that wasn’t unusual when a stranger was involved. She could, of course, see
him
. “Who should I tell him is calling?” Jerry sighed. This might not go well. “Jerry Culpepper,” he said. “From NASA.” “Okay. Hold on a second.” He heard a door open and close, and the woman’s voice again: “For you, Amos.” Jerry listened to the wind blowing against the side of the building. Tree branches moved. Then the TV picked up a picture of Amos Bartlett. He was close to ninety, but the guy still looked okay. Tall, lean, with a full head of white hair, he could have been on his way out to play a round of basketball. He leaned casually back against a desk top while he gazed at Jerry. “Hello,” he said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Culpepper?” “Mr. Bartlett.” Jerry tried to sound casual. At ease. “I have a couple of questions I’d like to ask.” “Go ahead.” He sounded vaguely hostile.
“You were the command module pilot for Aaron Walker back in ’69.” “Why don’t we cut right to the chase, Mr. Culpepper?”
“Okay.”
“You want to know if anything happened on the lunar flight?”
“That’s correct. Aaron Walker left a note in a journal—”
“I know about the journal.” His voice took on an edge, and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what he meant by it, but I can tell you it was a routine flight. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Okay? Anything else?” “Why is the question so irritating?”
“Look. I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Culpepper, but I’m sure you understand how silly this is. Do you have anything else?” “Amos. Is it okay if I call you that?”
“What exactly is it you want from me, Mr. Culpepper?”
“If I can get a release for you, will you tell me what happened on that flight?” It was only there for a moment, a brief quiver, teeth sucking his lip, eyes suddenly focused somewhere else. Then he came back. “If you’ve anything serious to ask, I’ll be here.” Bartlett broke the connection.
—
There was no one left at NASA from the 1960s. In fact, Jerry knew of only one person living on the Space Coast who had been part of Agency management when Apollo XI went to the Moon: Richard Cobble, who’d been one of the operational people during the glory years. Cobble, until recently, had been active in a support role, serving with the Friends of NASA, a group of volunteers who helped wherever they could but mostly threw parties. Increasingly, during recent years, they’d taken to talking about the “good old days.” Jerry checked Cobble’s record. He’d arrived at the Agency in 1965 as a technician. Eventually, he’d risen to become one of the operational directors.
“He’s out bowling,” a young, very attractive woman told him. Probably a great-granddaughter. “I’ll let him know you called.” Cobble returned the call just as Jerry was leaving to go home. It was obvious that, wherever he had been, it had had nothing to do with bowling. He was in his mideighties. Unlike Amos Bartlett, he looked it. His eyes had no life left in them, and his shoulders were bent with arthritis. His jaw sagged, and he drooled as he looked out of the TV at Jerry. “How’s life over at the Center?” he asked. “I haven’t been there for a long time.” “It’s quiet,” said Jerry. “Not a whole lot happening.”
“I know. It’s sad. I never thought things would go this way.”
Jerry kept him talking for a few minutes, about the state of space travel, about what might have been. And, when he thought Cobble receptive, he asked about the Myshko and Walker missions. “We keep hearing rumors that they landed in ’69. Before Armstrong. Richard, does that make any sense to you? At all?” “No,” he said. “I can’t imagine why they’d have wanted to do it. I mean, I know that the guys in the ships would have liked to make the landing. But they weren’t going to go down without NASA’s okay. And they didn’t have it. Even assuming one of them
him
. “Who should I tell him is calling?” Jerry sighed. This might not go well. “Jerry Culpepper,” he said. “From NASA.” “Okay. Hold on a second.” He heard a door open and close, and the woman’s voice again: “For you, Amos.” Jerry listened to the wind blowing against the side of the building. Tree branches moved. Then the TV picked up a picture of Amos Bartlett. He was close to ninety, but the guy still looked okay. Tall, lean, with a full head of white hair, he could have been on his way out to play a round of basketball. He leaned casually back against a desk top while he gazed at Jerry. “Hello,” he said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Culpepper?” “Mr. Bartlett.” Jerry tried to sound casual. At ease. “I have a couple of questions I’d like to ask.” “Go ahead.” He sounded vaguely hostile.
“You were the command module pilot for Aaron Walker back in ’69.” “Why don’t we cut right to the chase, Mr. Culpepper?”
“Okay.”
“You want to know if anything happened on the lunar flight?”
“That’s correct. Aaron Walker left a note in a journal—”
“I know about the journal.” His voice took on an edge, and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what he meant by it, but I can tell you it was a routine flight. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Okay? Anything else?” “Why is the question so irritating?”
“Look. I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Culpepper, but I’m sure you understand how silly this is. Do you have anything else?” “Amos. Is it okay if I call you that?”
“What exactly is it you want from me, Mr. Culpepper?”
“If I can get a release for you, will you tell me what happened on that flight?” It was only there for a moment, a brief quiver, teeth sucking his lip, eyes suddenly focused somewhere else. Then he came back. “If you’ve anything serious to ask, I’ll be here.” Bartlett broke the connection.
—
There was no one left at NASA from the 1960s. In fact, Jerry knew of only one person living on the Space Coast who had been part of Agency management when Apollo XI went to the Moon: Richard Cobble, who’d been one of the operational people during the glory years. Cobble, until recently, had been active in a support role, serving with the Friends of NASA, a group of volunteers who helped wherever they could but mostly threw parties. Increasingly, during recent years, they’d taken to talking about the “good old days.” Jerry checked Cobble’s record. He’d arrived at the Agency in 1965 as a technician. Eventually, he’d risen to become one of the operational directors.
“He’s out bowling,” a young, very attractive woman told him. Probably a great-granddaughter. “I’ll let him know you called.” Cobble returned the call just as Jerry was leaving to go home. It was obvious that, wherever he had been, it had had nothing to do with bowling. He was in his mideighties. Unlike Amos Bartlett, he looked it. His eyes had no life left in them, and his shoulders were bent with arthritis. His jaw sagged, and he drooled as he looked out of the TV at Jerry. “How’s life over at the Center?” he asked. “I haven’t been there for a long time.” “It’s quiet,” said Jerry. “Not a whole lot happening.”
“I know. It’s sad. I never thought things would go this way.”
Jerry kept him talking for a few minutes, about the state of space travel, about what might have been. And, when he thought Cobble receptive, he asked about the Myshko and Walker missions. “We keep hearing rumors that they landed in ’69. Before Armstrong. Richard, does that make any sense to you? At all?” “No,” he said. “I can’t imagine why they’d have wanted to do it. I mean, I know that the guys in the ships would have liked to make the landing. But they weren’t going to go down without NASA’s okay. And they didn’t have it. Even assuming one of them
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