by Neil Clarke
He checked his clipboard. “This is the only listing we have for the Cassandra Project, sir.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
There was no lock. He raised the hasp on the box, lifted the lid, and stood back to make room. He showed no interest in the contents. He probably did this all the time, so I don’t know why that surprised me.
Inside, I could see a rectangular object wrapped in plastic. I couldn’t see what it was, but of course I knew. My heart was pounding by then. The object was about a foot and a half wide and maybe half as high. And it was heavy. I carried it over to a table and set it down. Wouldn’t do to drop it. Then I unwrapped it.
The metal was black, polished, reflective, even in the half-light from the overhead bulb. And sure enough, there were the Greek characters. Eight lines of them.
The idea that Plato was saying hello seemed suddenly less far-fetched. I took a picture. Several pictures. Finally, reluctantly, I rewrapped it and put it back in the box.
“So,” said Frank, “what did it say?”
“I have the translation here.” I fished it out of my pocket but he shook his head.
“My eyes aren’t that good, Jerry. Just tell me who wrote it. And what it says.” We were back in the office at Frank’s home in Pasadena. It was a chilly, rainswept evening. Across the street, I could see one of his neighbors putting out the trash.
“It wasn’t written by the Greeks.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
“Somebody came through a long time ago. Two thousand years or so. They left the message. Apparently they wrote it in Greek because it must have looked like their best chance to leave something we’d be able to read. Assuming we ever reached the Moon.”
“So what did it say?”
“It’s a warning.”
The creases in Frank’s forehead deepened. “Is the sun going unstable?”
“No.” I looked down at the translation. “It says that no civilization, anywhere, has been known to survive the advance of technology.”
Frank stared at me. “Say that again.”
“They all collapse. They fight wars. Or they abolish individual death, which apparently guarantees stagnation and an exit. I don’t know. They don’t specify.
“Sometimes the civilizations become too vulnerable to criminals. Or the inhabitants become too dependent on the technology and lose whatever virtue they might have had. Anyway, the message says that no technological civilization, anywhere, has been known to get old. Nothing lasts more than a few centuries—our centuries—once technological advancement begins. Which for us maybe starts with the invention of the printing press.
“The oldest known civilization lasted less than a thousand years.”
Frank frowned. He wasn’t buying it. “They survived. Hell, they had an interstellar ship of some kind.”
“They said they were looking for a place to start again. Where they came from is a shambles.”
“You’re kidding.”
“It says that maybe, if we know in advance, we can sidestep the problem. That’s why they left the warning.”
“Great.”
“If they survive, they say they’ll come back to see how we’re doing.”
We were both silent for a long while.
“So what happens now?” Frank said.
“We’ve reclassified everything. It’s top secret again. I shouldn’t be telling you this. But I thought—”
He rearranged himself in the chair. Winced and rotated his right arm. “Maybe that’s why they called it Cassandra,” he said. “Wasn’t she the woman who always brought bad news?”
“I think so.”
“There was something else about her—”
“Yeah—the bad news,” I said. “When she gave it, nobody would listen.”
2010
Marianne Dyson was inspired by science fiction and the Apollo Program to become one of NASA’s first female flight controllers. She is now an awardwinning children’s author, educational speaker, and freelance science and science fiction writer. To learn more, visit www.mDyson.com.
FLY ME TO THE MOON
Marianne J. Dyson
Good afternoon, Mr. Smith,” I said as I plopped my backpack on an extra chair in the Lakewood Retirement Center’s dining room.
The white-haired gentleman looked up from his coffee and riveted his eyes on me like a security guard verifying my identity. I saw by the relaxing of his shoulders that I was recognized, and that he’d read my nametag. “Good to see you, George,” he said. “I wish you wouldn’t call me Mr. Smith. Makes me feel old.” He smiled at his own joke. I didn’t know his exact age, but I guessed he was in his late eighties.
