Moondust (23 page)

The only thing to raise the temperature is a question-and-answer session with the astronauts, for which audience members have been invited to write questions on a piece of paper and hand them in so that the interesting ones may be identified and discarded. Even so, there are some revealing moments, as when Armstrong is asked, “How were you chosen to be the First Man on the Moon?” at which he places an arm around his former partner's shoulder and smiles, “Actually, it was the pair of us.” It's a warm gesture, which Armstrong might have been waiting years to make, but Aldrin doesn't respond in any way, doesn't turn to look at him, squeeze his shoulder, shake his hand or smile … he just continues to lean forward on his elbows and stare stonily ahead. Next, someone asks Cernan, “When are we going to get the next generation to Mars?” and he begins, apropos of nothing, “Well, I somewhat differ from Buzz on this …” going on to insist that we should go back to the Moon first. Two contributions leave an impression: first, Rusty Schweickart's modest admission of “how lucky I was, because I didn't deserve it and none of us up here deserves to have gone where we went – we lucked out, were in the right place at the right time, with the right set of taxpayers”; and second, Bill Anders's interruption of Hugh Downs as he waxes about the pioneer spirit and idealism of the enterprise, to blurt, “Look, Apollo happened because the farmers in Iowa didn't like them dirty Commies.” He laughs. I laugh. Otherwise you could hear a pin drop. At this stage, I don't know much about Anders, except that he circumnavigated the Moon for the first time with
Apollo 8
and took the spectacularly beautiful
Earthrise
photo, which enchanted everyone who saw it and became the emblem of the first “Earth Day” in 1970, then never flew again. I make a mental note to try to catch up with him later, because he sounds intriguing.

Outside in a smaller chamber, where guests inspect and make written bids in a charity memorabilia auction, it doesn't
take long for me to find what I'm looking for. Neil Armstrong stands, surrounded like Custer at Little Big Horn, patiently explaining some aspect of his thirty-three-year-old adventure for the four hundredth time this evening to a forty-something who looks as though he's about to combust with joy. Finished, the astronaut turns, and begins to move in my direction. I want to ask whether we might speak privately some time. There are so many questions I've never heard him answer. So I place myself in his path, as I've watched others do all night and he stops, along with the gaggle of followers. He glances at my hands, probably noticing that I don't carry a camera or autograph book, and I take advantage of the pause to introduce myself. Suddenly, I feel us being surrounded by a crowd of people, heads bowed to hear what's being said, as I explain that I'm writing a book and wonder whether he might be available for a talk sometime. I tell him that I know he gets many requests for interviews and he looks me straight in the eye and smiles in a manner that strikes me as fatherly, nodding his head slowly and smirking “many, many, many,” in such a way that I can't help but smile, too. Turnill saw the arrogant hero, Mailer the mystic technocrat, but I'm seeing Atticus from
To Kill a Mockingbird
. There's a warmth in his voice that I wasn't expecting.

He asks what my book's about and I tell him that it's about the
idea
of Apollo, but suggest that, if he'll provide me with an address where I can be confident of reaching him, I'll write with a fuller explanation. He hesitates, then looks around, leans forward and speaks his address very quietly for me to write on the rolled-up commemorative poster we've all been given. We shake hands and he's off. When I tell my host Bill about the address, his eyes light up and he exclaims, “Did he write it himself?!” Then he tells me that he just found Buzz and Gene Cernan chattering away at adjacent urinals in the restroom. He doesn't mention whether they were also seeing who could pee highest, but I'd like to think they were.

I did catch up with Bill Anders, whose
Apollo 8
flight with Frank Borman and the future
Apollo 13
commander, James
Lovell, over Christmas 1968 gets more fantastic the closer you look at it. Not only were these the first three people to swing out to the Moon, they were the first to accelerate out of Earth orbit and head for Deep Space, and thus the first to see the Earth as a tiny sphere, alone enough to bring a lump to the throat, and to experience the frightening onrush of the Moon.

