“And look at me.”
“You’re doing okay, Amos.”
“Sure I am.”
“So what really happened up there?”
His eyes brightened. “What the hell. Maybe someone ought to know the truth while I can still tell it.” “Makes sense to me,” said Weinstein encouragingly.
“All right,” said Bartlett. “You want to know what happened? Blackstone already knows, but he can’t prove it.” Weinstein wanted to ask if he meant that there was a landing, but he knew better than to say it first. Sooner or later, someone might claim that he was leading a senile witness. “So tell me, Mr. Bartlett.” “Call me Amos.”
“All right, Amos.”
“They took the lander down to the surface on the far side,” said Bartlett.
Weinstein checked his video device to make sure it was working. “You want to say that once more, Amos?” “They landed. I was left alone in the ship. I orbited eleven times, then they hooked up with me again. Never said a word about what they were doing down there. I knew it was hush-hush, and, of course, it had to have been planned all along. I never asked them why or what they had done. I couldn’t be sure the ship was secure. When we got back, got away from everything, I asked, but they’d been sworn to silence, same as I had. After that, I never saw them again.” “Did they bring anything back up to the ship?” asked Weinstein. “Rocks, pebbles, anything at all?” Bartlett shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“How could you not know?” persisted Weinstein. “You weren’t at the controls twenty-four hours a day. You had access to the rest of the ship.” “Oh, they didn’t bring anything aboard the ship,” said Bartlett. “But I don’t know what they might have left in the lander. I never got into it during the flight, and I never saw it again after we came home.” “That’s very interesting, Amos.”
“You think so?”
“Don’t you?”
Bartlett shook his head. “I find it scary, not interesting. What the hell did they do that half a century later nobody knows anything about it?” “That’s what your president wants to find out.”
“He’s the president, isn’t he?” said Bartlett. “Why doesn’t he just order NASA to turn everything over to him? I mean, you can’t keep secrets from your president when he wants them, can you?” Only if his name is Ford, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, Bush 2, Obama, or Cunningham, thought Weinstein wryly. Then he remembered that he’d only gotten half his answers.
“I have another question or two, Amos.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
Bartlett nodded. “You want to ask about the earlier flight, Myshko’s, don’t you?” “Yes, I do,” said Weinstein.
“I don’t know. They took off, did some orbits, came back, and there was never any indication anything unusual had happened. I didn’t realize there’d been anything out of the way about the Myshko flight until they started talking about it a couple of weeks ago. If they actually went down, too, they sure as hell didn’t tell any of us.” “Who told you not to say anything?”
“An admiral. Castleman, his name was. I wasn’t to say anything to anyone. Not even let anybody know there was anything to tell. After that, no one ever mentioned the landings again. We had debriefings, and it was as if everything had proceeded according to the officially announced plans. I was told that everything that happened was top secret, and that if I divulged anything I’d be locked away for the rest of my life . . . but that’s just what’s happened to me now. And I’m tired of having this hang over my head.” A rueful smile crossed the old man’s face. “They won’t believe you either, you know.” “One man will,” said Weinstein, getting to his feet and walking toward the door.
“Who?”
Weinstein turned to face Bartlett. “The one who counts.”
20
It was Jerry’s first day on the job for Press of the Dells, a midsize Wisconsin publisher. He hadn’t sought the job; like all the others he’d been turning down until he realized he was running out of money, it had sought him—or his reputation, to be honest. You could fill a dozen books with what he didn’t know about the publishing business—indeed, people already had—but at least it wasn’t the government, and if he had to tell an occasional white lie, it didn’t make him feel as if he was lying to the world at large about vitally important issues.
His job was loosely defined: at-large editor, which meant that he wasn’t responsible for any particular line of books (the house published both fiction and nonfiction in various categories), and assistant to the publisher, which was even more loosely defined but essentially meant that he was the middleman in both directions between the literary press and the stockholders on the one hand, and Cliff Egan, the middle-aged publisher, on the other.
At least, he thought, I’ll be dealing with rational people instead of paranoids who see conspiracies behind every statement.
That comforting thought lasted all the way until midafternoon of his first day, when Millicent Vanguard (which he was sure couldn’t be her real name) burst into his office.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “How may I help you?”
“It’s happened again!” she snapped. “And it’s got to stop!”
He looked past her, through the open doorway, into the hall. “Has someone been annoying you, Miss Vanguard?”
“Him!” she screamed, tossing a magazine down on his desk.
He picked it up. Wisconsin Reviews Magazine. “I’m not acquainted with this. Can you explain, please?”
“Harley Lipton!” she said. “That little carbuncle on the behind of humanity!”
“What exactly did this little carbuncle do?” asked Jerry.
“Just read it!”
He picked up the magazine. “What am I looking for?”
“Page twenty-seven!”