“Okay, Bob,” I said, returning his smile and adding a wink. We went through this same routine every day when I arrived for work as a volunteer caregiver. On one of my earliest visits, he surveyed the dining room as if looking for spies and whispered that Bob Smith was a fake name. He explained that he couldn’t tell me his real name because the press (he never called them news media) might find out. I promised not to reveal his secret. I suspected he was an actor whose family wanted to hide him from the paparazzi. They had done a good job of it—or maybe he’d had plastic surgery? In any case, I hadn’t been able to figure out who he really was. All the staff would tell me was that he had checked in after his wife died in a car crash in the late 2020s. He had some grandchildren and great-grandchildren, even great-great-grandchildren, but I was his only regular visitor. New treatments had slowed down the progression of his Alzheimer’s disease, but I wondered how long it would be before he forgot that Bob Smith wasn’t his real name?
I pulled my laptop out of my backpack, connected the dual hand controllers, and set them on the table in front of Mr. Smith. “Got a new simulator to fly with you,” I said. This one was actually for little kids, but I had found that Mr. Smith enjoyed holding the hand controllers and flying various aircraft. Sometimes we flew against each other, and sometimes as pilot and copilot, me always the copilot. The only time I could out-fly him was in those games where spaceships could jump through wormholes or something that real aircraft could never do. He didn’t like those games. He liked the simulators. I had told Mr. Smith that I was thinking of joining the military so I could become a pilot. That’s when he’d told me he was a pilot, but that I shouldn’t tell anyone because they might figure out who he was. Whether he really had been a pilot or not, I was happy to discover we both had an interest in flying.
“This one is a simulator of the old Apollo lunar landers,” I said while booting the program. “You know you don’t even have to be an astronaut to go the Moon now? You just have to be rich enough to buy a ticket from the Russians.” Mr. Smith frowned at me. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. We beat the Russians to the Moon!” He crossed his arms.
His angry reaction startled me. Obviously this was a touchy subject for him. “Yes, of course you’re right, Mr. Smith. We beat the Russians to the Moon.”
“Darn right!” he said.
“But that was a long time ago. Now lots of people go to the Moon.” I glanced to the lounge area of the dining hall. “Look, there’s a scene from the Moon on the TV right now.”
He stared at the big screen like it was the first time he’d seen it. “I remember that movie.”
Now I was confused. “What movie?”
“That movie about Apollo. The one with Tom Hanks.”
I saw the “CBN LIVE” label in the corner. “No, sir, that’s a live broadcast.” I read the captions and summarized for him. “There’s been an accident at an old Apollo site. A lunar shuttle computer failed and shut down the engine just after liftoff. The pilot was killed on impact, and one passenger remains unconscious. The other passenger, a historian named Ms. Clara Phillips, is okay, but only has enough spacesuit battery power to last eight hours. A Russian rescue ship can’t arrive for several days. Wow, get this,” I continued, “They’re talking about launch
ing the Apollo lunar ascent vehicle! The original one was used and discarded by the Apollo crew—this is a replica built by the Apollo Restoration Project that they claim is fully functional. Only trouble is, Ms. Phillips isn’t a pilot, and they need someone to tell her how to fly it!”
Mr. Smith looked down at his age-spotted hands. “I’m a little rusty, but I could do it,” he said.
“You could? Where did you learn how to fly a lunar module?” Maybe he had a part in that Apollo movie. I’d have to check the credits when I got home.
Mr. Smith ignored my questions and continued to watch the screen. He nodded. “Yes, I can do it,” he decided. He scooted his chair back and stood looking around the room. “We’re in the cafeteria,” he stated. I nodded. “I have to get to Building 30,” he said.
I didn’t know they numbered the buildings at Lakewood. “Where is that?”
He gave my nametag a puzzled look. “What kind of badge is that? Are you a reporter?”
“No, sir. I’m George, remember? I was about to show you how to fly the new lunar simulator.”
