by Neil Clarke
“That’s an excellent idea,” Lunar Ops said.
“Doctor Winkler?”
He glanced over at me. “George, you know how he usually behaves after his afternoon naps. Think he can do it?”
I gulped. The fate of two people might depend on my decision. I looked at Mr. Smith sleeping peacefully. Usually, a nap “reset” his memory. But given the right “props,” I could probably get him back into his astronaut mindset in time for the launch, now only forty-five minutes away. I took a deep breath and nodded yes. I hoped I wouldn’t regret this!
Doctor Winkler and the capcom, who was a current astronaut with lunar experience, agreed to do a voice check and let Mr. Smith talk to Ms. Phillips before the launch. At that time, we’d decide if he could continue on the live loop and be given command authority to the autopilot.
I stood up. “Dr. Winkler, I’m going to get Mr. Smith’s shoes—his slippers remind him of his mother.”
The doctor nodded in understanding. “While you’re up there, see if he has a white shirt. And bring a belt too. People used to dress up back then.”
“Roger!” I said, and dashed out for the elevator.
When I returned, the liftoff was only a half hour away. Dr. Winkler was talking on his cell—something about a security team. He disconnected when he saw me and said, “Time to wake our famous moonwalker.”
Dr. Winkler set a wind-up alarm clock (no voice controls!) next to Mr. Smith and let it ring. Mr. Smith immediately nabbed it and shut it off. He blinked and stared at Dr. Winkler, who had donned his white lab coat. “Do I know you?” he asked. Dr. Winkler explained that he was a NASA flight surgeon. He regretted waking him, but Mission Control needed Mr. Smith’s assistance.
“There’s a mission on?” he asked, straightening up.
“Yes, and they’re in trouble,” Dr. Winkler said as he handed him the white golf shirt I’d brought. The doctor explained what had happened to Ms. Phillips, and that Mission Control wanted him to talk her through a lunar ascent and rendezvous. Mr. Smith looked confused. “We beat the Russians, and quit flying to the Moon,” he insisted.
“Yes, we did,” the doctor agreed. “But then we went back to the Moon as partners. Ms. Phillips was visiting the Moon when the accident happened.”
I cringed. I wish he hadn’t used the word “accident.” It might evoke memories of Mr. Smith’s wife. But Mr. Smith was more focused on the first part of the sentence. “Partners? With the Russians? Like Apollo-Soyuz?”
“That’s right,” Dr. Winkler said. “Like Apollo-Soyuz, only on the Moon.”
“Okay,” Mr. Smith said. “And they got in trouble?”
“Yes,” Dr. Winkler repeated. I helped Mr. Smith with his shoes and then his belt. I combed his thin white hair. He suddenly noticed me and stared at my badge. “What kind of badge is that? Are you press? Reporters aren’t allowed in here.”
“I’m not a reporter, Mr. Smith. I’m George. I’m uh, a member of the guidance team,” I said quickly in an attempt to use an appropriate term. I thought of adding that I was in charge of the “manual” system, but stopped myself. “Then don’t call me Mr. Smith,” he barked. “Makes me feel old.”
“Okay, Bob,” I said with a wink.
Dr. Winkler handed him a cup of coffee spiked with some of that pink medicine. Mr. Smith sipped it gratefully. “Ready?” Dr. Winkler asked.
“Where are we going?” Mr. Smith asked.
“To the hotel lobby—we’ve set up a direct link to Mission Control. We’re going to help a young woman take off from the Moon.”
“Better call my wife,” he said. “She’ll be worried.”
“She’s visiting her mother,” Dr. Winkler explained.
“Oh? That’s good,” he said.
I heard a thumping sound as we approached the double doors at the front of the building. “Whoa,” I said. “There’s a helicopter in the parking lot!”
“Darn press,” mumbled Mr. Smith. His hands curled into fists.
“No, sir, that’s Homeland Se—I mean the Air Force,” Dr. Winkler said. So that’s who he was talking to on the phone! Wonder what they’re doing here.
“Oh, of course,” Mr. Smith said, his hands relaxing again.
