Back to the Moon (29 page)

Sam rubbed his face. “A what?”

“A general support computer. Probably a laptop. They plugged in their own little operating system is my guess. Took us plumb off-line, probably for good. Us ol' boys might as well lock up and go home after
Endeavour
gets in.
Columbia
's software looks to me like it's bulletproof.”

Sam understood. Medaris had cut
Columbia
off from any possible interference from Houston by putting a monitoring computer in place with all the bells and whistles of an internal Mission Control. Houston was no longer in
Columbia
's loop, could neither monitor her systems nor control them in any way.
Guess I don't blame him,
Sam thought. All of a sudden retirement had never looked so good. There was a spacecraft on the way to the moon and its crew so distrusted Houston, it had deliberately cut them off. Sam shook his head. His controllers were all looking at him. They knew the score. He reluctantly keyed his transmitter. “When
Endeavour
lands,” he announced, “we'll go to a skeleton staff here. I'll be distributing a list of who stays and who goes. Ladies and gentlemen, you've performed magnificently, but sometimes you get on a horse that can't be rode. Looks like we've found ours.”

CECIL REMEMBERS

The Marymount Hotel, Washington, D.C.

Cecil sprawled on the bed passing the time studying federal statutes and thinking about the strange circumstances that had brought him to this moment. He also thought about the man who had orchestrated it. On a clear evening with stars and planets abundant in the sky, Cecil had walked with Jack along the beach at Cedar Key. Cecil remembered Jack pointing at the brightest sparkler and saying, “The whole solar system's been a disappointment, Cecil. It started with that one, Venus.”

“That's like saying the ocean is a disappointment, Jack,” Cecil replied. “It is what it is, nothing more, and nothing less either.”

Jack kept studying the sky as if he expected to see some kind of sign, something that would change what he believed. “Maybe we should have never looked it over,” he said quietly. “In a way it destroyed our dreams. When I was a boy all the books I read said that Venus might have rain forests and seas underneath all those clouds. I could imagine dinosaurs down there and fish-men and fish-women. What did it turn out to be, this sister of earth? We sent probes to Venus and found a planet with a surface hot enough to melt lead and sulfuric acid for rain. That acid ate up the dreams of a generation of kids, Cecil.”

“There's Mars, Jack. We'll go there someday.”

Jack stopped, pointed at a dim pink star. “There it is. Pretty, huh? But Mars is even worse. I remember being excited because the astronomers said that Mars had shadows that changed with the seasons. That just had to mean there was vegetation. And then there were the canals that the astronomers said they could see too. That meant maybe a great civilization. Then the space program showed us what was actually there. The vegetation proved to be dust storms, the canals just our imagination. Microbial life? Maybe, but otherwise not so much as a Mars mouse. You want to go out farther? Jupiter, Saturn—pretty but just big gas balls.”

“Didn't I hear that there might be life on Europa or Titan?” Cecil asked of the moons of Jupiter and Saturn.

That night Jack would not be denied his skepticism. “Doubtful. No wonder we stopped trying to go out, just stuck ourselves into low earth orbit.”

“You skipped the moon, Jack.” Cecil had laughed, trying to cajole the man into some good humor. “Want to say something nasty about the moon while you're at it?”

He wouldn't be baited. “The moon,” he said, “is different. It's more than what anybody thought it was. According to the
Apollo
astronauts, Cecil, it's a beautiful place. Stark, perhaps, but a beauty much like the high deserts here on earth. And it's covered with a magic dust.”

It was the first time Jack had explained to Cecil about helium-3, the isotope that could burn in fusion reactors to keep earth humming for centuries. It might be useful for rocket engines, too, he'd said. But then Jack had said something else, something Cecil often thought about. “The moon has something of mine, Cecil, something I need.”

“What, Jack?”

Jack hadn't replied, just kept looking up.

Cecil rose from the bed and swept the curtain back from the window. Clouds covered the night sky. “I hope the moon doesn't disappoint you, Jack,” he whispered, looking up into the darkness.

There was a pounding on his door. Cecil answered and saw two dark suits from the FBI. “The AG wants to see you,” they growled, nearly in unison.

Fifteen minutes later Cecil sat sweating in the AG's office while she frowned at him from her desk. She had several sheets of paper and an envelope in front of her. She slid it across the desk. “Read it and weep, counselor.”

