The Cassandra Project

by Jack McDevitt

  Cunningham looked at some of the comments.

  The most trusted man in America.

  You think we can talk him into running for president?

  What the hell were they doing on the Moon anyhow?

  You know what scares me? There’s the biggest science project of the last century and the nitwit in the White House doesn’t know anything about it.

  Give him a break, Harry. He’s a government worker.

  Thank God for Bucky.

  The racetrack sounded. “George.”

  “Yes, Ray?”

  “They’re in the air. On the way back. I thought you’d want to know.” “Okay. Good. I assume Weinstein will check in again when they land?” “Yes, he will.”

  “Are you actually going to stay on?”

  “I’ll be here, George.”

  “All right. When they’re on the ground, let me know. Have we arranged a hotel for Ms. Morris?” “It’s pretty late. I thought we’d put her in the Lincoln Bedroom.” “Okay. That’s a good idea.”

  “I was thinking, as an alternative, we could install her over at the Watergate.” Cunningham was silent for a moment. Then: “This is why you’ll always have a job with me, Ray.” Jon Stewart started his show by assuring everybody that there was nothing to worry about, that the president had everything under control, had known from the beginning about the Myshko and Walker flights. Had undoubtedly known what Blackstone would find because, hey, do you think everyone in the White House is an idiot? Then he ran a clip from the Beverly Hills fund-raiser. A guy whom Cunningham remembered only vaguely, Michael Somebody, asking for his reaction to the Blackstone TV show. And the president’s brush-off response: “Look, Michael, I really don’t know how to respond to his comments. I think you’ll have to ask him. While you’re at it, you might check with Mr. Blackstone to see if he’s figured out what’s going on in the Bermuda Triangle.” And, of course, Stewart responded with shock.

  It was certainly not the first time Cunningham had been a target on The Daily Show. There had been times when the president had said one thing and done another. Like during the campaign, when he’d blamed the country’s economic woes on the sharp decrease in population growth at the same time he was arguing that overpopulation was draining the country’s natural resources. And again, when he’d reassured the nation that blue sky science was part of who we were, then proceeded to delay funding yet again for the Webb Telescope.

  Normally he was able to laugh off the flubs. A foolish consistency and little minds. Everybody understood that. But this one hurt. It wasn’t really his fault that secrets had been kept. Nothing he could have done about that, no way he could have known. But nonetheless, he looked ridiculous at the moment.

  Arthur Stiles, on The Late Show, commented that historians had recently uncovered evidence that an Englishman named Joseph Pettigrew had actually been the first European to arrive in America. “Almost sixty years before Columbus,” he said, shaking his head in mock astonishment.

  “Holy cats, Arthur,” said his bandleader, who also doubled as a straight man, “how come we never found out about it?” Stiles shrugged. “Apparently, Henry V—he was king at the time—wrote it down somewhere, then forgot about it.” “Well,” said the bandleader, “I guess it could happen to anybody.” The audience broke up.

  “Want some coffee?” asked Lyra, getting off the sofa.

  “Please. And a donut would be good, too.”

  —

  Vanessa Hodge, on CBS Late Night, was also enjoying herself at his expense. “We have a late-breaking story,” she said. “The White House has just announced that the Russians have the bomb.” “Now that,” said Lyra, bringing in the coffee, “is clever.” Cunningham nodded. “I suppose.”

  “George, you need a better sense of humor. You know that?” “I know, Lyra. And I don’t mind getting bushwhacked when I deserve it. And sometimes even when I don’t. But this thing has come out of nowhere. What the hell was Nixon up to?” “We’re also getting word,” said Hodge, “that the administration won’t have to worry about a negative reaction to canceling the funding for the Webb Telescope project. NASA is reporting they can’t find the telescope.” “The only thing that makes any sense,” said Cunningham, “is that Myshko and one of his partners, Peters, I guess, made an unauthorized landing. Wanted to be first on the Moon. Nixon was under a lot of pressure at the time, couldn’t get clear of the war, so he panicked and ordered a cover-up.” “So what would have been the purpose of the second mission?” “They went down and sprayed some kind of paint on the descent stages, made them the same color as the ground, and hoped they wouldn’t be found. And they were right.” “So why did the Russians join in?”