As with subsequent flights,
Apollo 8
bowled along sideways, like a silver rolling pin, spinning slowly to distribute the sun's intense heat. From the craft's angle of approach the Moon was in darkness, so for the first two days the astronauts saw only the Earth shrinking behind them and a coy black void ahead, bereft of stars and growing, until finally they were drifting engine-first around the far side, preparing for the ‘burn' that would slow them into lunar orbit. Still they saw nothing – until suddenly and without warning an immense arc of sun-drenched lunar surface appeared in their windows and the three men got the shocks of their lives, as the ethereal disc they and the rest of humanity had known up to then revealed itself as an awesome globe, cool and remote, without sound or motion, magisterial but issuing no invitation whatsoever. So shocked were the crew that commander Borman was forced to rein in their excitement for the sake of the burn, and while the astronauts have forgotten much about the journeys they took, none has any trouble recalling this dramatic moment: indeed, those who are temperamentally disposed to acknowledging fear will tell you that it was an eerie and intimidating sight, which the crew of
Apollo 8
seemed haunted by. Upon their return, they described a forbidding and inhospitable world. It was the Earth that sang to them from afar.

To Anders's sharp and independent mind, the flight didn't change him, but witnessing the first Earthrise broadened his perspective on everything, forever, seeming to capture all the fundamental truths about life and our place in the Universe in a single, startling view. That doesn't stop him from being a realist when it comes to Apollo's origins, however. He asks me how old I am and I tell him.

“Well, yeah, you see, it's hard for people even older than you to realize the seriousness of the Cold War. The funny thing is that when we look back at it now, the Russians weren't such a
bad bunch of guys – some of our allies were much slimier! At least the Communists were doing what they could for their people, unlike the fascists we tend to choose every time. So you can argue about whether it made sense, about whether it was right or wrong, but it was a fact, and it scared people. And that's why we went to the Moon, to demonstrate American technological preeminence in competition with the Soviet Union. The thing is that NASA was a civilian organization, and I think they were embarrassed at being seen as part of the Cold War, so they started pushing exploration as the motive – and soon I think they started believing their own PR. When Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin planted the American flag on the Moon, the programme was over and NASA didn't realize it. Ever since, they've been operating on a false premise.”

Anders lives on an island off the coast of Washington State now. He's had one of the most economically successful post-NASA careers of any astronaut, which included several important government posts, a stint as ambassador to Norway, and a series of business appointments that culminated in his becoming chairman and chief executive officer of the huge aerospace contractor General Dynamics Corporation. I ask whether he thinks some of the post-NASA travails of his ex-colleagues may be attributed to this misapprehension? If so, it must have made the ending harder to foresee and more painful to bear.

“Well, not only that. I mean, we were
rock stars
. It was like being a rock star who's suddenly had his vocal chords pulled out. Unfortunately, the bulk of the astronaut group … they're kind of struggling. The reason why is that they had people welcoming them and wanting to make them vice president for corporate relations, or motivation, that kind of thing, and that stuff burns out in a hurry. A few of us went out and got real jobs, but most came back and found that they were curiosities and celebrities, but that there wasn't much future in being an aging celebrity. It's sad, but probably inevitable.”

Anders laughs as he ascribes his own relatively agreeable ride to “being low enough down on the totem pole” that he had no option but to get a proper job afterwards, though I think he's being modest here. Like Schweickart and Cunningham
and Aldrin from the third group of astronauts, he wasn't trained as a test pilot and knew that he was different from most of the rest. Quickly realizing that “these people didn't get there because they were stupid – they weren't wise, but they were smart,” he kept his head down and eventually got his chance to fly. I wonder if this pragmatism also accounts for the fact that he is still with the mother of his six children, as indeed are the other members of his crew (“Maybe we just weren't as quick on our feet as the others,” he chuckles). Like Armstrong, he doesn't sign autographs, having in the past responded to letters purporting to be from sick children, then seen them turn up in auction a few months later. Not long ago, someone from the U.K. wrote calling him “a piece of scum” for declining to sign.

He thinks that Apollo was “an extremely positive experience” for everyone, demonstrating what could be done by people working together on a common, nationally supported goal, and admits that he would love to have landed on the Moon (“Apollo was a wonderful experience for me, more than I ever dreamed or deserved, but that doesn't mean I'm not greedy”). However, on the Astronaut Reunion Dinner, he offers:

“I'm a little jaded about it all. I actually race at Reno, but the race authorities are using the Apollo astronauts as a table decoration. Some of us have tended to be turned off by the reunion affairs, because some guys go thinking it might be fun, but others go because they think they're rock stars. It's those people I probably don't see as much as I used to. Reno couldn't care less about Apollo, but they're hoping that a bunch of old-age astronauts being driven up and down in old cars will increase the gate. I mean, I have friends in Reno saying, ‘Hey, I got an invitation to have dinner with you for five hundred bucks,' and I tell 'em, ‘Hey, look, you pick up the cheque and I'll only charge you a hundred bucks!' ”

And on Armstrong:

“He's been accused of being a recluse, but I just think he's realized that this stuff is short-lived, that you can squander it, that just because you went to the Moon doesn't mean you're an expert in everything. If he traded on his celebrity, you could
expect a little quid pro quo signing, but he doesn't. The stuff he has to deal with goes way beyond what's reasonable.”

