The Cassandra Project

by Jack McDevitt

  He woke up at eight, showered, shaved, put on a pair of slacks and a polo shirt—when you own the company, anything you want to wear becomes the day’s dress code—and considered going down to the building’s cafeteria. Then he decided that if the press had managed to get inside, they’d be looking for him there since there was no way they could get up to the top floor—the elevators required personal codes for the top three floors. He checked the refrigerator to see what he had in the suite, and found some not-yet-stale donuts. He pulled them out, made some coffee, and sat down to eat, drink, and catch up on the morning’s news.

  Jerry Culpepper wasn’t fielding questions that day, and Bucky wondered if they were hiding him, disciplining him, or if they’d let him go. He contacted Gloria, who had just arrived, and asked her to check on Jerry’s status in case he was available. She got back to him five minutes later: No, he was still employed by NASA.

  Too damned bad, thought Bucky. I could really use that young man. He’s got a rep, and he’s Ed Camden without the paranoia and rough edges.

  He spent a few more minutes nursing a second cup of coffee, then got to his feet, walked down the corridor to his office, and entered it.

  “Good morning, Bucky,” said Gloria. “You look like hell.” “That’s what I like: respect from an employee.”

  She smiled. “Would you rather I lie to you?”

  “Much.”

  “Good morning, Bucky. You look better than I’ve ever seen you.” “God, it sounds worse,” he muttered. “Go back to telling the truth.” Gloria laughed aloud. “You’re a night person. You can’t help it. But since you are, and you own the company, why do you feel you have to drag yourself into the office every morning by nine?” He stared at her for a long moment. “I hate it when you ask questions like that.” “You want some coffee?”

  “No, I’ll float away. I assume Jerry Culpepper hasn’t been fired since last we spoke?” “No.”

  “Pity.” He paused. “We’re not at war with anyone?” “No.”

  “No earthquakes, tornadoes, or hurricanes on the horizon?” “No.”

  “Maybe I will go back to sleep.” He was about to walk back out the door when her computer came to life.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “Sabina Marinova just entered the building. She wants an immediate meeting with you.” “Send her up,” he said. Suddenly he frowned. “How the hell did she get back so fast?” “She commandeered one of your private jets and pilots.” “How about that?” said Bucky. “She’s already showing more initiative than Camden. I knew I liked that girl.” “I’d be careful about calling her a girl,” said Gloria. “She’s as tall as you are and probably twice as fit.” “I thought all women like being called girls.”

  “About as much as you like being called a boy by a member of my sex.” “I don’t mind it.”

  “You don’t mind that two hundred million Americans think you’re as crazy as a loon,” she shot back.

  “Two hundred fifty million,” he responded with a smile. “Unless Fox and CNN are both lying.” “Doesn’t it bother you, Bucky?” she asked seriously.

  “I’d rather they agreed with me,” he said. “If I’m right, eventually they will, and if I’m wrong, then they should think I’m crazy.” She stared at him. “I suppose that’s the kind of self-confidence it takes to make all those billions. Personally, it’d drive me as crazy as they thought I was.” He smiled. “I’ve been wrong before. I’ll be wrong again.” Suddenly the smile vanished. “But not this time.”

  There was a knock at the door. Gloria opened it and Sabina entered the office.

  “Well?” said Bucky. “Did you see him?”

  Sabina nodded. “I saw him.”

  “Is he still there?”

  “He’s probably safer there than anywhere else.”

  Bucky frowned. “Are there people out after him?”

  “I meant from the press.”

  “Did he have anything interesting to say?”

  “That’ll be up to you to decide, sir . . . I mean, Bucky,” said Sabina. “I have a video of our conversation. He doesn’t know I took it.” “Clearly, you didn’t hold up a camera or a cell phone,” said Bucky. “What did you use?” “Mr. Brent showed me how to outfit myself,” she said with a smile, pointing to a button on the vest of her pantsuit.

  “I’m surprised Mr. Brent knew,” said Bucky. “Usually, he just beats information out of people.” “Really?”

  “Not since he began working here—but I like to think he had a romantic past.” There was a brief pause. “Can you show me the video now?” “I can feed it through your computer or just project it against a wall,” said Sabina.

  “Start with the wall. Gloria might as well watch it, too, since I’m not competent to process it.” She stared at him curiously. “Private joke. Let’s see it, please.” She manipulated the button, a tiny window opened in it, and an instant later the image of a very old, very wrinkled man in a hospital gown appeared on the wall.

  “I’m very glad you agreed to see me, Mr. Bartlett,” said Sabina’s voice.

  “Why not?” he said. “You’re not press, and you’re not federal.” “I take it the past few days have been difficult for you?” “For me and those in charge of me,” he agreed, “no thanks to your boss.” “You mean Mr. Blackstone?”

  He nodded his balding head. “Bucky Blackstone, right.” Suddenly he smiled. “That was some speech he made the other night!” “You heard it?”

  “Of course I did. Everyone knew he was going to say something explosive about NASA. I wanted to see what it was.” “And now that you’ve heard it, what is your opinion of it?” asked Sabina.

