, at least, brought some laughs.

  Cunningham waved to her. It was okay. She waved back, finished the introduction, and turned the microphone over to him. He thanked her and looked out at the audience. “If we could manage a voyage to Pluto,” he said, “I can think of a few people in Washington who’d enjoy making a reservation on it for me.”

  That got more laughs. Everyone knew he was talking about the Speaker of the House. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he continued, “I’m delighted to be here today. And I know that you’re concerned about the future of the Agency, from which we expected so much and which we’ve supported so little. I can’t help thinking that we might have made it to Pluto had we diverted even a reasonable fraction of the money we’ve wasted over the past half century and given it to you folks.”

  That brought a standing ovation.

  “That’s not to say that NASA hasn’t accomplished an enormous amount. We’ve been to the Moon, we’ve sent robot vehicles throughout the solar system, we’ve put telescopes in orbit that have allowed us to look back almost to the beginning of time. That’s not bad.”

  That produced another round of applause. But it had become more tentative.

  Cunningham nodded. “I understand,” he said. “It’s not enough, is it? When we started recruiting our first astronauts, back in the late fifties, we were only talking about one thing: Putting humans in space. On the Moon. That was all we cared about.” He stopped. Exhaled. “I suspect everyone here has seen the Stanley Kubrick movie 2001. For anyone who hasn’t, it’s about a ship headed for Jupiter. If you read the book, you discover they were actually going to Saturn. This was a film made in the sixties. At the time, the notion of manned missions out beyond Mars didn’t seem all that far-fetched. We were going to do it all by the beginning of the twenty-first century. But for a variety of reasons, we discovered we couldn’t manage it. None of that can be laid at your door. Nevertheless, here we are. Stuck on the ground eighteen years after Arthur Clarke’s astronauts headed for the outer solar system.”

  The president looked up toward the ceiling. Behind Jerry, ice cubes rattled. Somewhere, a chair moved. They were the only sounds in the building. “I wish I could tell you that’s all going to change. But, unfortunately, the country remains in a financial hole. You know it, and I know it. But I can promise you this: Despite what you’re hearing on the Internet, despite what the media are saying, we are not going to shut this agency down. It’s not going to happen. NASA is not going away. You can carve that in concrete.”

  The applause was louder this time.

  “And I’ll tell you something else: It’s possible that the world, several thousand years from now, will have forgotten a lot of our history. It may no longer remember there were two world wars during the last century. It may not recall the nuclear standoff during the Cold War years. But I can tell you one thing: As long as men and women live, they’ll remember that we once walked on the Moon. And they’ll never forget who did it.”

  That took off the roof.

  Jerry watched the reporters crowd into the theater at the Visitors’ Center and couldn’t help feeling a brief twinge of jealousy. He couldn’t have drawn enough people to fill the front row.

  Mary suggested he stay away since his presence alone might be enough to elicit questions. He let her see he was annoyed, but he said nothing and went up to his office to watch on C-Span. Four other cable networks also provided coverage.

  Most of the questions centered on continuing problems in the Middle East, on the growing Franklin Movement, “a penny saved,” which was demanding that many of the social programs the president favored be closed down. Did he see any hope of healing the left-right split in the country? What had happened to the promise that NASA would be lifting solar-power collectors into space? How did he feel about Bryson Evers’s comment that the biggest problem the world had was the one no politician would talk about—the enormous growth of world population?

  “Well,” said Cunningham, “we’re talking about it, aren’t we?”

  The question had been raised by NBC’s Quil Everett. “Do you agree that it’s a problem for us, Mr. President? And if so, what are we going to do about it?”

  It had been described as the new third rail. Cunningham hesitated. Everyone knew it was true. But a substantial part of the electorate still believed there was a moral obligation to have big families. And, historically, there was no give on the issue. Furthermore, next year was an election year.

  “Yes,” said Cunningham. “Of course it’s true. There’s not enough food. Not enough fresh water. Countries are going to war over natural resources. And that’s only the beginning.”

  He didn’t explain what the administration planned to do, other than continue to look into the problem. It wasn’t exactly a call to action, but his admission alone, Jerry knew, would grab all the headlines tomorrow.

  The Myshko and Walker missions never came up. Jerry wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. He switched over to CNN and MSNBC to watch the comments by the assorted policy experts. Only one, Stu Krider, mentioned the earlier flights. “Yesterday’s news, I guess,” Krider said. He was the only commentator Jerry knew of who had treated the story as anything other than something to generate laughs.