And here is where Armstrong's predicament gets peculiar, because – and this is a little-known fact – all the evidence is that his elevated place in history is an accident. Deke Slayton wanted the first step to be taken by one of his Mercury 7 buddies, favouring Gus Grissom. Then, after Grissom died in the
Apollo 1
fire, it was Wally Schirra – but Schirra's grouchy command of
Apollo 7,
the nervy first manned flight after the fire, ruled him out. Mike Collins thought it would be Ed White, America's first space-walker, who unfortunately perished alongside Grissom. Collins also mused: “It is interesting to note that Neil Armstrong was the last in his group to fly. Were they saving the best for last, or was his selection as the first human to walk on another planet a fluke?” The evidence suggests that it was. Had Thomas Stafford's
Apollo 10
Lunar Module been ready to attempt a landing, or had Stafford and his crew been prepared to swap their beloved LM (which they'd been working with and refining for months) for the lighter one being prepared for
11,
it could have been him. At the same time, many within NASA considered Pete Conrad's
Apollo 12
the most likely candidate, although had the technical bugs bitten harder, it could as easily have been
13
or
14
. As it turned out,
13
got the bugs. It was like an Agatha Christie yarn. Twelve Little Astronauts. In the end, Armstrong was chosen by Slayton's rotation system, the
Apollo 1
fire, the impossible brilliance of the engineers and the nasty head colds which plagued Schirra's
Apollo 7
flight (snot: no fun at all in a weightless environment). However well he rose to the challenge, no one ever took a decision that he was the only one, or even the best one, for the job. It just happened that way.

And the thought hits me – and I'm astonished to find myself associating Monty Python with Neil Armstrong for a second time – that he must feel a little like the reluctant saviour Brian in
The Life of Brian
. A repository for the rest of us and our childish dreams.

I'll write to him when I get home. I won't expect to hear back.

Bill the kindly dentist's memorabilia is in the dining room of his big modern house in Carson City, spread across a wall adjacent to the open-plan kitchen, opposite a pair of sliding glass doors which lead to the garden. Today the place is filled with him and his son and Erin and her kids and his friend Doug, whom I met and liked at the Apollo dinner last night. As Bill presents me to the corpus of the collection, everyone gathers as to a shrine, then gradually melts away, smirking, as he begins my tour with a disarming mixture of pride and sheepishness. Most people don't understand the obsession, he says, they think he's nuts. When I ask what happens if they do understand, he laughs and tells me, “Well, then
they
go nuts.”

I can see why.

There are framed photos with colourful mission patches, signed by the astronauts on those missions. There are old is
sues of
Life,
also signed, and heroic signed etchings. A signed snap of Neil Armstrong is particularly prized (“'cos those are tough to come by”), even though his favourite Apollo guy is John Young from
Apollo 16,
who's almost as hard to meet as Armstrong. In the centre are two big
pièces de résistance
– one a large photo of a Mercury launch, signed by the Original Seven, the other a cheesy montage of illustrated scenes from the Space Age, but anointed by all twelve Moonwalkers. As if that wasn't enough, he also shows off a collection of signed memoirs, including a first edition of Aldrin's
Return to Earth,
which I wouldn't mind having myself. What he'd really like now, he explains, are the signatures of Gus Grissom, Ed White and Roger Chaffee – the luckless trio who died in the
Apollo 1
fire – but they're hard to come by, too, for obvious reasons. He has got Chaffee's dad, however.

We gossip about the reunion dinner and Bill reveals that he met Buzz once before, when the ex-astronaut opened an observatory that the local community had raised funds for, with Bill active on the committee. “He said no autographs, but it was nice of him to come out.” He smiles. To which Doug, also on the committee, snips, “Yeah, for a nice big fee,” and names a high five-figure sum as Bill squeaks, “Is that what it was?!” I ask how much these things on the wall cost and am told that the two centrepieces were $1,500–$1,600, though size isn't everything: he paid $250 for the little scratchy Dave Scott signature alone. From last night, Charlie Duke is getting the rave reviews. Doug marvels:

“He would talk to you, that's what amazed me. It wasn't like ‘I'll shake your hand and now get out of here.' Armstrong brushed me off. I went up to him and he turned around and walked away. He doesn't like doing this stuff at all.”