  “Damned if I know. They had nothing to lose. So they probably extracted some sort of deal. My guess is that when Nixon’s lockbox gets here, we’ll find out.” He was surprised to discover he’d eaten the donut. He sipped the coffee, put it down, changed channels.

  HBO had The Greta Lee Show. Greta, lovely dark eyes, black hair, enticing smile, looked directly out of the TV. “Well,” she said, “so we got two missions to the back side of the Moon, which is nothing but a big parking lot. And I guess you heard that we’ve also developed artificial semen. And we wonder where the money goes.” Cunningham growled something and went to one of the movie channels. He selected Casablanca, probably his all-time favorite film. “Okay?” he asked.

  “Sure, babe.”

  “I wonder how Bogie would have handled this?”

  Lyra raised her cup. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

  He kissed her. Started to unbutton her blouse. And, in his best Bogart imitation: “You too, sweetheart.” The racetrack sounded again. “George, they’ll be on the ground in twenty minutes. Should be here in less than an hour.”

  37

  “Canaveral has offered us its landing facility if we want it,” announced Gaines, listening to the transmission from Earth. He turned to Bucky. “We might consider it. It’s a hell of a lot better than Flat Plains in every respect.”

  “With one exception,” replied Bucky. “We own Flat Plains. I won’t be beholden to the government or to NASA.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, if we need medical care . . .”

  “Do your job right, and we won’t,” said Bucky, ending the conversation.

  “Bucky, you should be the happiest man alive,” said Neimark. “Why are you so grumpy?”

  “In a couple of hours, I’m going to face the cameras and tell the nation that my president is a liar or a fool. And while we’ve had our differences, I’m just enough of a patriot not to be looking forward to it.”

  “So let Jerry Culpepper do it,” said Bassinger. “That’s why you hired him, isn’t it?”

  “This is my operation,” said Bucky firmly. “I’ll make the report to the public. Which brings up another matter.”

  “Oh?” said Neimark suspiciously.

  “Yeah. I don’t want anyone making any public guesses about what this . . . this thing is. Or was. We’ll wait until our experts have examined it six ways to Sunday, and we’re sure.”

  “Oh, come on, Bucky,” said Bassinger. “It’s an alien artifact. There’s no keeping it secret, and I can’t imagine why you’d want to.”

  “I’m not that sure, Phil,” said Neimark. “We’ve got to run it through half a dozen tests at our lab first.”

  “What else could it be?” demanded Bassinger.

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s always possible it was brought to the Moon not by aliens but by Sidney Myshko.”

  Bassinger gave her a look that implied he thought she might start foaming at the mouth at any second, then shook his head, folded his arms, and shut his mouth.

  “What do you think it is, Boss?” asked Gaines.

  “I don’t know,” admitted Bucky. “I’m no scientist, or metallurgist, or whatever the hell’s required to tell us. But I know what I hope it is.”

  “Proof that we’re not alone?” sugge
sted Gaines with a smile.

  Bucky nodded. “Got it in one.”

  “We’re not alone,” said Neimark.

  “You saw aliens?” asked Bucky disbelievingly.

  “No, of course not,” she replied. “But do the math. There are one hundred billion G-type stars in the galaxy. At least ten billion are G-type stars like our sun. We’re finding that just about every kind of star we’ve been able to observe through the Hubble or one of the other telescopes has one or more planets. Now, what are the odds that there are from one to maybe three billion planets circling G-type stars and not a single one of them has developed life?”

  “Astronomical,” admitted Bucky. Suddenly he smiled. “Maybe that’s why they call it astronomy.”

  His three cabin mates groaned.

  “Nobody laughed,” he observed.

  “Would you?” said Bassinger, making a face.