A man in a black suit with a security bud in his ear was asking Yvonne a question. With her eyes as large as saucers, she pointed in our direction. The man turned toward us. I thought he looked like one of those guys who guard the president. Maybe he did. He saluted Mr. Smith as we walked past, and Mr. Smith acknowledged him with a curt nod. Then Mr. Smith blew a kiss at Yvonne, who blushed deeply enough to match the purple of the front desk.
Would she guess who Mr. Smith was now? Even if she did, I realized that I would not be able to confirm her suspicions without breaking my word. I’d always thought of security as keeping bad guys out, not good guys in!
Is that why DHS was here? To make sure no one tried to kidnap Mr. Smith? Age and Alzheimer’s had kind of done that already. Or were they here to keep the media out in case someone leaked that one of the original moonwalkers was alive and helping them? Or both?
At the doorway to the lounge, another man in black stopped us. Mr. Smith waited patiently while he asked me to raise my arms and ran a metal detector over me like they do at airports. He confiscated my phone, saying no recordings or photos were allowed. Did I understand?
I didn’t know if this was an act for Mr. Smith’s benefit or not, but I quickly replied, “Yes sir!” Lakewood did not to allow the taking of photos or videos of the residents by non-family members, anyway. Now I understand just how important that rule was to someone like Mr. Smith.
A nicely dressed middle-aged woman stood up as we shuffled Mr. Smith into the darkened lounge. She pecked Mr. Smith on the cheek. “Good to see you again, Flyboy!” she said. With an exaggerated wink, she added, “Name’s Ruth, in case you forgot.”
Mr. Smith didn’t show any signs of recognizing this woman, but he returned her wink and said, “I never forget a beautiful woman!”
Dr. Winkler explained that Ruth Pressa was the relative who had granted permission to contact Mission Control. She shook my hand warmly and whispered in my ear, “Thank you for being such a good friend to my great-grandfather. It means a lot to our family.”
Her great-grandfather? “It’s my privilege, ma’am,” I said. Her badge sported the seal of the DHS and her last name at the bottom in capital letters, “PRESSA.” I wondered what kind of work she did for them?
While Dr. Winkler escorted Mr. Smith to a chair, Ms. Pressa handed me an old-fashioned wired headset and a speaker box. “This is a Mission Control headset and speaker box from the Apollo Restoration Project. I rigged up an interface so you can plug these into your laptop.” She pointed to a rocker switch on the cord. “This is the push-to-talk button that he’ll use to talk to Ms. Phillips. If he starts spouting nonsense, just unplug him from the laptop—he’ll hear a click. Tell him we lost the signal.” I nodded, hoping I’d not need to do that.
She continued. “The speaker box is set to broadcast and receive. The flight director and all the team will hear everything said in this room, so be careful to always call him Mr. Smith.”
“I understand,” I said. I decided not to tell her I didn’t know his real name anyway.
“Okay then, I’ll let you get to work.” She settled into a chair next to Dr. Winkler.
I motioned Mr. Smith to join me standing behind the simulator. Our interface to Mission Control was the same set-up I’d used earlier, except that I’d added some bar stools in case our feet got tired. Also, I’d left the projector off since we had live images from Mission Control. The view from Ms. Phillips’ helmet cam was in the center of the screen. On the right was a graph of data from the spacesuits showing power and carbon dioxide levels and stuff like that. On the left was a plot of the planned trajectory of the direct ascent rendezvous. It looked pretty simple; an arc from the surface that intersected a dotted circle around the Moon. The cargo ship was marked by a yello
w Pac-Man that was slowly eating its way around the dotted circle. I smiled. Someone on the flight control team had a sense of humor.
“I saw that movie,” Mr. Smith said, looking at the TV. “Isn’t that the one with Tom Hanks in it?”
“No,” I said. “This is a live image from the Moon. There’s a woman who needs to fly to lunar orbit.”
“What’s a woman doing on the Moon? Is this some Russian stunt?”
“No, she’s an American,” I replied patiently. Had he forgotten everything we’d told him already? My heart rate climbed. “What’s important is that if she doesn’t rendezvous with a cargo ship in lunar orbit, she and the other passenger will die. Unfortunately, she’s not a pilot.”
Mr. Smith frowned. “She’ll never make it.”
“Not on her own, she won’t,” I said. “That’s why we need you. NASA has set up the computer to fly the ascent automatically—you know, like ‘pings’?” I hoped I had the term right.