Cecil read. It was a letter to the AG from the ex-wife of Colonel Craig “Hopalong” Cassidy. She had enclosed a letter from Cassidy to his son. In it he had written that he was going back into space and that “many people will think I'm wrong for doing it.” It also included much expression of Cassidy's love and devotion for his son and his country. The envelope was marked
To be opened only in case of my death.
Cecil tried to keep a neutral look as he read but his mind was racing ahead. After he finished, he sat back. “Colonel Cassidy is clearly a great patriot.”

The AG narrowed her eyes. “Maybe so, Cecil, but he's also just jerked the rug out from under your clients.”

Cecil cocked his head. “I beg your pardon?”

“This letter clearly shows that Cassidy had the intent to commit a crime. He also mentions that others are in it with him. That would be your clients. Isn't it obvious?”

“No, ma'am. They are simply fulfilling the terms of their contract with DOT. As for this letter, Captain Cassidy just says that
some
people might think he's wrong. It doesn't say he plans on committing a crime.”

The AG rubbed her face, tugged at her chin. “Cecil, maybe you're right, maybe you're wrong, and maybe it doesn't matter.” She drew back Cassidy's letter, looked at it, tapped it with her finger, clasped her hands together, leaned forward. “But I can tell you this. No way is President Edwards going to allow this to continue. For one thing, all those talking heads on TV have got the American people stirred up. They want blood and they want the President to get it for them. Your clients are dead meat if they don't turn around and soon. If you have any way of communicating with them, let me strongly recommend you do so.”

Cecil thought about continuing his argument but caught the determination in the AG's eye. This was not the time for a debate. “Yes, ma'am,” he said although he knew there was nothing he could do, that Jack Medaris would never stop until he found whatever it was he was really looking for on the good, golden moon.

OUTBOUND

Up goes my boat among the stars

Through many a breathless field of light,

Through many a long blue field of ether,

Leaving ten thousand stars beneath her;

Up goes my little boat so bright!

—William Wordsworth
, ”Among the Stars”

MET 4 DAYS AND COUNTING . . .

VICTORY ROLL

Columbia

Jack had set
Columbia
free. He used a short puff of RCS to put her into a slow roll. He had studied the
Apollo
missions, knew the mission controllers called the maneuver the “barbecue mode,” because it was used to even out the heat of the sun. Jack preferred to think of it as a victory roll for
Columbia
all the way to the moon. He went to the aft flight deck to watch earth recede. Only a few hours out, the full disk of humanity's planet had already shrunk to the size of one view port. His crewmates joined him.

“It's the most beautiful sight I've ever seen,” Penny said grudgingly. She had tried sleeping but had given up, the view too irresistible.

“We're going to be the first people to see the earth get smaller as we fly away,” Jack said, offering some history. Paco hung off his shoulder, a paw out toward the earth-ball. “The
Apollo
crews had just a little window and were facing the wrong way most of the time.” He looked over at Penny. “I'm sorry I had to lie to you. I didn't think you'd understand.”

“Shut up, Medaris,” Penny said. “I'll never believe anything you say ever again, so don't waste your breath.”

Virgil cupped the receding planet with his hands. “Everybody I've ever known, all on that little blue and white and brown ball.” He mused over the world. “I wonder what they think about all this back at the Cape and Houston?”

“Houston!” Jack had forgotten about Shuttle Mission Control. He put Paco on the ceiling, pulled his feet out of the loops, and went down to the middeck, coming back with a laptop. “I should have set this up from the beginning,” he said, “but I got overconfident. I didn't think Houston would try to do anything to us without letting us know.” He typed in some commands and the computer whirred softly. “Okay, it's done. New software is in. We'll run
Columbia
through this machine from here on. There's no way the ground can break into it.”

Jack looked up to find Penny staring at him, incredulity written on her face. “You've disconnected us from Houston? Why? We might need them!”

“Because I don't trust them, High Eagle. Isn't that obvious? In case you haven't noticed, so far they've let a rocket detonate close enough to ping one of our windows, they fired the RCS jets while we were in the engine bay, and they sent
Endeavour
up to attack us with a bomb.”

“But who's going to watch all the systems while we're asleep?”

Jack patted the laptop. “This little baby could put a hundred mission controllers out of work. It'll look after us just fine.”

Penny squinted. “I hope to hell you know what you're doing, Medaris.”

“I do, High Eagle. Not to worry.”

“When you tell me not to worry is when I start,” Penny retorted. Then she took on an air of resignation. “Are the middeck lockers getting power?”

“Of course.” Except for Paco, Jack had all but forgotten there was anything else aboard
Columbia
besides the hardware needed for the moon mission. Jack shared the belief with most NASA engineers that the vast majority of experiments carried into space weren't good for much except as excuses for professors to write learned papers. He couldn't help but ask Penny, in a doubtful tone, “Any of those experiments worth anything?”

