'I don't want to fly in their tubs,' repeated Tucker, 'but if cooperating with them would get NASA back in the space-exploring business, I could put up with the smell.' He unstrapped himself and began climbing down, taking care to use the proper handholds.
'A camel pissing out, eh?' said Baedecker, following carefully.
'What's that?' said Tucker as he crouched in front of the low, round hatch. 'Old Arab proverb,' said Baedecker. 'It's better to have the camel inside your tent pissing out than outside pissing in.' Tucker laughed, removed a stogie from his shirt pocket, and clamped it between his teeth. 'Camel pissing out,' he said and laughed again. 'I like that.' Baedecker waited until Tucker exited and then he crouched, grabbed a metal bar above the hatch, and swung himself out into the delivery-room brightness of the white room.
Early on the morning of the launch, Baedecker sat alone in the coffee shop of his Cocoa Beach motel, watching the surf break and rereading the letter he had received from Maggie Brown three days earlier.
November 17, 1988
Richard,
I loved your last letter. You write so rarely but every letter means so much. I know you well enough not to know how much you think about and how much you care about . . . and how little you say. Will you ever allow anyone to share the full depths of your insights and feelings? I hope so.
You make Arkansas sound beautiful. The descriptions of early mornings on the lake with the mists rising and crows calling in the bare branches along the shore made me want to be there.
Boston is all slush and traffic and tired brick right now. I love teaching and Dr. Thurston thinks that I'll be ready to begin work on my thesis next April. We'll see.
Your book is fantastic — at least the bits and pieces you've let me read. I think your friend Dave would be very proud. The character studies make the pilots come alive in a way I've never seen equaled in print, and the historical perspectives allow a lay person (me, for instance) to understand our current era in a new light — as a culture choosing between a frightening future of exploration and discovery, or a retreat into the safe and familiar harbors of internecine wars, stagnation, and decline.
As a sociologist I have more than a few questions (not answered by your book . . . or the fragments I've seen) concerning you astronaut-critters. Such as — why do so many of you hail from the Midwest? And why are almost all of you only children or the oldest siblings? (Is this true of the new mission specialists — especially the women — or just the ex-test pilots among you?) And what are the long-term psychological effects of belonging to a profession (test pilot) where the on-the-job mortality rate is one in six? (Could this lead to a certain reticence in showing feelings?) Your references to Scott in the last letter sound more optimistic than anything I've heard previously. I'm so pleased he's feeling better. Please give my warm greetings to him. From the tone of your letter, Richard, it sounds like you're rediscovering how complex and thoughtful your son can be. I could have told you that! Scott was indulging his stubborn-ness when he wasted a year in that stupid ashram, but as I've suggested before, part of that stubbornness comes from his reluctance to let any experience pass unexamined or to remain less than totally understood.
Where could he have gotten that trait do you think?
Speaking of stubbornness, I will not comment upon the mathematical section of your letter. It's not worthy of a reply. (Other than to point out that when you're 180, I'll just be a spry 154. It may be a problem then.) (But I doubt it.) You asked me in your letter about my own philosophical/religious views on some things. Are we still talking about the places-of-power idea we confronted in India eighteen months ago?
You know about my love of magic, Richard, and about my own obsession with what I think of as the secrets and the silences of the soul. For me, our quest for places of power is both real and important. But you know that.
All right, my belief system. I composed a twelve-page epistle on this since your letter posed the question, but then I tossed it away because I guess my whole system of beliefs can be boiled down to this:
I believe in the richness and mystery of the universe; and I don't believe in the supernatural.
That's it. Oh, and I also believe that you and I have some decisions to make, Richard. I won't insult both of us with clichés or the travails of keeping Bruce at bay seven months after the deadline I promised him, but the fact is that you and I have to decide if we have a future together.
Until recently, I felt that we did. The few hours and days we have spent together over the past year and a half convinced me that the universe was richer — and, strangely, more mysterious — when we encountered it together.
But, one way or the other, life is beckoning to each of us right now. Whatever we decide, you need to know that our time together has widened and deepened everything for me, backward and forward in time.
I think I'll go for a walk now to watch the sculls on the Charles.
Maggie
Scott joined him at the table. 'You're up early today, Dad. What time are we going over for the launch?'
'About eight-thirty,' said Baedecker and folded away Maggie's letter.
The waitress came over and Scott ordered coffee, orange juice, scrambled eggs, wheat toast, and a side order of grits. When she left, he glanced at Baedecker's solitary cup of coffee and said, 'Is that all you're having for breakfast?'
'I'm not very hungry this morning,' said Baedecker.
'You didn't eat anything yesterday either, come to think of it,' said Scott. 'I remember you didn't have dinner on Wednesday either. And you didn't touch the pie last night. What's wrong, Dad? Are you feeling all right?'
'I feel fine,' said Baedecker. 'Honestly. Just not much appetite recently. I'll have a big lunch.' Scott frowned. 'Just be careful, Dad. When I used to go on long fasts in India I'd get to the point after a few days where I didn't want to eat anything.'
'I feel fine,' Baedecker said again. 'I feel better than I have for years.'
'You look better,' Scott said emphatically. 'You must have lost twenty pounds since we started running at the end of January. Tucker Wilson asked me last night what kind of vitamins you've been taking. Jesus, you look great, Dad.'
'Thanks,' said Baedecker. He took a sip of coffee. 'I was rereading Maggie Brown's letter and remembered that she said to say hello to you.' Scott nodded and looked out at the ocean. The sky was a flawless blue to the east, but there was already a haze in front of the rising sun. 'We haven't talked about Maggie,' said Scott.
'No, we haven't.'
'Let's talk,' said Scott. 'All right.'
At that second Scott's breakfast arrived and the waitress filled their coffee cups. Scott took a bite of toast. 'First of all,' he said, 'I think you've got the wrong idea about Maggie and me. We were friends for a few months before I went over to India, but we weren't all that close. I was surprised when she showed up to visit that summer. What I'm trying to say is, even though the idea occurred to me a few times, Maggie and I never got it on.'