He turned to page twenty-seven, and began reading aloud. “I am as willing to suspend my disbelief as the next man, but when it comes to the sludge that passes for a Millicent Vanguard novel, I find I cannot suspend my appreciation of plot, characterization, and the proper use of the English language. Her latest, Kiss These Dead Lips, is even more ludicrous than her Grave Lover. If I may paraphrase the late, great Henny Youngman, take my Vanguard books—please!”
“Well?” demanded Millicent when Jerry had finished. “What are you going to do about it?”
He was at a loss for an answer. Finally, he said, “Are you asking me to edit your next book?”
“No!”
“Then what?”
“I want you to get Harley Lipton fired!” she screamed.
“Just because he doesn’t like vampire romances?” he asked mildly.
“What better reason is there?” she demanded. “And they’re paranormal romances.”
“I can’t get a man fired just because he doesn’t like a book.”
“But he hasn’t liked my last seven!” said Millicent. “He’s clearly prejudiced against not only me, but the entire paranormal romance field. He has no right to be writing reviews.”
“Maybe you could speak to his editor,” suggested Jerry.
“I did! The fool wouldn’t listen, any more than you do!” She turned on her heel and stalked out.
Ah, well, they can’t all be Ernest Hemingway or Joseph Heller, he thought. Besides, would facing a drunken Hemingway, who was probably carrying a gun, have been any better?
Then he thought of Millicent Vanguard again, and thought, Yeah, probably.
—
The next day brought new interactions with the artists to whom the reading public had entrusted the preservation of the culture and the language.
First came a phone call from James Kirkwood, who was two years late on a biography of Wisconsin Senator Willis McCue.
“I wasn’t aware of the book,” Jerry had replied. “I’ve only been here a couple of days. But McCue is running for reelection next year, and he’s down nine points in the polls. I think you’d better get it in fast, before he’s out of office and peo
ple forget who he is, or was.”
“You’re supposed to encourage me, not depress me, damn it!” snapped Kirkwood.
“I am encouraging you,” said Jerry reasonably. “I’m encouraging you to deliver the manuscript.”
“When I’m ready!”
“Remember what I said. I don’t see how we can use it if you wait much longer.”
“You sue me for nondelivery, and I’ll sue you for harassment and mental cruelty!” yelled Kirkwood, slamming down the phone.
An hour later he got an e-mail from Melanie Dain, explaining that her eighty-five-thousand-word novel was two hundred thousand words and still going strong, but that her agent would soon be in touch about splitting it in half on the reasonable assumption that Press of the Dells would pay her double since it would now be two books. When he asked if the first book, or first half, or whatever they were calling it, would have a satisfying conclusion, since not every reader would be buying both books, she explained that it could easily be done—for triple the advance. He explained that triple the advance for a single book that was running long through no fault of the publisher’s was an unreasonable request, and she explained that she never talked money, that he’d have to speak to her agent.
“But you just did talk money,” he pointed out. “You asked first for double, then triple the advance.”
“That was a matter of principle,” she explained archly. “My agent talks dollars and cents.”
Suddenly NASA and Washington weren’t looking all that bad.
Things went more smoothly for the next two days. Then Schyler Mulhauser, the award-winning science-fiction artist, delivered his cover painting for Richard Darkmoor’s newest book.
“It’s very nice,” said Jerry, looking at the painting.
“One of my best,” said Mulhauser.
“But I’m afraid we can’t use it.”
“Why the hell not?” demanded Mulhauser. “I worked three weeks on the damned thing.”
“Schyler, you put a naked woman in the middle of the painting. She’s absolutely beautiful, but she’s absolutely naked.”
“That scene’s in the book.”
“I haven’t read it, but I’ll take your word for it,” said Jerry. “But we can’t use it anyway.”
“Why not?” repeated Mulhauser.
“Most of the distributors won’t handle it because most of the stores won’t display it.”
“And you’re going to let a bunch of middle-class churchgoing bigots tell you what to do?” demanded Mulhauser.
“Those middle-class churchgoing bigots probably constitute 80 percent of our population,” answered Jerry. “We’re in business to sell books; we can’t sell what the stores won’t take.”
“Publish them as e-books and skip the stores.”
Jerry was getting a little tired of artistes. “Good idea. We’d save the cost of printing, shipping, and cover art.”
“WHAT?”
“Mulhauser, hang the painting at a convention’s art show and sell it at auction, or find some publisher who hasn’t figured out that busty naked ladies don’t get displayed in bookstores, but I need some acceptable cover art, and I’m not okaying payment until I get it.”
“I’ll think about it,” muttered Mulhauser. He turned and walked to the door, then turned back. “I don’t like you much.”
“I’m desolate,” replied Jerry.
“Just remember: I’ll be here long after you’re gone.”
“In Wisconsin?” said Jerry, as Mulhauser stalked out of his office. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”
—
On Monday, the printer phoned to say the press he was using for Jerry’s books had broken down, which meant he’d be three days late. Jerry had to call the trucking company, which wanted a fee for canceling on such short notice, and 15 percent more than usual for supplying trucks on Thursday on almost as short a notice, and one of the distributors explained that the science-fiction, romance, and political-essay lines would probably hit the stores two to three weeks late, despite only arriving at his warehouse three days late. Of course, if Press of the Dells really had to get the books out sooner, he was sure something could be worked out. It was a phone call, but Jerry could almost hear the distributor’s hand stretching out to Wisconsin, palm up.