  “That he’s asking for trouble.”

  “You mean by saying irrational things?”

  Amos Bartlett stared at her. “If you say so,” he replied at last.

  “You’re the only living member of the two flights that preceded Apollo XI.” “Clean living does it every time,” said Bartlett with a smile that was interrupted by a coughing fit.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Bartlett?”

  “I’m fine,” he replied. “Just had one too many cigarettes after dinner. Do you smoke?” “No.”

  “Smart lady. I wish I could break the damned habit. Maybe I can in this place. They didn’t look happy when I lit up.” “We’re getting off the subject, sir,” said Sabina. “What did you think of Mr. Blackstone’s speech?” “I think he’s buying a mess of trouble.”

  “In what way?”

  “You accuse the government of lying, you’re asking for trouble.” “Yes, I suppose so,” said Sabina.

  “Of course, my bet is even the Congress doesn’t know about this. Probably just the president, and maybe two or three others, tops.” “Say that again?” demanded Sabina, a sudden tension in her voice.

  “Sure,” replied Bartlett. “Your boss is buying a mess of trouble.” “I mean, what does the president know that even Congress doesn’t know?” Suddenly Bartlett got a haunted look around his eyes, which began darting back and forth. “Presidents know lots of things senators and representatives don’t know,” he replied noncommittally. “That’s why they’re presidents.” “What does this particular president know about Sidney Myshko’s flight?” The haunted look became more pronounced. “Who said anything about Myshko’s flight?” “Morgan Blackstone did,” answered Sabina. “That’s what we were talking about.” “We were?”

  “And you were about to tell me what you know about it.” “I was?”

  “Yes, Mr. Bartlett, you were.”

  “Who sent you here, really?”

  “Mr. Blackstone.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I showed you my credentials before we started talking.” “How do I know they’re legitimate?” he said. “How do I know you’re not working for The New York Times?” “Why would I be working for The New York Times, Mr. Bartlett?” He stared at her again, then sighed deeply. “I don’t know,�
�� he admitted. “I mean, hell, they own the Army, and the Army’s got me locked away here.” “You don’t mean The Times owns the Army?” “Hell, no. I don’t know what I mean.”

  “Then can we talk about the Myshko flight?” persisted Sabina.

  “Why don’t we talk about Neil Armstrong’s flight? I mean, that’s the one everyone wants to talk about.” “Not you and me,” said Sabina. “We want to talk about Myshko’s flight. And yours.” The haunted look morphed into a very frightened one. “We do?” “We do.”

  “All right. But I want a cigarette first.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Get me one, and we’ll talk.”

  The picture went dead.

  “What happened?” asked Bucky.

  “I went out and bummed a cigarette off another patient, since I knew they wouldn’t sell any in the hospital shop, and I was pretty sure the staff wouldn’t be permitted to smoke.” “Makes sense.”

  “And when I came back with a cigarette, he’d closed and locked the door.” She looked apologetically at Bucky. “It’s my fault, sir. I forgot that he wasn’t sick, that it was more like protective custody. It never occurred to me that of course he could walk across the room and lock the door.” “There shouldn’t have been a lock on the inside, not in a hospital,” said Gloria.

  “Unless the army wanted one,” said Bucky. “They could probably have rigged a dead bolt in ten minutes’ time. It wasn’t done with you in mind, Sabina; it was in case any members of the press got through, maybe disguised as an orderly.” “So is the video useful?” asked Sabina anxiously.

  “Extremely,” said Bucky. “He as much as admitted something happened up there. We’ll give him a day or two to realize the sky isn’t falling in on him, and then try again. You did good, Sabina.” “Thank you, sir,” she said. Then: “What do you think really happened up there?” “Just what I said the other night,” replied Bucky. “I think Myshko was the first man on the Moon.” He grimaced. “Most people think I’m crazy, which is their privilege. What bothers me is that the ones who believe me haven’t asked the most important question.” “And what is that?” asked Sabina curiously.

  “Why was Sidney Myshko the first man on the Moon?”

  12

  Jerry was prepping for his weekly press conference when Mary came by the office. She delivered an automated smile, no warmth in the eyes, and nodded as if they’d just agreed on something. More bad news on the way. “How’s everything going, Jerry?” she asked.

  “Okay,” he said. While she took a seat on the couch, he added some trivia about issues that would probably be raised.

  She listened, indicated she agreed with him, made a suggestion about the information they were getting back from the Mars rover. Then she smiled again. “Jerry, I’m not comfortable with this Myshko thing. It’s just waiting out there now that Blackstone has gotten into the middle of it. I still can’t believe he was dumb enough to get involved. It’ll get him the publicity he wants, but that’s purely short-term. In the end, it’ll ruin his reputation. I’ve known him for a number of years. Thought he was smarter than that.”

  “I guess,” he said.

  “Anyway, he’s made things a lot more complicated. I was hoping we could change the subject, get the reporters talking about something else. But that’s not going to happen. So be ready for it.”

  Jerry heard a door close somewhere along the corridor. Then: “I’ll do what I can to sidestep the issue, Mary.”