He nodded. “Pings works great,” he said.
I continued. “Yes, and pings was recently updated so that it can do all the calculations really fast. But it can’t fly like the best LM pilot alive.” No need to say the only one. He smiled at this praise. “So NASA needs you to help this woman—her name is Ms. Clara Phillips—with the launch and rendezvous.”
“I can do that,” Mr. Smith said, placing his large hand on the stick, just like he’d done hours earlier. I let out the breath I’d been holding.
I looked over at Dr. Winkler who gave me a thumbs-up sign. Mr. Smith donned the old-fashioned headset like he wore one every day. I plugged it into my laptop. If Mr. Smith got confused, I’d be responsible for literally pulling the plug.
“Houston would like to do a voice check of their secure line,” I said.
“Hello, Mr. Smith, this is Houston Capcom. How do you read?”
“Roger, Houston, read you five by,” Mr. Smith answered.
“Good. The flight director would like to speak to you.”
“Go ahead,” Mr. Smith said.
“Hello, Mr. Smith. I’m Flight Director Keegan Taylor,” he said. “We appreciate you helping us in this emergency. Time is short, so let me fill you in on a few details.”
Mr. Smith listened intently as the flight director explained that they were going to do a direct ascent, and that they might need him to take over manually.
“Understood,” Mr. Smith said.
“Oh, and if you’re willing, we’d like you to talk to Ms. Phillips, tell her what to expect before it happens—keeping in mind the 1.3-second signal delay, so she’ll stay calm. Can you do that?”
“Sure,” Mr. Smith replied simply.
“Good. Then I’ll have Capcom patch you through to Ms. Phillips. Her first name is Clara.”
The capcom’s voice came over the speaker, “Clara, this is Houston on Private Channel Alpha, do you copy?”
A second later, she responded, “Yes, Houston, I hear you. My hands are shaking so badly, I’m afraid I’ll press the wrong buttons!”
“Clara, you will do fine,” the capcom assured her. “You just press PROCEED at T-5, and the computer will take it from there.”
“But this LM was never tested under real conditions, and I’m not a pilot!”
“We know that, Clara. But that engine worked on every Apollo flight, and the systems are looking good. To reassure you, we’ve asked a very special person to come out of retirement. I’m going to patch him through to speak to you. He wishes to keep his name secret, and goes by Mr. Smith, but we have verified that he is in fact one of the original Apollo moonwalkers.”
A second later, she said, “But that’s impossible! The last one died in a car crash with his wife. I went to their funeral!”
“Apparently, only the wife actually died in that crash. Mr. Smith was sent to a secret location to spend his last years free of media scrutiny.”
“The tabloids were actually right!” Ms. Phillips laughed. “Oh my, that was insensitive of me. Is Mr., uh, Smith listening? Please tell him I didn’t mean to make light of his loss. I’m sure it must have been very hard.”
“Yes,” Mr. Smith said. “I miss my wife.”
Oh no! He mustn’t start thinking about his wife right now. He’ll be of no help at all. I unplugged his connection to Ms. Phillips. “Mr. Smith,” I whispered, pointing at the display, “What does that light mean?”
He stared at the panel seen through Ms. Phillips’ helmet camera. “The LM fuel tank pressure is low. Must have a leak. Better take off soon.”
Good. He was back on track. I plugged him back in. I saw Ms. Pressa smiling at me.
The capcom was talking to Ms. Phillips, I supposed answering a question about how Mr. Smith had gotten involved in this rescue. “Mr. Smith heard about your situation on the news and contacted us to see if he could help. We had him fly a simulator and update the model for use in the autopilot. He’s standing by to speak with you.”
“I can’t believe this!” Ms. Phillips said. “I must be out of my mind or talking to a ghost.”
“I’m not a ghost,” Mr. Smith said. “And you won’t be either, as long as you stay calm and follow directions.” He paused in thought. I kept my finger on the plug just in case he changed subjects. “Once you reach orbit,” Mr. Smith said, “You’ll just coast right to where the command module can get you.”
“Command module?” Ms. Phillips repeated.
“He means the cargo ship,” the capcom said.
“Oh, of course. I understand,” Ms. Phillips said.