  “You’re all fired.”

  “Okay, give us our pay.”

  “I left it in my other pair of pants. I guess you’ll have to stay.”

  “Just as well,” said Gaines. “It’s raining out.”

  “Raining?”

  “Meteors.”

  Bucky looked out the window and watched a cloud of rocks sweep past. He kept his eyes on them until the storm dissipated a few minutes later.

  “Well, now you can say you’ve been in one,” said Gaines.

  “And I’m not even wet.”

  “Or crushed, or shipwrecked, or . . .”

  “Are these things common, these meteor storms?” asked Bucky.

  “Not very,” said Gaines. “You’re as likely to get hit by garbage from the Apollo flights that’s been in orbit for fifty years.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, in theory. In practice, someone had enough brains to figure out what might happen, so they carried all their garbage back to Earth.” Suddenly Gaines smiled. “But it’s a pretty interesting notion, isn’t it? I’ll bet you could make a hell of a science-fiction story out of it.” Suddenly, he tensed. “Oops. New transmission coming in.” He concentrated on the message, then looked up. “The University of Nebraska is sending a team from their medical school, just in case. That’s more generous than you might think. We won’t touch down until close to eleven local time.”

  “The Cornhuskers must have had a good year,” said Bucky with a smile.

  “Cornhuskers?” repeated Neimark.

  “Their football team.”

  Gaines thanked them and turned to Bucky. “We’ll be entering the atmosphere in another twenty minutes. Anything you want me to say to Jerry?”

  “Yeah. Have an armored truck on the premises, as well as our best security team.”

  “You expecting trouble?”

  “I don’t expect anyone to try to steal these pieces if that’s what you mean,” replied Bucky. “But I don’t want the press touching them or photographing them until we’re done with them.” He paused. “There’s only going to be one first photo and one first video of whatever the hell this is, and I want to make sure that the four of us are standing next to it and not some moron from CBS or NBC.”

  “Okay, makes sense,” agreed Gaines.

  “Also, nobody hitches a ride and sneaks into whatever lab we’re using. We don’t want anybody reporting our findings to the public before we do.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Bucky smiled. “That’s the first time you’ve acknowledged it since we took off.”

  “Spend a week in space, and it makes you crazy.” Gaines matched his smile.

  Then they were in the atmosphere. The ride got choppy, and Gaines had to concentrate on his piloting. Bucky traded seats with Neimark, who was able to double as copilot, and before too long, they were on the ground and being towed to the hangar at Flat Plains with numerous spotlights and floodlights illuminating the darkened field.

  “What the hell’s that?” demanded Bucky as he saw perhaps three dozen trucks and vans forming an aisle for the ship to be pulled into the hangar.

  “The press, of course,” said Neimark. “You didn’t really think they wouldn’t be here to interview the first people to walk on the Moon in most of their lifetimes, did you?”

  “No, of course not.” Bucky frowned. “But I don’t want them inside the hangar until we’re out of the ship, and I’ve talked to Jerry Culpepper.”

  Gaines relayed the order, and they could see members of the press, and especially the cable news companies, arguing fruitlessly to be allowed in. Then Bucky saw Jason Brent directing his security team, and a moment later the press, sullen and resentful but no longer trying to disobey his wishes, backed off and took up positions outside the hangar.

  The ship entered, and the doors closed behind it. A number of Bucky’s closest associates were there, including Gloria Marcos, Sabina Marinova, and Ed Camden, but Bucky walked directly to Jerry, shedding his space gear as he did so.

  “So what, exactly, have you brought back?” asked Jerry.

  “I’ll be damned if I know.”

  “Let me ask it another way,” said Jerry. “Is it of human or alien origin?”

  “Same answer.”

  “We’ll have it analyzed as thoroughly as any object in history,” said Jerry. “I’ve got all the experts standing by, and we’ve turned the old farmhouse into the most high-tech lab you ever saw . . . but you’re going to have to say something to the press.”

  “Why?”

