The Cassandra Project

by Jack McDevitt

  His phone beeped. “Mary’s on the line,” said Barbara.

  He picked up. “Good morning, Mary.”

  “You saw Blackstone last night?” She sounded tired.

  “I saw him, yes.”

  “This thing just won’t go away.” He heard music in the background. Mary had a taste for symphonies. “I’d like very much to get rid of it, Jerry.” “I’m sorry it’s been causing a problem.”

  “It isn’t your fault. I’d probably have done the same thing if I’d been in your position. I’ll admit that it’s got me wondering, though. Still, I just want it to stop.” “What’s the latest?”

  “Armbruster and Collins, this morning. They’re already talking about cutting back on our budget.” Two members of Congress who’d based their careers on getting rid of what they called wasteful spending. NASA had always been near the top of their list. “The problem is that we’re being associated with Blackstone. With this whole goddamned story.” Jerry listened to birds singing in the trees. Their lives looked so much better than his. “I got a lot of calls from the media last night,” he said. “Asking for a reaction. But I backed off. Told them I didn’t know any more than they did.” “Did they let you get away with that, Jerry?” Her voice hardened.

  “Yes,” he said. “Up to a point. They tried to get more. But—” “Okay. Good. I think that’s exactly the right tack. We need to keep a low profile for a while. Let Blackstone carry the ball.” She paused, and he locked in on the music. Rachmaninoff, maybe? The classical composers all sounded alike to him. “By the way—” She frowned. Bad news coming. “I’m replacing you on the interview today.” He growled under his breath. “You really think that’s necessary?” “It’s a precaution, Jerry. I think, for a while, the less the public sees you, the better off we’ll be.” Jerry let her see he was unhappy. “Okay. Whatever you say.” “Later, when things calm down, we can go back to normal.”

  “Who’s going to do the interview?”

  “Martin.”

  Martin Moreau was the personnel chief at the Space Center. He outranked Jerry, and though Jerry would not have admitted it even to himself, he would be a good replacement. Well, adequate. He didn’t have Jerry’s style. Jerry’s showbiz approach. But nobody did. Not along the Cape, anyhow.

  —

  Suddenly, he was looking at a depleted morning. He sat listening to the clock while his resentment grew. He thought about going up to Mary’s office and offering his resignation. That way you won’t have to worry about my reminding people about NASA.

  Why did no one else care? Other than Blackstone?

  Even Barbara had backed off.

  “Jerry?” Her voice. “You have a visitor. A Mr. Collander?”

  “Who?”

  “Joseph Collander. Security just called. He’s apparently down at the entrance. Says he would like to see you. “ “Did he say what about?”

  “Myshko.”

  Another crank. “Tell him I’m out. Tell him I’ve gone to Egypt on a goodwill tour.” “Jerry, he says his father worked for us back in the sixties.” Jerry hesitated. He didn’t want to get in any deeper. On the other hand—“Okay. Let me talk to him.” Barbara switched him over. “Dr. Culpepper?” The voice was thin. It seemed reluctant, hesitant.

  “I don’t have a doctorate, Mr. Collander,” Jerry said. “What can I do for you?” “Mr. Culpepper, my father was a computer technician for NASA back during the sixties and seventies. I might have something you’d be interested in hearing.” Jerry took a deep breath. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  —

  Joseph Collander did not match his voice. He was a big guy, the type who might have been a linebacker in his earlier years. He was dressed informally, which of course was standard along the Space Coast. Casual open-neck shirt with a University of Florida emblem on the pocket, and a Rays baseball cap. “Mr. Culpepper,” he said, “I’m sorry to take up your time. I was watching that guy on TV last night. Blackberry or something—“Blackstone,” said Jerry. He led Collander into a conference room.

  “Yeah. That’s it. And I know you were involved in it, too. The business about maybe somebody landing on the Moon before Neil Armstrong.” “What did you want to tell me, Mr. Collander?”

  “Joe, please. And, to answer your question as honestly as I can, that press conference last night, I know this will sound crazy, but it reminded me of something my dad told me years ago.” “What’s that?”