She had caught his tone. “My cell culture experiments will demonstrate the growth patterns in microgravity of a variety of dendritic cells.”

Jack knew he should just shut up, let the woman do whatever she wanted to do. They were on a long journey. Everyone would need something to pass the time on the way. And he really shouldn't needle her, he thought, but it seemed as if he couldn't help himself. “I'm sure the world will be waiting impatiently to hear the results of that,” he said. “Why, I was just saying the other day, wasn't I, Virgil, that it sure would be nice to know the growth patterns in microgravity of a variety of dendritic cells.”

“Hey, don't get me into this,” Virgil said, hands in the air. Jack had to admire his wisdom.

Penny pulled out of her footloops and made her way down the ceiling handrails. “Medaris, I don't know why you seem to glory in being ignorant.” She wriggled down through the hatch to the middeck.

Virgil came up next to Jack. “You really like that woman, don't you, boss?”

“Like her? Virg, I can't stand the sight of her.”

Virgil slowly nodded his head up and down. “Uh-huh.
Right.”

Penny heard Medaris and Virgil talking but their conversation was muffled.
Got to remember to just ignore that man,
she thought. She opened her cell culture experiment and set up the microscope encased in foam in one of the middeck lockers.
The very idea. Are these experiments worth anything? Well, they were, weren't they?

Penny checked the thermoelectric incubator. It had run on battery power while
Columbia
was shut down. She saw no error messages and an initial observation showed all of the sample trays with cell growth. She began a more careful examination of each tray, photographing the cells and making notes. The last sample she inspected was one she had ruined during her hurried first setup. Still ill with SAS, she had accidentally mixed a lamb nerve cell culture with frog DNA. She had started to pitch the contaminated sample but then decided to include it with the other samples in the incubator. It might start stinking in the waste bag, otherwise.

Curious as to how the cells in her accidental mixture were growing, she clicked the sample tray in place on the microscope holder, adjusted the eyepiece, and added a little extra light. She found, as she had feared, the cells a mixed mess, lamb and frog cellular material overlapping one another, hopelessly contaminated. In one place, near the center, there seemed to be some sort of coil growing, white wisps like fine white hairs running down its length.
Some sort of an impurity,
she guessed,
perhaps not even biological.
Still, it was interesting and perhaps worth watching. She photographed the coil, made a note of it, and then put all the samples away.

She had done her science. She hoped Medaris would be up in the cockpit doing something, anything, so she wouldn't have to talk to him. But when she came up through the hatch and saw that he was indeed busy, she felt oddly disappointed.

THE LUNAR CURATORIAL LABORATORY

Johnson Space Center

Shirley Grafton hustled up the steps of the low gray building on the Johnson Space Center campus. She was there on a hunch. She had arrived in Houston on the first flight out of Washington but by the time she got her rental car and drove to JSC, it was already approaching noon. Her vice presidential ID card had gotten her on the center. Her stomach growled to remind her she hadn't had any lunch, but she was too excited by what she was about to see to pay it any heed. The
Apollo
astronauts had carried back 838 pounds of rock and dirt and dust from the moon, most of it stored at the building she was approaching, the Lunar Curatorial Laboratory. Even more than thirty years after the last moon mission, less than fifty pounds of lunar material had left the lab. Anyone wishing to study the larger rocks or sample tubes went to Houston.

The laboratory's director, Professor Claude Koszelak, met Shirley at the door. Koszelak was thin and lanky, the kind of man that seemed to be everywhere in this corner of Texas, looking as dried out as a desert arroyo. Shirley would have bet good money that out in the parking lot, Koszelak had a truck with a cowboy hat on the seat and a rifle rack in the rear window. Those good old boys were invariably friendly cusses and Koszelak proved to be no exception. He gave her a grin, offered her all the hospitality he could deliver, and led her into the rows of stainless steel and glass sample cabinets. Black rubber gloves hung from unattended cabinets while others had bunny-suited lab workers seated in front of them, working with pieces of the moon.

As Koszelak explained what they saw, his intellect became clear despite his homespun appearance. Selected samples from the lunar breccia, he explained, were being sawn into different sizes, described, and placed in context as to where they were found. After that was done, each piece had to be photographed and tagged before it was sent out. “It's time-consuming, very exacting work. And of course we don't send out samples to just anyone. We exhaustively review all requests. We are very careful with our rocks.”