During the ceremony, I'd asked Bill how the collecting started and was surprised to find that it only began a couple of years ago. Like me, he'd been fascinated with the Moon adventure as a child, but had then forgotten about it. I was curious as to what changed two years ago to draw him back. Now he tells me.

“You know, you were asking about some of this stuff, and it's
kind of weird. I went through a divorce and started spending more time on the Internet, and I'd go to these sites and just keep looking at them, and eventually started looking at the prices and dreaming of having them here. And that's how I really got into it. I'd been interested in them before, but …”

There's a pause and a shadow seems to pass across his face.

“I mean, I hope you never go through a divorce or anything like that, but when you do, it affects you. I, actually, kind of … I actually closed myself in. I didn't keep in touch with friends and kind of just wanted to be by myself. And this is what I did.”

Surrounded yourself with astronauts. Did it help?

“I guess maybe it did. It was an outlet, something to do. I guess I coulda done worse things. Now, if I could just get a Roger Chaffee and an Ed White …”

Bill's father died two years before the divorce, and this may be fanciful, but in my mind's eye I see him unconsciously gathering the astronauts to him in his time of doubt; a committee of the last untarnished heroes from a time when Bill's world seemed safer and more certain. People to trust and admire and be reassured by, gazing steadily out from the wall. With apologies to Updike, now Armstrong is always above him.

After bill, I drove further south to Lake Tahoe, the deep, deep glacial lake which had seemed magical to me as a child, but now offered only an odd claustrophobia, was too built-up and hemmed in. So I wound up going back to Reno that night, arriving late and staying at a cheap motel next to a lap-dance club, a place where they only took cash and people hung flushed and furtive-looking around the two slot machines in the foyer, where the trembling receptionist appeared to be on a cold-turkey-in-the-community scheme; where signs notified clients that they would be held responsible for any new stains found on the carpet and the mattresses had what felt like – and might actually have
been,
come to think of it – speed bumps. I didn't leave any new stains, but made a point of catching the first plane out of town the next morning all the same. I didn't know it yet, but things were about to look up. I was headed for Tucson.

From the age of four, pop lyrics have been telling me that love at first sight only happens when you least expect it (so it must be true), but with Tucson it was love
before
first sight: driving in from the south, a sign confided that if I cared to change my mind, I could always swing left to Phoenix, or right on the road to El Paso. A thousand songs and books and movies seemed to dance above that fork in the road, but I ploughed straight on into the dusky high desert plain, between dramatic hills that looked like they were throwing shapes for the camera – could have been sculpted by Giacometti – and were protected by tall, mute armies of saguaro cactuses. After a happy hour lost in backstreets, the one-way system coughed me up outside the Congress, the oldest building in town, near to where mile-long trains still groan through the centre of town. I took a room with banged-up Victorian furniture and a big fan helicoptering over the bed, and found that the food was good and one of my favourite bands was playing in the courtyard that night. After the madness of Reno, Diana was smiling again.

Tucson is home to a space art gallery and memorabilia emporium called Novaspace. Bill bought most of his collection here, but more important to me is the fact that Novaspace are main agents to Alan Bean, the
Apollo 12
Moonwalker-turned-painter with a deep and un-astronautly love of Monet. The great painters pretty much left the Moon alone – and if the poets are any guide, this was wise, because if you trawl through the anthologies, what you find is endless florid paeans to her beauty and mystery, few of which add anything to the experience of simply looking up at the sky most nights. But Bean is different. He
only
looks at the Moon. In a sense, he's still up there. I've heard that he can take months to complete a painting, which then fetches up to $50,000 a shot and most of them are in private hands. If I want to see some of his work before meeting him, this is the only place to come.