  “You know that the first time we got a look at the back side of the Moon was when a Russian probe took pictures in, I think, 1959. We got some pictures ourselves during the sixties. They distributed them to the media, and they were big news for a while. Then we stopped.” “Making the pictures available to the media, you mean.”

  “Yes. My dad said they were still getting pictures, but nobody got to see them. Including my dad and the people working with him. There was no indication whether they’d been classified. I mean, there wouldn’t be any reason to classify them unless they’d spotted a Soviet base back there. Then, after a while, everything got back to normal.” “Your father was seeing the pictures again.”

  “Yes. There was never any explanation, or even an admission by higher authority that it had happened. In fact, he was told he was imagining it. And when he pushed a little, they told him to shut up.” “When was this?” asked Jerry.

  “It was before my time, Mr. Culpepper. It always bothered my father that they’d do something like that and then lie about it. But he swore it happened.” “Can I get you some coffee, Joe?”

  “No, thanks. It tends to keep me awake all day.” They both smiled at the joke.

  “Is your father—?”

  “He died fifteen years ago.”

  “Is there anybody else you know of who could back up the story?” “There were a bunch of NASA retired guys living around here at one time. They used to go to lunch together and everything, and I guess they still do. But I don’t think any of the ones from my father’s era are left now.” “Did you ever hear any of the others mention the censorship?” “I really don’t recall, Mr. Culpepper.”

  “Jerry’s good.”

  “Jerry. Okay. But now that I think of it, I do remember something else. My dad said that when the analysts got access to the pictures again, there was still a problem. There was an area they were never able to see. It was never visible. As if the pictures had been cropped.” —Jerry called Al Thomas at the Huntsville Archives. Al looked as if he was having a busy day. “What do you need, Jerry?” he asked.

  “Al, during the sixties, we took a lot of satellite and probe pictures of the back side of the Moon, right?” “We took some, yes. Mostly from probes.”

  “Were any of them ever withheld?”

  “You mean classified?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not that I know of. Hold on a second.” He was back after about three minutes. “No, Jerry,” he said. “The lunar pictures, all of the ones taken by the United States, were distributed to interested researchers as soon as they became available. There’s no indication any of them were ever held back.” “Okay. Can you forward a complete set to me?”

  “Jerry, that’s a lot of pictures.”

  “It’s important, Al,”

  “Okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Jerry glanced down at the note he’d written himself. “One other thing.” Thomas sighed. “What is it?”

  “Mission parameters. I could use them, too. If it’s not too much trouble.” “All right. I’m not really sure what we have. But I’ll dig everything out. Are you in a hurry?” —The pictures came in as Jerry was getting ready to leave for the day. There were hundreds of them, and they were all dated. He brought them up on his display and got lost among craters and ridges and bleak lunar plains. He looked for something, anything, that might have caused someone at a high level to conclude there was a problem. And he felt like an idiot doing it. He had been transformed into a geek at a science-fiction convention.

 
But there was nothing. No extended time period during which pictures were missing. No secret Soviet base. No automated rocket launcher filled with missiles. No vacuum-breathing Moon people living in a crater.

  He read the mission plans. He examined maps of the far side of the Moon and tried to see whether any areas that should have been in the photos were missing. He went down and ate a quick dinner in the cafeteria. Then he went back to his office and looked at the maps some more.

  The problem was he didn’t really know what he was doing.

  In the morning, he called Cal Dryden, a physics professor at the University of Central Florida. Cal was an enthusiastic supporter of NASA whom Jerry had met at a fund-raising luncheon a year earlier. A secretary told him Professor Dryden was in class, but she’d leave a message. Thirty minutes later he was smiling out of the display. He seemed to get heavier every time Jerry saw him. He’d grown a beard, which was probably a bad idea because it carried streaks of gray and made him look a few years older. Though maybe that was the effect he wanted.