—
The next day, Jerry was eating lunch in a nearby sandwich shop (which he had to admit gave him twice as much for half the price of its Florida equivalents) when Sarah McConnell, one of the editors, found herself in the same restaurant and sat down across from him.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said.
“Not at all.”
“I’ve hardly had a chance to get acquainted with you,” she said. “How do you like it here, after being on television every day and hobnobbing with the rich and famous?”
“NASA scientists are neither rich nor famous,” he replied with a smile. “As for the job, I’m getting used to it.”
“Good. I don’t know how you can deal with those science-fiction people. They’re all crazy. And the mystery people . . . the women want such neat, cozy, comfortable murders, and you get the feeling the men really enjoy describing decapitations.”
“Are any writers totally sane?” he asked with a smile.
“My writers are,” replied Sarah.
“You’re mainstream and romance, right?”
“Mainstream and paranormal romance,” she corrected him. “Plain romance is, well, passé.”
“But women falling for werewolves and zombies isn’t?”
“I’m talking about my writers, not the subject matter demanded by their readers.”
“Okay, I see the difference.”
“And my writers are absolutely normal. Well, as writers go, anyway.”
“I met one of them my first day on the job,” he said.
“Oh?”
He nodded. “Millicent Vanguard. She wants me to kill a reviewer.”
“Well, Stanley is incredibly cruel to her.”
“Stanley?” he repeated, frowning. “No, I think the guy’s name is Harley someone-or-other?”
She laughed. “Harley Lipton?”
“Yes.”
“At least he uses some wit. Stanley Pierson is positively vicious to her.”
“If they all hate her writing, why do we keep buying her manuscripts?” asked Jerry.
“You mean, beside the fact that she’s the best-selling writer for the entire publishing house?”
He sighed. “Give me time. I’m still new on the job.”
“Isn’t it the same everywhere?”
He shook his head. “Everyone can love a rocket’s design and its cost, but if it won’t get off the ground, we scrap it and try another approach.”
“No wonder the country’s so deep in debt,” remarked Sarah.
“Wouldn’t good be nice, too?” asked Jerry.
“Good is what pleases the public. We’re just the conduit between the artists and the readers.”
—
Then, on his twelfth day on the job, a manuscript arrived. It went to the nonfiction editor, who walked into Jerry’s office and tossed it on his desk.
“Here,” he said. “This is much more your field of expertise than mine. Have fun with it.”
Jerry looked at the title: Reaching High: A History of Our Space Program.
“Oh, Lord, another one!” he muttered, but, out of a sense of duty, he began reading at the top of page one, figuring he’d stop before the end of the prologue and send a little note saying that it was a nice concept, but others had thought so, too, and covered the same subject many times before.
But when he put it down to grab a cup of coffee, he realized that he was on page forty-three and was anxious to get back to it. He took it home with him, read far into the night, and finished it at his desk in midmorning. The second he was through, he walked into Cliff Egan’s office and told him that he’d just read the best damned book on our space program he’d ever experienced.
“Who published it?” asked Egan.
“No one,” said Jerry, surprised. “I’m talking about a manuscript we received.”
“Oh,” said Egan with no show of enthusiasm. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“Everyone will like it once we bring it out. I’d like to be in charge of the publicity campaign.”
Egan stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “We won’t be publishing it, Jerry.”
“Don’t you want to even read it?” demanded Jerry.
“I’m sure it’s as captivating as you say,” said Egan.
“Then why—?”
“You’re new to the field, Jerry. We’re in business to make money, and books about the space program just don’t sell. Write the author a glowing personal rejection and suggest some other publisher, someone big enough to publish it for the prestige, knowing it’s a loser.”
“You won’t even look at it?” persisted Jerry.
“Why bother?”
—
Ten minutes later, Jerry was on the phone to Bucky Blackstone.
“That job you mentioned a couple of weeks ago,” said Jerry. “Is it still open?”
Five minutes later, he stopped by Egan’s office to hand in his resignation.
21
Gloria checked her computer and turned to Bucky. “He’s on his way up.”
“Culpepper? Good.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
Bucky shook his head. “No, we’re going to leave. I want to show him around—especially the plant where we’re working on the ship.”
“Then why not meet him there?” she asked.
“Because he’s been working in a place that’s being starved for funding, and I want to impress the hell out of him by having him come up and take a look at the offices where he’ll be working.”
She stared at him. “You always have a reason for what you do, but I sure don’t know why you want to impress him. I mean, hell, we’ve already got him.”
“He’s going to take over from Ed Camden as the spokesman for the Moon shot,” said Bucky.
“Ed’s not going to like that.”
The Cassandra Project Page 20
