Up and Down (27 page)

“Sounds good to me,” Kelly replied. “Shame about his name. ‘Eugene Crank’ is quite a handle to grow up with. I bet he had a rough ride at school.”

“I can assure you, no one ever messed with Eugene Crank at school,” Crawford interjected. “He was a star athlete and met his wife when they were both fifteen.”

“It’s like a fairy tale,” Kelly said with what might have been just a whiff of sarcasm. “I think we can give Eugene Crank our stamp of approval,” she added. “Let’s head north.”

“Right. Off to the frozen reaches of Canada,” Crawford began, his voice appropriately icy. “Well, we have a bit of an issue in Canada, thanks to a very tenacious reporter and a local village idiot up in what they call British Columbia. The name drawn as the Canadian winner somehow belonged to a Landon Percival. For most of her biography, she sounds great. She’s a doctor. She’s a bush pilot. Her dream has always been to fly, preferably all the way to space. She even applied for the Canadian astronaut program but was rejected, as we understand it, because she was too old. Now just to put this all in perspective, she was considered too old by
NASA
and the Canadian Space Agency … back in 1983. Yes, she’s still alive and kicking today. In fact she’s a spry seventy-one years old and still flies her old Beaver around B.C.”

“I beg your pardon,” Kelly snapped.

“Sorry. Let me be clear,” Crawford explained. “I’ve learned from my Canadian colleagues that the Beaver is an iconic bush plane that helped to open up northern Canada back in the day.”

“Ah. I see. Thanks for the clarification.”

“Now initially, I was totally opposed to letting this woman through, and I’d already instructed our Toronto team to choose a new winner. Well, we know what happened then. This Landon Percival’s story is now all over the goddamn news and seems to
have warmed the hearts of Canadians. We did a fast overnight poll to probe Canadians’ awareness of, and attitudes towards, our dear Landon Percival and the results are, um, compelling enough to cause a rethink in my position. Twenty-four hours after her story broke, more than half of those surveyed had heard of her, and of that group, over 89 per cent wanted to see her ride the shuttle. There’s more data but it just gets uglier.”

“And judging from the media coverage today, both in Canada and here in the U.S., this story is still on the rise,” commented Kelly.

“Right,” agreed Crawford. “So that leaves us in a difficult position. We could reject her again just because she’s so old she could break her hip more easily than breaking wind. But my Canadian colleagues have persuaded me that the entire Canadian population would ride their snowmobiles to my front door, string me up from the nearest maple tree, and beat me blue with canoe paddles. I’m not keen to bring that kind of negative publicity down on
NASA
. So, reluctantly, our recommendation is that this Landon Percival woman be announced as the candidate Canadian citizen astronaut, who will ride the shuttle if, and only if, she can successfully complete the training program.”

I could contain myself no longer.

“Well, technically, this Eugene Crank guy will also have to ace the training program or he can’t go up either. So both candidates are in exactly same boat, er rocket,” I blurted.

“Mr. Stewart is correct,” Kelly said. “Actually, in the end, it’s an easy call for me. I happen to like Landon Percival and her back story. Having said that, I doubt very much that my colleagues will be too enthusiastic, particularly Scott Chandler, not to mention our lawyers. But I happen to think she adds a new and fresh dimension to the program. In fact, I think she is the kind of citizen we’re really looking for. She doesn’t look like an astronaut. You could swap Eugene Crank in for any other American astronaut of the last fifty years, and no one would even notice.”

“Yes, Kelly, but if I can be direct, neither you nor our Canadian team get to make the final call on who flies,” Crawford reminded her.

“Mr. Blake, that was perhaps a little too direct,” replied a decidedly cool Kelly Bradstreet. “I may not have the final call. Unfortunately, senior communications execs seldom have the final call. But when I present this to the
NASA
leadership, I think I know how this story will end.”

Twenty-four hours later,
NASA
issued a news release announcing Mr. Eugene Crank and Dr. Landon Percival as the first two citizen astronauts, pending their successful completion of a rigorous training program at the Johnson Space Center in Houston. I didn’t really know how Crawford Blake took the news, but then again, I didn’t really care any more.

I called Landon as soon as I heard the announcement. Cellphone reception is remarkably good these days, even when bridging the vast distance between Toronto and Cigar Lake, B.C. She later denied it, but I was quite sure I heard the faint sound of weeping.

The day after
NASA
’
S
news release, the phone rang in my cubicle.

“David Stewart.”

“David, it’s Kelly Bradstreet at
NASA
.”

“Oh, um, hi Kelly, it’s David Stewart.”

“Yes, I know, you already said that.”

Damn.

“Yes, um, right. Sorry about that. I guess I just wasn’t expecting to hear from you directly,” I babbled.

“Well, I like to stay in touch with the people on the ground, who are doing the heavy lifting,” she commented. “Besides, without being too blunt, I sometimes find that Crawford Blake spins so much he’s at risk of screwing himself into the ground.”

“I understand, Kelly. And to make it easier for our clients, I often say my name twice, usually early in the conversation.”

“Good. Very helpful. Okay, so here’s the deal. You already know that I was able to get Landon Percival over this first hurdle. She’s
made it into the training program. But there was a condition that we didn’t put in the news release.”

“Okay. What kind of condition?” I asked.

“Well, Landon does not exactly fit the typical astronaut stereotype.”