  “Hi, Jerry.” He was seated in an armchair with a wall of books behind him. “What can I do for you?” “Cal, I have some pictures of the back side of the Moon. From the late sixties. I was wondering—” How to phrase this? “I think they might be incomplete. I was wondering if you could take time to look at them for me.” Cal’s brow creased. “What do you mean ‘incomplete’?”

  “There might be areas that should be there but aren’t. You know, where we have maybe both sides of a section of ground but the middle’s missing.” “You want me to find the missing pieces?”

  “I want you to determine whether there are any missing pieces.” “Jerry, you say these pictures are from the sixties?”

  “Yes.”

  “So why would anybody care?”

  “It’s hard to explain, Cal.”

  He took a deep breath. “I assume it has something to do with the Myshko flight?” “It might. I don’t know. But I’d appreciate it if you’d keep this to yourself.” “Okay. But hell, Jerry, what’s going on over there? You guys trying to start rumors about secret missions?” “I can’t imagine a better way to cut off what’s left of our funding, Cal.” “Seriously.”

  “I think there’s simply a communication breakdown somewhere. I’m trying to settle it now.” “Okay. Send the pictures. Do you have descriptions of what they’re supposed to be?” “I have the mission parameters.”

  “All right. Send those, too.”

  “One other thing, Cal—”

  “Yes?”

  “If you see anything unusual, anything you wouldn’t expect, let me know, okay? But nobody else.” A wide smile appeared. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know, Cal. Anything odd.”

  —

  It was a Friday night. Jerry had been dating Susan Cassidy on and off over the past few months. Susan was a librarian in Titusville. She was not exactly gorgeous despite her raven hair and dark eyes. But she was smart, and she was the type of woman who grew more attractive as you got to know her. He was sitting with her at the Olive Garden on Merritt Island enjoying his spaghetti and meatballs when his phone buzzed.

  Jerry was not one of those people who’d sit with a friend, or a date, and talk on his cell. But he saw that the call was from Cal. “This is important,” he told Susan. “Bear with me, okay?” She smiled and nodded. No problem.

  “Yes, Cal,” he said. “What have you got?”

  “Not a thing, Jerry. Everything that’s supposed to be there is there. I can’t find any missing parcels of ground. The missions pretty much covered the entire area.” “You’re sure.”

  “I ran them through the data file. Everything’s correct.”

  “Okay, Cal. Thanks.”

  He turned the phone off, dropped it into a pocket, and said, “Sorry.” Then he went back to the meatballs.

  Susan’s eyes drifted past him. She raised her wine, sipped it, put it back down. “Is there a problem?” “No. Everything’s fine.”

  “My experience over a lifetime, Jerry,” she said, ‘is that when people say ‘everything’s fine,’ it usually isn’t.” He grinned. Shrugged. “It’s no big deal, Susan.”

  “Is Blackstone going to do another TV show?”

  “It’s not anything like that.” He explained about the lunar photos.

  “You think they saw something up there, and they were hiding it?” “No. I don’t.” He tasted his wine while he thought about what he wanted to say. “You know, Susan, I’m always amazed at how easily we get sucked into crazy notions. I think we all have a predilection for fantasy.” “And this Cal didn’t find anything missing?”

  “No. Nothing deleted from any of the pictures.”

  She smiled. “That must be disappointing.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Oh, come on, Jerry. Wouldn’t you love to discover there’s a big mystery of some sort going on? Something the government’s been covering up for half a century?” He laughed. “Listen, babe, my job’s complicated enough. I don’t need any mysteries.” “Jerry.” It was almost a sigh. “Where’s your romantic side?” “That only shows up when you’re in the area, Susan.”

  “Ah. Well spoken, Lancelot.”

  He lifted his wine to her. “I calls them the way I sees them, sweetheart.” “Of course. I’d expect no less.” She touched glasses. “Jerry. About the pictures. There’s another possibility.” “What’s that?”

  “Maybe there was something they didn’t want anyone to see. So they did make them unavailable.” “But we have the pictures. There’s nothing missing.”