  She shook her head and focused behind him somewhere. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure you’ll be able to keep them at a distance, Jerry. They’re going to be pushing about Blackstone. And they’re going to want to know what you think.”

  “We’re not thinking of canceling the conference, are we?”

  “No. No way we can do that. But I think this would be a good day for you to call in sick. Put Vanessa out there. Let her deal with them.” Jerry didn’t think much of the idea, and he made no effort to hide his feeling. “She’s been a pretty good backup when we’ve needed her.”

  This had become a routine strategy lately. Bury Jerry. “Mary—”

  “Did any of the reporters see you coming in?”

  “No. I was here early this morning.”

  “Good.”

  “Mary, I don’t think this is the way to go.”

  She sat back, and the lines around her mouth hardened. Mary had fought her way up in the hardscrabble politics that ruled the current era. No mercy. Go for the throat. Never lose sight of the next election. It was a world in which public relations was everything. Truth was defined by how many people bought into a given proposition. She didn’t really care what had happened with the Moon flights a half century ago. The only thing that mattered was the effect they might have on NASA at the moment. What impact would result from his going out and standing behind that lectern? “Why not?” she asked.

  “Nobody’s going to believe I just happened to get sick today. In the wake of Blackstone’s broadcast.”

  “Do we really care what they think?”

  “Isn’t that what this is all about? Mary, I can handle it.”

  She shook her head slowly. Not rejecting what he’d said but apparently wondering how they’d reached this point. “All right. But you’re going to be walking a fine line in there. Just try to get through it without making things worse. Do you have some announcements to make?”

  “Yes.” He held up some index cards. “We have some new pictures of the Kastelone Galaxy—”

  “The what?”

  “The Kastelone Galaxy. It’s actually two galaxies. Colliding. We’ve got some spectacular pictures. They’re both bigger than the Milky Way.”

  “What else?”

  “Three more exoplanets with oxygen atmospheres. The scientists think they’re living worlds.”

  “Okay. That’s good.”

  “And there’s more evidence that the Sun is a double star.”

  “Really?” Finally, her features softened. “There’s another star in the solar system?”

  “It’s a half light-year out, and it’s too dim to see with the naked eye. But yes, it’s there.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll be damned. I’ll tell you what we could really use right now, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A message from Alpha Centauri.” She took a deep breath and turned her gaze toward a window. “Where are the aliens when you need them?” Jerry could hear birds singing. The truth was that the stories were not new, except for the second sun. He was just resurrecting them and would add a few details for the press. “All right,” she said. “It’s against my better judgment, but go ahead. Try to keep talking about that other sun. Keep the questions to a minimum.”

  —

  The press conference was routinely scheduled for ten o’clock. But on this day, Mary moved it back to eleven. The official reason given was that it was necessitated by an upgrade being done on the electrical system. The reality, Jerry suspected, was that Mary would not have been comfortable regardless of who was at the lectern, and she wanted it pushed as close as she could manage to lunch hour.

  Jerry sent the graphics down to the pressroom projector and was getting his index cards together when Barbara came into the office. “Jerry,” she said, “Dr. Edwards is on the line. I told her you were busy, but she says it’s important. “

  Jerry glanced at his watch. He had about five minutes. “Put her on, Barbara.”

  The line clicked as she made the connection. Then Mandy was on the display. “Hello, Jerry,” she said.

  “Hi, beautiful, what do you have?”

  “Are you sure your people didn’t screw up the dates?”

  “The pictures don’t fit?”

  “Jerry, a lot of the pictures could not have been taken at the times indicated.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Of course I am.”

  So there really had been a cover-up. Did that mean there’d been a landing?
“How can you tell?”

  “The shadows aren’t right. Which means the Moon, at the time the pictures were taken, was in a different place than it actually would have been on the given dates.”

  “These are pictures of the far side of the Moon?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the near side?”

  “The near side’s okay. I didn’t see any problems there.”

  “All right. What are the dates? Of the bogus pictures?”

  “They run from the very beginning of the program until approximately May 1969.”

  Just after Walker’s mission returned. “After that, they’re okay?”

  “That’s correct. By the way, it’s always the same general area.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “There’s a strip of ground that we never get to see. The photos that have been manipulated always exclude the same area.”

  “How big is it? Where?”

  “It’s about two hundred miles by eighty or so. Anyhow, I’ve marked it for you. You should have the package now. You can see for yourself.”

  Jerry looked at his watch. He was running late. “Okay, Mandy, thanks. I owe you.”

  “It’s centered on the Cassegrain Crater.”

  “The what?”

  “The Cassegrain Crater. It’s a small one. Only about forty miles across. I can’t imagine why anybody would be trying to conceal it. But, anyhow, there it is. And one more thing, Jerry.”

  “Yes?”

  “I checked some Russian pictures from the same time period. They were cooked, too.”

  —

  Jerry was running late. Despite that, he walked slowly out of his office and nodded to Barbara. She was looking at him with a strange expression. “You okay, Boss?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said. He left the office, went out into the corridor, and pushed the elevator button.