“Yes, I know being a Canadian does set her apart,” I interjected.

Kelly had the grace to chuckle.

“Right. In any event, the powers that be here at
NASA
have insisted that she be accompanied at all times by a handler of sorts. A minder who can look out for her, and keep her out of trouble from the time she arrives in Houston for the training to when the shuttle brings her back down, provided she passes the training in the first place.”

“Does Eugene get a handler, too?” I asked, a little irritated by
NASA
’
S
demand.

“Well, that’s the rub,” Kelly replied. “No. My bosses don’t think he needs one, and we don’t want any more people cluttering up the program than necessary, so he doesn’t get one.”

“The double-standard positioning may be difficult,” I said.

“Well, I’m hopeful that it won’t ever become public that Landon has an escort.”

“But if it does, perhaps we could just say that it’s always been standard procedure for all foreign nationals to be accompanied while participating in a
NASA
astronaut program,” I suggested.

“Hmmm. I like it,” Kelly replied. “That’ll be our key message if it ever comes up.”

“I’ll draft a few different versions for you to consider,” I offered.

“Well, write them as you would deliver them, because I’m about to call Crawford Blake and tell him I want you to be Landon Percival’s shadow for as long as she’s in the program. Her handler,” Kelly explained.

I said nothing, because I didn’t seem to be capable of human speech at that precise moment, which is often the case when one is flabbergasted.

“Well, you’re the logical choice. I’ve got your bio in front of me, and you’ve already had some contact with
NASA
when you were with the minister. And you’ve already established a relationship with the talented Dr. Percival. You’re a perfect fit.”

I finally found my tongue resting in my lower jaw, which I picked up off the floor.

“Wow, Kelly. Well, that would be very cool and I’d love to do it, but I doubt Crawford will go for it. Just between us, I don’t really think I’m his employee of the month right now after that little
Vancouver Sun
fiasco.”

“Are you kidding? If I were you, I’d start claiming responsibility for that story. It gave us great publicity and built more tension and anticipation into the announcement than we could ever have dreamed of. I thought it was brilliant.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Anyway, I have Crawford Blake in training right now, and I expect that pretty soon he’ll actually accept that I’m the client.”

“Oh. I see.”

“So keep all this under your hat. I just wanted to give you a quiet heads up that the client’s first choice to carry our geriatric astronaut’s luggage is you,” she said. “Am I thwarting any big plans you had for the next eight weeks or so?”

“Um, nope. Not that I know of. If my boss here is okay with it, I’m happy to chauffeur Landon on this adventure. If she agrees.”

“Oh, I think she’ll be fine with it.”

She hung up a few minutes later and I sat back in my chair. I didn’t know what to think. I refused to contemplate the idea that I might actually get to do this. I Googled the Johnson Space Center in Houston, where astronauts typically train, and started grazing through the pages. About half an hour later, my phone rang again. The caller
ID
told me it was
TK
D.C.
Not good. I toyed with the idea of just letting it ring through to voice mail, but I was feeling a little more confident after my Kelly call.

“David Stewart.”

“I don’t really like you, Stewart. I haven’t from the start. And I haven’t yet figured out how you’ve managed to worm your way into the affections of our client, not to mention your colleagues in Toronto. I just don’t see it. I thought for a while that you might be a very accomplished swordsman and have been very busy. But I don’t think so. You don’t look the part. So it must be something else. But I’ll find out what it is. Don’t you worry.”

“Hi, Crawford,” I mumbled. “I’m not exactly sure how to respond to that. I’ve really just been trying to do my job.”

“Oh, you’ve been doing a job all right. And the client has bought it hook, line, and sinker.”

“I’m really not sure what you’re driving at …”

“Yeah, right. Well, pack your bags, buddy boy, you’re off to Houston with that grandmother girlfriend of yours.
NASA
wants you to babysit her for the duration. So have a good time. Diane can give you the gory details.”

“Okay …”

“I am so totally fucking against this, but our spaced-out client is insisting. And what do I care? When it all goes bad – and trust me, it will all go bad – you’ll be right there on the scene to wear it.”

“Well …”

“I’m not finished,” Crawford snapped, which was just fine by me. I had no idea how to respond to his tirade, anyway.

“Do you know what I do when I can’t talk a dumbass client out of doing something stupid?”

“Um, no. What?”

“I just grin and bill it.”

The line went dead before I could respond with some witty and incisive retort. Then again, I might have had to put him on hold for twenty minutes to come up with one. I hung up and noticed Diane’s assistant hovering outside my cubicle. He just pointed to me, then stabbed his thumb towards the corner office.

One week later, I was at Toronto’s Pearson airport, sitting in an Air Canada departure lounge waiting to board AC #235 to Houston. A steady stream of people flowed down the wide corridor towards my gate. It was about ten minutes before we were to board, when I heard the noise.

“Mr. Stewart! Yoohooo! Mr. Stewart!”

I can’t really describe the sound of her voice when she pushed it to full volume. It didn’t really sound like her normal talking voice amplified. Rather, when she cranked it up to 11, it was more like a howler monkey at full wail.

I finally saw her. She had eschewed the moving sidewalk as too slow and was burning up the marble floor with long strides and a determined look. The crowd parted in front of her in self-defence, or perhaps it was simple fear of the unknown. I’d have gotten out of her way, too, had she been barrelling down on me.