Shirley peered at the moon samples. “Do you get back the results?”

“Yes, ma'am, we sure do. That's part of our agreement with anyone who receives samples.”

Shirley watched a technician as he handled a gray corrugated piece of the moon, weighing it before chiseling it into smaller, more manageable pieces. “I'm interested to see if any of the scientists were investigating Shorty Crater,” she said.

Koszelak raised his eyebrows. “Shorty Crater? Okay, let's check.” Koszelak led the way into his office. It was no surprise that he had the horns of a longhorn steer mounted on the wall over his computer. He saw where she was looking and smiled proudly. “One of my own steers loaned his horns to me,” he said. “I run a little spread down near Tyler.” He sat and entered commands on a desktop computer and a list filled the monitor screen. “Here you go. There've been two hundred and forty-three requests for samples from researchers in the last ten years that have to do with material taken from
Apollo 17
's second excursion, which included Shorty. S'pose you could narrow your interest down a tad?”

“How many requests were approved?”

Koszelak tapped. “Seventy-three. The largest number of requests approved were for a Dr. Perlman, a researcher for an outfit called the January Group.”

Shirley looked over the list, recognizing none of the names. Very little of the esoteric scientific jargon in the description of their projects made much sense either. “What are they studying, Professor?” Shirley asked.

Koszelak scooted closer, studying the list. “Most of them are looking at Shorty's fire fountain debris.”

“Come again?”

Koszelak rotated in his chair. “A fire fountain is lava that contains dissolved volcanic gases. When it reaches the surface, the gas comes out of solution and sends out a spray—sort of like shaking up a bottle of soda and then poppin' the cap off it. The resulting spray—very hot and molten—is thrown up into the vacuum and as it falls, it forms into tiny glass beads. Harrison Schmitt found a mother lode of these beads on the rim of Shorty Crater.”

Shirley sat down in an offered chair and leaned forward with interest. “This Dr. Perlman. Does he say why he wants these beads?”

Koszelak studied the material. “Well, looks like to me Dr. Perlman's interest is mostly in the gases contained in the beads.”

“You mean the beads are hollow?”

“Not exactly hollow, just filled with bubbles. When the glassy material was sprayed above the lunar surface, gas got trapped inside the spheres that formed.” Koszelak opened a desk drawer and dragged out a logbook. “Not everything is automated,” he apologized as he traced his finger down the lines in the book. “Yes, ma'am, I thought so. Six years ago it was. A colleague of Dr. Perlman's spent some time with us studying the chemical composition of fire fountain products.”

Koszelak looked thoughtful. “You know, I was in the geologists' back room when Shorty Crater was visited by Schmitt. The first thing he said was that Shorty was an impact crater. Then, when he found that orange soil, he thought maybe Shorty was a volcanic crater. It was a mystery. But after the pictures and samples got a closer look here in the lab, it turned out ol' Shorty was indeed an impact crater—a meteor had formed it—and the orange soil was fire fountain beads that had been uncovered by the meteor. You know, everything isn't cut and dried, even on the old moon.”

Shirley steered Koszelak back to the subject. “And it is the gas inside the beads Dr. Perlman was interested in?”

“Yes. Especially one gas. Helium-3. Have you heard of this isotope?” One quick look at Shirley gave him his answer. “Well, let's see. How to explain it. Helium-3 comes from the sun, part of the solar wind. It sticks to anything in the solar system that it touches. The earth's magnetic field and atmosphere keep most of it off the earth but the moon is like a big catcher's mitt for the stuff. Pretty well covered up with it. But it's not like you can go up there and scoop up a bucket of helium-3. It's usually mixed in the soil and you need to heat it up to get it out. Unless, of course, it's already in its gaseous state inside fire fountain beads.” Koszelak frowned over his log, turned back to his computer, and worked the keyboard. “Here it is. Dr. Isaac Perlman, Professor Emeritus... blah, blah, blah... Uh-huh, thought so! Researcher in fusion energy! Yep, makes sense. I betcha that explains Dr. Perlman's interest in where the isotope can be found in concentrated form.” He peered at Shirley. “You do know what fusion energy is, don't you, ma'am?”

“Tell me, Professor. I'm all ears.”

He did and one thing more. He looked Perlman up on the Internet. The Web site, one created for fusion researchers by the Virginia Polytechnic Institute, hadn't been updated in a year. “This is interesting,” he said. “Says here Perlman has contracted with a private contractor to go to the moon and pick up soil samples that might contain helium-3.”

“Does it say which private contractor?”