  Cunningham was given a tour of the Center that evening. He stood beside one of the old Atlas rockets, admired a command module, and talked with a few astronauts who’d been brought in specifically for the event. Jerry was part of the group of nine or ten NASA people following him around. Now that the press conference was over, Mary had eased her restrictions. Eventually, as they emerged at the base of one of the launch towers, the president looked Jerry’s way. Their eyes connected. The president smiled. “Hello, Jerry,” he said. “Busy time for you, I guess?”

  Cunningham had all the physical attributes of a leader. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with leading-man features. He was in his forties, the youngest chief executive since Jack Kennedy. People naturally liked him. His ratings, even during these difficult times, remained high. And the country absolutely loved the First Lady, Lyra, who might have been a beauty queen in her younger days. Lyra had a self-effacing sense of humor and, in the view of some, had been the most effective campaigner on either side in the 2016 election.

  An
d then, without warning, Jerry’s opportunity arrived. The president, still looking his way, smiled. “What’s all the ruckus about the Moon flights, Jerry?”

  The world stopped momentarily. A warm breeze was coming in off the ocean, and he could hear tree limbs moving gently. All conversation died. Off to one side, he saw Mary. Her gaze focused on him, her lips tight. No smile. No give.

  “Don’t know, Mr. President,” Jerry said. “I guess some people get excited pretty easily.”

  Cunningham smiled and moved on.

  Jerry stood, looking at a wall. Avoiding Mary.

  Dumb.

  Cowardly.

  —

  The reception went off smoothly. An array of former and current NASA people showed up to pay their respects. Jerry knew many of them personally. They wandered up to him with expectant smiles, generally restricting their comments to how good it was to get back to the Space Center, but they all looked at him with a glint in their eyes. He’d become one of those guys who believed in Roswell and the abominable snowman.

  Of the few who mentioned the Myshko story to him, Larry Jurkiewicz stood out because he’d preceded him as press officer. “You’re out there all the time,” Larry said. “It’s easy to screw up. You say the wrong thing, and you’re stuck with it.” He looked genuinely sympathetic. “Just hang in, Jerry. After a while, it’ll go away.”

  He wasn’t sure precisely when it happened, but by the time the evening had ended, he had come to terms with his failure to bring the issue up directly to the president. It could have done no good. If Cunningham knew anything and wanted to make it public, he would already have done so. Since he apparently didn’t know anything, there was nothing he could contribute to the conversation.

  —

  In the morning, he accompanied the presidential party to the First Presbyterian Church in Titusville. He sat quietly in back during the ceremony and listened to the pastor welcome his guests before speaking briefly on the requirement to love one’s neighbor. “It isn’t all about money,” he said. Jerry remembered church visits during the campaign, when the preachers had routinely pitched thinly disguised messages at the candidate. We need to see that both sides of the evolution issue are taught in the schools. Or whatever. But the pastor’s sermon, based on the directive to love thy neighbor, showed no sign of a political imperative.

  When it ended, the Secret Service sealed off the church while the president left. By the time Jerry got outside, he was gone. The worshippers lingered for a time. The pastor, Adam Tursi, stood by the front door, shaking hands and talking with parishioners. Jerry overheard part of it: “I like him,” Tursi said to a small group on the church steps. He looked amiable, with an easy smile, his gray hair ruffled by the wind. “The president seems like a good man. But I miss the sound of the launchings. I sit in my office, and the only thing I hear now is the birds.” He glanced over at Jerry, apparently trying to figure out whether he knew him. “Birds,” he said again, “and an occasional police siren.”

  An hour later, Jerry watched film clips at home showing Marine One lifting off from the space facility. Eventually, Mary called.

  She smiled at him from the screen. “It went off like clockwork, Jerry. Well done.”

  9

  Bucky was poring over the latest cost-analysis figures for the Moon shot when Gloria Marcos entered his office. “I thought I said I wanted to be alone for an hour while I read all this stuff,” he said, making no attempt to keep the irritation out of his voice.

  “It’ll hold,” she said. “Turn your television on.”

  “To what?”

  “Any cable news channel. They’re all running the same thing.”

  A well-dressed middle-aged woman was standing at a podium, answering reporters’ questions.

  “Who is she?” asked Bucky.

  “Maria Carmody,” answered Gloria.

  “Should that mean something to me?”

  “She’s Sidney Myshko’s daughter.”

  “And?”

  “Just watch.”

  The question was garbled, and there were no microphones being passed around the audience, but Maria Carmody’s answer was crystal clear:

  “I repeat: My father never set foot on the Moon,” she said adamantly. “Does anyone here seriously think he would have been the first man on the Moon and then spent the rest of his life not telling anyone, not even his only child?”

  “Bucky Blackstone thinks it!” yelled a reporter, and the assembled journalists broke out in laughter.