“Oh. A training instructor. Okay, then. We’d better get moving if we’re going to save that crew. Can’t let the Russians get there first.” He shuffled toward the exit somewhat bent over, but amazingly fast for someone his age. I caught the eye of the receptionist and nodded toward my game setup. She would watch it for me until I lured Mr. Smith back. She didn’t need to remind me that Mr. Smith wasn’t allowed to leave the grounds. My job was to redirect him somehow.
“Mr. Smith, I think we should take a different way to Building 30.”
He stopped. “Why? Is there a media circus out there already?”
“No, no,” I assured him quickly. “We just need to use the elevator to avoid all those stairs.”
“I like the stairs. Keeps me in shape,” he said.
“Yes, of course, Mr. Smith, but you had surgery on your knee a few months ago, remember?” He’d fallen trying to take the stairs two at a time—something he must have done a lot in his younger days. If he were an actor, he probably did his own stunts.
Mr. Smith stopped and looked down at his knees and feet. “I can’t wear these slippers outside. Mother will yell at me.” He paused, deep in thought. “Before I go, I need to call her. She always worries when I travel. Is there a phone in this building?”
He’d obviously forgotten that he no longer had a mother, and that everyone used cell phones now. He had an old phone in his room, though. It was hooked up to the front desk. The staff was great at explaining that mothers and wives and other deceased loved ones were not home for one reason or another. But often, by the time we got to his room, he’d have forgotten he wanted to call someone. “There’s a phone upstairs, sir,” I said.
“All right,” he said. After he got his shoes on, I’d take him for a walk in the garden. We both enjoyed watching the birds.
We got into the elevator. I waited for him to select the floor. If he had forgotten, then I’d remind him, but it was important to give him a chance to remember. He stared at the buttons. “This isn’t the cafeteria,” he said. “Only Building 1 has nine floors.” He pressed the OPEN DOOR button and walked back out of the elevator.
Now what? I wondered. It didn’t hurt to ask questions. “Mr. Smith, what is it you want to do when we get to Building 30?”
He scanned the hallways in both directions, I assumed checking for reporters. He said softly, “We’re going to get those folks in Mission Control to set up a simulator run. We’ll create the trajectory for the crew to get off the Moon.”
“Oh, I should have thought of this earlier,” I said. “We don’t need to go to Building 30. I can connect to Mission Control from here.”
“You can?”
“Yes, this building has a wireless node in the lounge, where the big screen is.” Once I got him playing on the simulator, he’d probably forget all about the mysterious Building 30, and his mother too.
Mr. Smith nodded. “Okay, then. But we had better hurry. We don’t want the Russians to get there first.”
“Right.” I took his arm and walked with him past the reception desk and back toward the dining area. The receptionist looked up as we went by, and I winked at her. Yvonne was a year older than me, a high school senior who worked here weekdays after school. She smiled and came around the desk with my laptop and hand controllers that she must have retrieved while we were in the elevator.
“Hey, Flyboy,” she said to Mr. Smith after handing me my stuff. I had told her previously that he claimed to have been a pilot. Though he protested (the reporters might overhear), his face always lit up when she called him that. Then again, I couldn’t think of too many men, myself included, that wouldn’t enjoy some attention from a pretty girl like her. “Going to do some fancy flying today?”
Mr. Smith straightened up and met her gaze with a shy smile. “I can neither confirm nor deny that statement, young lady. But maybe we can have a drink later in the lounge, and I can show you some moves!”
“I just might take you up on that,” Yvonne said with a wide grin and twinkling eyes. She pecked him on the cheek and did a little swirl as she moved back behind the desk. The scent of her lingered pleasantly in the air as I stuffed my gear into my backpack again.
In a whisper, Mr. Smith said, “Women love pilots, you know. Got to watch out, though. Reporters have eyes everywhere, even in nice hotels like this one.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. Had he been involved in a scandal with a famous actress? Maybe he had been a stunt pilot? I steered him back to the dining area. The tables were filling with early diners. I decided we’d be more comfortable in the lounge. The TV was still on the news channel, and still showing scenes from the Moon. Someone had turned the sound up to hear over the diners in the background.