Luna and the arts go back a long way and have an interesting relationship, expressed most strongly through novels and movies. The earliest Moon trip fantasy is thought to be the work of a Syrian astrologer named Lucian of Samosata in the second century ad, but the ones that still resonate are Jules Verne's remarkably
prophetic
From the Earth to the Moon
(1865) and H. G. Wells's
The First Men in the Moon
(1901). The Victorians had a yen for lunar fantasy and it was here that an intriguing dialectic began to develop, leading all the way to Apollo. On the most obvious level, the respective fathers of German and American rocketry, Hermann Oberth and Robert Goddard, were both obsessed with Verne's tale as children (and not just them: Neil Armstrong named his
Apollo 11
Command Module
Columbia
after Verne's “Columbiad”). Oberth, in turn, acted as adviser to one of early cinema's great directors, Fritz Lang, on his 1929 epic
Frau im Mond
(
Woman in the Moon
), whose first realistic depiction of spaceflight helped to make the idea fashionable among the German intelligentsia, also establishing the convention of the reverse countdown to launch. One of Oberth's students, that Prussian aristocrat's son Wernher von Braun, caught the rocket bug from science fiction, too. Quoted in
The New Yorker
in 1951, he trilled of his first story: “It filled me with a romantic urge. Interplanetary travel! Here was a task worth dedicating one's life to!” Further down the line, there would be speculation that President Nixon approved funds for the space shuttle because Kubrick had already shown him one in
2001
. It had looked good down at the Odeon, even if it made no sense in real life.

It was in the Fifties that space gripped the American imagination, as shown by the long streams of paranoid genre movies, many of which have weathered surprisingly well. At this time, space and the Moon were still blank canopies across which you could spread the psyche (sometimes explicitly as in the classic
The Forbidden Planet,
a Freudian remake of Shakespeare's
The Tempest
). Later, in the Sixties, some feared that Apollo would destroy the Moon's value as the most elastic symbol or metaphor since God. In 1963 (by coincidence the same year that his poet wife Sylvia Plath committed suicide) Ted Hughes published a book of children's poetry called
Moon-Whales and Other Moon Poems,
in which a menagerie of apparitions lies waiting to repel any assault on Luna's sovereign mystique. There is something wishful about “The Burrow Wolf,” for example, in which Hughes warns:

The imminent Moon landings also functioned as a backdrop and philosophical engine for the playwright Tom Stoppard's
Jumpers,
which looked dated and irrelevant when I first saw it in 1985, but was asking interesting questions again in a 2003 revival. Interviewed in the
Sunday Times,
Stoppard explained what had been on his mind when he wrote it.

“The inspiration for the play,” he said, “was my private thought that if and when men landed on the moon, something interesting would occur in the human psyche, that landing on the moon would be an act of destruction. There is a quotation when the first landing occurred from the Union of Persian Storytellers … they claimed it was somehow damaging to the livelihood of the storytellers. I understood that completely.”

He worried that the landings would ruin the Moon as a “benign metaphor,” the chaperone of romance and unspoken feeling, and also that once we could see ourselves from such a distance, all the absolute ideas of what is good and bad would come to look like “local customs coming from a finite place,” and a kind of moral paralysis would occur. That neither of these things happened is fascinating. That it seems to have had the
opposite
effect on some of the few who actually went is doubly fascinating. The first thing you notice when you watch
For All Mankind,
the Oscar-winning collection of Apollo footage which the journalist Al Reinert spent years assembling, then set against a wondrous Brian Eno sound track and lunar astronauts talking about their trip, is that the magic
never
left for them. The second is how similar Deep Space talk is to psychedelic Sixties drug talk. If these cats had been allowed to pack beards and bongs in
their “personal preference kits,” you couldn't have improved upon:

“When the sunlight shines through the blackness of space, it's black. But I was able to look at this blackness: I mean, what are you looking at? Call it the Universe, but it's the infinity of space and the infinity of time. I'm looking at something called ‘space' that has no end, and at ‘time,' that has no meaning. You can really focus on it, because you've got this planet out there, this star called Earth, which is all lit up. Because when the sunlight strikes on an object, it strikes on something called ‘Earth.' And it's not a hostile blackness. Maybe it's not hostile because the view of Earth gives it life …”

While you could get arrested in some states for saying:

“I know where I am when I look at the Moon … stars are my home.”

People have suggested that these similar vocabularies stem from the way drugs and space both promise shortcuts to nirvana (for Edgar Mitchell, this may have been true). Others hold that they both represent attempts to escape our eternal foe,
gravity
. It works both ways, too. In 1966, the Byrds were hit by a radio ban of their single “Eight Miles High” because it was assumed to be a “drug song.” In fact, band members David Crosby and Roger McGuinn were space and flying enthusiasts who spent hours lying on the bonnets of their cars watching airliners take off and land at Los Angeles airport. Like “Mr. Spaceman” from the same classic
Fifth Dimension
album, the song really was about flying.