  “I am not convinced Bucky Blackstone has the capacity to think seriously about anything,” she said. “I’m sure if he had his way, they’d be digging my father up to examine his feet for moondust.”

  Another outburst of laughter.

  “She’s killing you, Bucky,” said Gloria softly.

  “I haven’t been up to bat yet,” he replied.

  “What was that half-hour address to the nation?” she shot back.

  “Spring training,” said Bucky. “Now be quiet. I want to hear this.”

  “Have you any message for Bucky Blackstone?” asked a reporter.

  She stared into the camera. “Mr. Blackstone, I don’t know you, and I don’t know why you’re doing this . . . but I implore you: If you have a shred of human decency, let my father rest in peace!”

  “She’s good,” said Bucky softly. “I wonder if she believes all that, or if someone in the administration has coached her?”

  “You don’t coach tears like that in a woman who’s never acted,” noted Gloria.

  “Assuming that I believe for a moment that every woman on Earth can’t cry on cue, she could just be nervous,” replied Bucky. “Or since she’s new to this, she might not know enough not to look directly into those spotlights. They’ll make anyone’s eyes water.”

  “You’re reaching.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I am. But there’s one thing I’m not reaching about: Washington has been lying since 1969.”

  Camden wandered in just then. “Oh—I see you’re watching it. I was going to alert you.”

  Bucky turned away from the image of Myshko’s distraught daughter. “What do you think?”

  “Seriously?” said Camden. “I think I’m going to spend the next couple of months defending your sanity when I should be publicizing the Moon shot.” He paused and stared at Bucky. “Can I be totally honest?”

  “That’s what I pay you for.”

  “No, you pay me to manipulate the press and the public, honestly when I can, dishonestly when I have to.”

  “I stand corrected,” Bucky growled. “Go ahead and say what’s on your mind.”

  “Okay.” Camden stared at him. “I don’t know why the hell you had to bring this up in the first place. Who cares if another American set foot on the Moon before Armstrong did? What difference can it possibly make at this late date?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Bucky. “And until I do know, I’m going to keep digging, keep holding it up to the light and getting others to help me unearth the truth.”

  “The only others will be wackos who live for conspiracy theories.”

  “Like the wackos who believed that the president of the United States was covering up a break-in? Or perhaps the wackos who believed a different president of the United States was lying under oath, in court, about a sexual encounter?” Bucky allowed himself the luxury of a satisfied smile. “You know, sometimes—not always, not often, but sometimes—the wackos are right.”

  Camden sighed deeply. “Okay, you’re not going to back off this thing. I’d better go prepare for the press.” He held an imaginary microphone to his mouth, “No, he doesn’t have long conversations with the ghost of Teddy Roosevelt. No, he doesn’t spend a lot of time speaking in tongues. No, he hasn’t asked me to put a leash on him and walk him out in the rose garden.”

  “I like the last one,” said Bucky. “Be sure you use it.”

  Camden muttered an obscenity under his breath, turned on his heel, and lef
t.

  Bucky turned back to the television, but it was reporting the standings in the current golf tournament, and he shut it off.

  “You really think she’s a dupe?” asked Gloria.

  He shrugged. “Who knows? But something happened, and they can deny it to Kingdom Come. All it’ll do is make them look foolish when it comes out.” He lit a Havana cigar. “Actually, that’s the least of their problems. You’re a senator. Do you go out on a limb for a president who’s been caught lying? You’re a governor. The president asks you for a favor: hold back on this, don’t propose that yet, whatever. Do you accommodate a guy that the public no longer trusts?”

  “But if you’re right, every president since Nixon has lied about it.”

  “True,” he agreed. “But they’re not dealing with Congress or running for reelection. You’ve heard the old expression, ‘What have you done for me lately?’ The flip side is: ‘Which of you has lied to me lately?’”

  “Maybe all this publicity will convince President Cunningham to come clean—always supposing there’s something to come clean about,” said Gloria.

  Bucky shook his head. “He’s already denied that anything happened. That’s his story, and he’s stuck with it.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. “What if he’s right?”

  “He’s not.”

  “What if he is?”

  “Then I’m going to look damned foolish for a few months or a few years, but it won’t affect the Moon shot.”

  She sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Bucky.”

  He smiled at her. “I hope so, too.”

  Gloria looked out the window. “It’s starting.”

  “What’s starting?”

  She pointed at the various trucks and vans lined up at the building’s entrance. “CNN, Fox, ABC, NBC.” She frowned. “I don’t see CBS yet.”

  “That’s odd,” replied Bucky. “They’re in Cunningham’s hip pocket. You’d figure they’d be first in line to make a fool of me.”