  She shrugged. “Proves nothing. They could have photoshopped them. Maybe they simply replaced them with other pictures.” —The following day he called Cal again. “I hate to ask you about this,” he said, as the professor began frowning, “but I need something else. It occurred to me that somebody might have replaced the original pictures. Photoshopped them. Is that possible?” “Is it possible? Sure it’s possible, Jerry. Almost anything is possible. You can’t travel faster than light. And you can’t travel in time. Except forward, one day at a crack. Otherwise, anything goes. What are you suggesting?” “I’m not suggesting anything, Cal. But I want to eliminate the possibility that the original pictures were replaced. Is there a way to do that?” “Sure,” he said. “But listen, Jerry. First of all, I’m buried these days. And anyhow, even if I weren’t, it’s not my field of expertise. You want a professional for something like this.” “Can you suggest anyone?”

  “I don’t think there’s anybody here who would qualify.” He smiled. “Something like this, I’d take to NASA.” —His old girlfriend still looked great even though the years had begun to pile up. She was African-American, a graduate of LaSalle University in Philadelphia, and a rabid baseball fan. The Phillies, of course. She was the only woman Jerry had ever really loved. But the chemistry hadn’t worked on her side. He’d been smart enough to make sure the breakup hadn’t erupted into a cascade of hard feelings. And he’d stayed in touch, more or less. But he was reluctant to ask a favor. The rush of emotions that came from being near her had not abated over the years.

  Last he’d heard, she was still single.

  —

  She smiled at him out of the display, told him she was glad to see him again, and asked how he was doing. “You seem to be making news,” she added.

  “Not sure how I got in the middle of it, Mandy,” he said.

  “Story of your life, Jerry.”

  He laughed. “It’s just a series of communications problems.” “Okay.” She gazed at him skeptically. Tilted her head. His heart started racing. It was as if he were back in high school.

  “I could use your help, Mandy.”

  “What do you need?”

  “I want you to look at some Moon pictures. The lunar surface. We have the dates when they were supposed to have been taken, by probes and satellites. In the late 1960s. And the locations. I’d be grateful if you could tell me
if they are what they’re supposed to be.” She looked at him. “How’ve you been doing, Jerry?”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Married yet?”

  “No. Not yet. I’ve got a candidate, though.”

  “Good,” she said. “Lucky woman.”

  That hurt. But he kept going. “How about you?”

  “Been too busy, I guess.”

  The conversation trailed off. She was, he thought, trying to find a way out. She didn’t want to do the lunar pictures. And she was uncomfortable in his presence. “Okay,” she said finally. “But, Jerry, keep my name out of it. Okay?”

  11

  Bucky spent the night in the office. He didn’t do it very often, but for those occasions when he needed to, a luxurious bedroom suite had been installed on the top floor—he hated calling anything in an office building a penthouse—complete with shower, steam bath, state-of-the-art sound and video systems, and fifty of his favorite books.

  He could have had his driver take him home, but he’d have had to run the gauntlet of the press, which had left about a dozen members camped out in front of the building and another handful at the exit to the underground garage.

  The most recent polls said that 80 percent of the public thought he was a flake, so why, he wondered, was the press still after him? Then he realized that a billionaire flake was probably worth more copy, vocal and written, than just about anyone other than (and, on some days, including) the president.

  He spent half the night watching reruns of famed boxing matches, one of his passions. He saw the seventh round Long Count, Sonny Liston’s first-round dive in Maine, Mike Tyson turning to putty when he realized he couldn’t bully or terrorize Evander Holyfield, Arturo Gatti and Mickey Ward meet three times in the squared circle to show onlookers what the sport was all about. He watched Max Schmeling, who didn’t want the weight of the Third Reich on his shoulders, collapse under it in less than a round, and Muhammad Ali show lightweights and bantamweights how to stick and run.

  He was still sitting in his overstuffed leather chair when he woke up at five in the morning. The channel—clearly devoted to reruns that could be purchased for pennies, or at most dimes—was now showing Seattle Slew beating Affirmed in the only battle of Triple Crown winners, and Ruffian breaking down, and Man o’ War running past all known reference points. He reached for the remote, turned it off, staggered over to the king-size bed, and collapsed on it, fully clothed.