“We have an update on the crisis on the Moon,” the anchor said. “The privately-funded Apollo Restoration Project is working with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration to see if it is possible for their stranded crew to use their Apollo lunar vehicle to reach orbit. If the two historians can reach lunar orbit, NASA says it can remotely maneuver an unmanned cargo ship to pick them up. The cargo ship is not equipped to land, but has emergency supplies that would support the two people in lunar orbit until a Russian rescue ship can reach them two days from now.”
“Well, that’s good news,” I said.
“Shhh,” Mr. Smith said. I shut up.
“The team is working against the clock. The spacesuits have only seven hours of battery power remaining.”
“That’s not good,” I said. Mr. Smith glared at me. “Sorry,” I whispered. “The Apollo lunar module replica is brand new and contains all the same systems as the historical modules, including working engines for its planned use in an unmanned reenactment. However, recent tests showed that the hatch does not seal properly, so the cabin cannot hold pressure. Therefore, the historians will have to remain in their suits. Also, the fuel pressure is low, possibly because of a slow helium leak. But the biggest problem is that the ship does not have an autopilot, and Ms. Phillips has no flight experience.” Mr. Smith stared at the screen. “No flight experience! What kind of stunt are the Russians trying to pull by putting that woman up there?”
“She’s American,” I noted.
He ignored me and kept on talking. “Newbies always overcontrol, and that thing is as fragile as tissue paper. Get it tumbling, and it might fly apart.”
“Well, how about flying it remotely?” I suggested. “That reporter said NASA’s going to fly the cargo ship remotely.”
Mr. Smith smiled weakly. “Remote control requires a computer interface. The computer on that thing is dumber than an adding machine.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering what an adding machine was.
“No,” Mr. Smith continued, “they need to come up with a preplanned set of maneuvers and then have an experienced pilot walk that woman through them.” He nodded to himself. “I’d better warn my wife.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t want her home when the press start snooping around.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I said quickly. He always got most upset when he couldn’t reach his wife. “She’s visiting her mother.” It was the truth, if you believe in heaven.
“That’s good,” he said. “Then I’d better call Houston right away.” He stood up. “Where did you say the phone is?”
There was no way he was going to really call NASA in Houston. But some small voice inside me insisted that it was important to let him play out this fantasy. Not wanting to repeat the elevator fiasco, I said, “There’s a phone at the front desk.” I pointed toward the doorway that led to the reception area. I grabbed my backpack and hurried after him.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said upon reaching the front desk.
Yvonne looked up and smiled. “Back so soon, Flyboy?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes. I need to use the phone to make a long-distance call. It’s an emergency.”
Yvonne glanced at me, and I shrugged.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, but the phones are for staff use only,” she said.
Mr. Smith began breathing heavily. His long fingers curled into fists.
“But this is an emergency,” he repeated. “I have to check in with Houston!” His face was flushed, and that worried me.
“Yvonne, you’d better call Dr. Winkler,” I said.
“I don’t need a doctor. I need to call Houston!” Mr. Smith shouted.
“It’s okay, Bob,” I said in a soft voice, steering him by the elbow to a bench. “The doctor has to check you before you can go.”
“A flight physical now? There’s no time for that!” He was panting.
“No, no,” I said. “Not a complete physical. Just a quick check to make sure it’s okay for you to fly.” I needed to calm him down. “Take a deep breath and count to ten as you let it out. You don’t want the doctor to ground you, do you?”
“Certainly not!” he said. I was happy to see his long fingers uncurl and spread out over his boney knees.
A lean bearded man rushed over to where we sat, and squatted down in front of Mr. Smith. “Good afternoon, Mr. Smith,” he said in a soothing voice. “I’m Dr. Winkler.” He placed a small disk on Mr. Smith’s wrist and asked, “What seems to be the problem?”