  “Bucky, you’ve got the whole world talking about you. You’re the first man, well, the first group, to go to the Moon in almost fifty years. You found proof that the history of our space program is, if not a sham, at least wrong. You as much as suggested that the government of the United States is in collusion to keep this a secret. They saw Myshko’s landing stages when you broadcast them from the Moon. The administration’s got the best video and computer people in the country trying to prove you faked that transmission, and they can’t. You’ve hinted that you found something even more startling. How the hell can you just smile at the cameras, say you’re off to have dinner and a shower, and you’ll talk to them in a week or a month, when our technicians determine exactly what it is that you’ve brought back and refuse to share with a breathlessly awaiting public?”

  Bucky stared at him for a moment, the hint of a smile playing about his lips. “You ever think of going into politics?”

  Jerry returned the smile. “Sometimes I think I’ve been in it for years.” Then: “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, I don’t want them breaking down the door of my hotel room, so I guess I’ll talk to them right here after all. Stick around; you get to clarify it all after I’ve had my say and left.”

  “You want to show it to them?” asked Neimark, emerging from the ship.

  “No one will believe me if I don’t,” replied Bucky. “Have Phil and Ben bring the pieces around and set them up over there.”

  “Set them up?” she repeated, puzzled.

  “Prop them up against a table or something. They’ll be more impressive that way than lying flat.”

  Gaines and Bassinger, who knew where the pieces of the dome were stored, brought them out and leaned them upright against a long table. Bucky walked over and studied them. He was almost disappointed when there was no alien lettering engraved in the strange metal.

  Jason Brent walked in through a side entrance and quickly slammed the door behind him. “They’re getting restless,” he announced. “And by the way, welcome back.”

  “Okay, let ’em in,” said Bucky.

  The doors were opened, and in less than a minute Bucky found himself surrounded by perhaps twenty reporters and cameramen, while smaller numbers concentrated on Neimark, Gaines, and Bassinger.

  “What’s that stuff?” asked one of the reporters, pointing to the dome segments.

  “That’s what we hope to find out,” said Bucky.

  “Did they come from Myshko’s ship?” asked another.

  “I’ve no idea.�
�

  “Oh, come on, Bucky,” said a third. “Take a guess!”

  “I’m no scientist,” replied Bucky. “We have to subject these things to all kinds of tests.”

  “Okay, you don’t know what they are. What do you think they are?”

  Bucky stared at the assembled members of the press for a long moment, and then his natural flamboyance came to the fore. “I think they’re part of a dome that was constructed on the far side of the moon, in the Cassegrain Crater.”

  “By Myshko?”

  A brief pause. Then: “I doubt it.”

  “You’re saying it was made by aliens?”

  “I’m saying that I doubt Myshko built it. Who else might have?”

  “Where’s the rest of this dome?” asked another.

  Good question, thought Bucky. He looked at the reporter. “I don’t know.”

  “There’s no weather on the Moon, is there?”

  “Not the way you and I know it,” said Bucky. “So to anticipate your next question, no, it wasn’t destroyed by a tornado or a cyclone or an earthquake . . . make that, a moonquake.”

  “So are you suggesting that Myshko destroyed it?”

  Bucky shook his head. “I’m not saying any such thing. In point of fact, I believe that Myshko’s mission was to look at it.”

  “Now I’m really confused,” continued the reporter. “You didn’t find any aliens up there, did you?”

  “I think you can be assured I would have said so if we did.” Bucky smiled.

  “Then if the Myshko mission didn’t destroy it, and aliens didn’t destroy it, who did?”

  “I think there’s only one possible answer,” replied Bucky. “I think it was destroyed three months after the Myshko flight by the Walker mission.”

  Even the jaded reporters fell silent as they did a mass double take.

  “Just a minute, Bucky!” said The Los Angeles Times. “Are you saying that there was a second Moon landing before Neil Armstrong?”

  “Yes,” said Bucky. “Weren’t you paying attention? There were two descent stages left on the Moon.”