adjustment. An AP story was headlined: EARLY SECRET MISSIONS TO THE MOON? “I thought you’d better know before you went to the luncheon,” she said. Her tone was sympathetic.
“Barb,” he said, “I’d have been surprised if they
weren’t
running it.” He turned it off.
At the luncheon, he would begin by talking about why librarians were essential for an advancing society. That would win over the audience. Then he’d bring in the future. Why we needed a functioning space program. Satellite communications. Navigation. In time, we’d put up energy collectors and use them to provide global power, to get us past this primitive age that was so dependent on fossil fuels. We would also be able to provide protection against asteroids. And, ultimately, there would be Moonbase and Mars. And who knew where we’d go from there?
He pulled an index card out of the box, picked up a marker, and wrote reminders on the card: CHALLENGES. COMMUNICATIONS. GSP. COLLECTORS. ASTEROIDS. MOONBASE. And, finally: KIDS . He always ended the same way: “I envy the kids being born today. Imagine what they’re going to see during their lifetimes. All that’s needed is for us to make it happen.” That always got a strong reaction. He wished he believed it.
—
The luncheon went smoothly. There were only two questions about the news stories, both suggesting it was impossible to imagine how such an idea could be taken seriously. Jerry, of course, explained that he never ceased to be amazed at what people were willing to believe. “We don’t read enough,” he added. Afterward, he stood talking to several of the librarians, watching the crowd file out. He wasn’t paying much attention to the conversation until one of them, a gray-haired man in a light blue jacket, asked him how it felt to be famous.
“I’m not famous,” he said. He didn’t need any modesty there. He got periodic speaking engagements and showed up on TV occasionally, like for the press conference that had started it all. He’d once believed he might live a life that would warrant an autobiography. But that dream was long past. He’d never really done anything. He’d never lifted off on a mission, never pulled anybody out of a burning building, never served in the military. Once, in high school, he’d driven in the tying runs with two out in the ninth inning of a playoff game. That had been the peak moment of his life.
“Sure you’re famous,” said the man in the blue jacket. He was short, stocky, with a thick waist. He wore a white open-collared shirt with a Tampa Bay Rays logo emblazoned on the pocket. “Modesty, Mr. Culpepper, is, I guess, what we expect of true greatness.” He smiled. Kidding, but he meant it.
On his way back to the Space Center, Jerry thought about it. To most people, he probably did look like a celebrated figure. A man who held press conferences. Rode first class on planes. Appeared as a guest speaker at local luncheons. Look at me, Ma. I’m on top of the world.
He would like to accomplish one thing of significance in his life. Perform one truly memorable act, so that people would remember him. He didn’t need a monument. A footnote would be nice. He’d helped get President Cunningham elected. (Jerry remembered when he was just George.) But that was about it. And who’d remember a political wonk?
Gerald L. Culpepper. The man who revealed the truth about the Moon missions.
The truth. What was the truth?
He knew. Armstrong had been the first man on the Moon. A few other miniscule details were being misinterpreted because they made an interesting story.
And that was all it was.
Amos Bartlett, who’d been Aaron Walker’s command module pilot in 1969, lived outside Los Angeles. Jerry sat a long time staring at the TV. Finally, he decided what the hell and made the call. It rang four or five times, and a woman answered. “Hello,” he said, “is Mr. Bartlett there?” “Just a minute, please.” No on-screen picture. Well,
“Barb,” he said, “I’d have been surprised if they
weren’t
running it.” He turned it off.
At the luncheon, he would begin by talking about why librarians were essential for an advancing society. That would win over the audience. Then he’d bring in the future. Why we needed a functioning space program. Satellite communications. Navigation. In time, we’d put up energy collectors and use them to provide global power, to get us past this primitive age that was so dependent on fossil fuels. We would also be able to provide protection against asteroids. And, ultimately, there would be Moonbase and Mars. And who knew where we’d go from there?
He pulled an index card out of the box, picked up a marker, and wrote reminders on the card: CHALLENGES. COMMUNICATIONS. GSP. COLLECTORS. ASTEROIDS. MOONBASE. And, finally: KIDS . He always ended the same way: “I envy the kids being born today. Imagine what they’re going to see during their lifetimes. All that’s needed is for us to make it happen.” That always got a strong reaction. He wished he believed it.
—
The luncheon went smoothly. There were only two questions about the news stories, both suggesting it was impossible to imagine how such an idea could be taken seriously. Jerry, of course, explained that he never ceased to be amazed at what people were willing to believe. “We don’t read enough,” he added. Afterward, he stood talking to several of the librarians, watching the crowd file out. He wasn’t paying much attention to the conversation until one of them, a gray-haired man in a light blue jacket, asked him how it felt to be famous.
“I’m not famous,” he said. He didn’t need any modesty there. He got periodic speaking engagements and showed up on TV occasionally, like for the press conference that had started it all. He’d once believed he might live a life that would warrant an autobiography. But that dream was long past. He’d never really done anything. He’d never lifted off on a mission, never pulled anybody out of a burning building, never served in the military. Once, in high school, he’d driven in the tying runs with two out in the ninth inning of a playoff game. That had been the peak moment of his life.
“Sure you’re famous,” said the man in the blue jacket. He was short, stocky, with a thick waist. He wore a white open-collared shirt with a Tampa Bay Rays logo emblazoned on the pocket. “Modesty, Mr. Culpepper, is, I guess, what we expect of true greatness.” He smiled. Kidding, but he meant it.
On his way back to the Space Center, Jerry thought about it. To most people, he probably did look like a celebrated figure. A man who held press conferences. Rode first class on planes. Appeared as a guest speaker at local luncheons. Look at me, Ma. I’m on top of the world.
He would like to accomplish one thing of significance in his life. Perform one truly memorable act, so that people would remember him. He didn’t need a monument. A footnote would be nice. He’d helped get President Cunningham elected. (Jerry remembered when he was just George.) But that was about it. And who’d remember a political wonk?
Gerald L. Culpepper. The man who revealed the truth about the Moon missions.
The truth. What was the truth?
He knew. Armstrong had been the first man on the Moon. A few other miniscule details were being misinterpreted because they made an interesting story.
And that was all it was.
Amos Bartlett, who’d been Aaron Walker’s command module pilot in 1969, lived outside Los Angeles. Jerry sat a long time staring at the TV. Finally, he decided what the hell and made the call. It rang four or five times, and a woman answered. “Hello,” he said, “is Mr. Bartlett there?” “Just a minute, please.” No on-screen picture. Well,
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