They went through some preflight checks of switch positions and reviewed the procedures. Mr. Smith seemed calm and in control, every bit the old Apollo astronaut.
The liftoff was right on time. Ms. Phillips yelped when the engine fired, but Mr. Smith soothingly told her that was nominal (a word he used instead of “normal”). “You’ll go straight up for about ten seconds,” he reminded her. “Then you’ll pitch over and move horizontally with respect to the lunar surface. You should have a great view out the window.”
The image of the cockpit on the TV jiggled up and down in response to the engine. No sound penetrated through the airless cockpit. The view out the window changed from black sky to lunar gray as the ship nosed down. “Guidance, report,” the flight director demanded.
“Flight, cg shifted at pitch over.”
A second later we heard Ms. Phillips shout, “Dr. Canterbury!” The pitch over had thrown the injured man out of his harness. One arm smacked Ms. Phillips across her faceplate.
I involuntarily winced and sucked in a breath, though she was perfectly fine inside her helmet.
Mr. Smith spoke softly. “Ms. Phillips, grab his wrist. When the ascent engine shuts down, he’ll float right to you.”
“Flight, engine shutdown.”
“Trajectory report,” the flight director ordered.
“The computer didn’t fully compensate for the cg shift. We’ll need a correction from the RCS.”
“Mr. Smith, stand by for remote ops.”
“Roger, Flight,” Mr. Smith said.
We saw Ms. Phillips pull on Dr. Canterbury’s wrist, rotating him so that he was facing her. She reached to pull the harness around him.
Dr. Canterbury’s eyes opened. He jerked and hit the hand controller. The two historians tumbled. Out the window, the gray lunar surface was replaced by darkness and then surface again in rapid succession. They’re spinning!
Mr. Smith pulled the hand controller to one side and released it. After a short delay, I noted that the view rotated more slowly.
“Flight, Guidance. LM is in stable BBQmode.”
“Nice flying, Mr. Smith,” the capcom said. “My guy in the simulator says you used about half the fuel he would have.”
“She’s not out of the woods yet,” he said. “Look at the disk key.”
Huh? There were no woods on the Moon. And what kind of a disk had a key? Click. I yanked the plug from my laptop.
Mr. Smith continued ta
lking. “Apo loon is . . .”
“Sorry, I think we’ve lost our link to the spacecraft,” I said, looking at Dr. Winkler. He in turn was looking at Ms. Pressa.
Ms. Pressa was texting quietly on her phone. “Communications restored,” she declared.
I took the hint and plugged Mr. Smith back in. A text message appeared on my laptop saying, “‘Not out of the woods’ means ‘not out of trouble.’ ‘DSKY’ is a display in the LM.” None of that was nonsense? My face burned with embarrassment. I had a lot to learn.
The guidance team reported that they had the orbital correction calculated, including the additional jet firings. The flight director gave them the go to have the automatic system command the jets to make the necessary corrections. “Capcom, warn Ms. Phillips that there will be jet firings.”
Ms. Phillips got Dr. Canterbury secured in his harness and tightened her own. His eyes had closed again. Surgeon feared that the acceleration, though gentle compared to an Earth launch, might have acerbated his injuries.
After the maneuver, the trajectory plot showed that the LM and “PacMan” cargo ship would rendezvous on schedule. Capcom informed a relieved Ms. Phillips that all was well.
“Except she’s going to crash,” Mr. Smith said.
What? I rested my fingers on the headset connection.
“Mr. Smith, Flight speaking. The trajectory looks good to us. Why do you think she is going to crash?”
“I told you, look at the DSKY. You only raised apolune from 40.1 to 40.6. That’s too low for the CSM.”
A text appeared on my laptop saying, “Apolune is the highest point in a lunar orbit. CSM = command and service module.” I looked up at Ms. Pressa and nodded to let her know I understood. I pulled my hand away from the connection.
Mr. Smith continued. “You need forty-two nautical miles or the CSM can’t get to her in time.”
“Nautical miles? What kind of dumb unit is that?” I blurted, and then covered my mouth. I hadn’t meant to say that outloud for the whole team to hear! Ms. Pressa frowned, I assumed at my outburst, and texted furiously. Nothing showed up on my laptop, though.
