The TV crew arrived shortly before seven and began setting up. Mary called to reassure him. “You’ll get through it all right, Jerry,” she said. “Just hang loose.”
A makeup guy patted powder on his nose and cheeks. Then a young woman explained about the lights on the cameras and how he should talk to the lens. It was all stuff he knew, that anybody knew, but he let her go on. “You won’t be on until the second segment,” she explained. Her name was Shirley. Unlike Koestler, she seemed reasonable, and he would have preferred to have her conduct the interview.
A bright moon was visible in the trees. While Jerry stared out at it, they moved the wingback chair away from the window and put it beside a desk, then set up a camera so that the desk would occupy the background. As eight o’clock approached, a young man who seemed to be the director suggested he sit down in the chair. Jerry complied.
He’d done interview shows before, during his years as a campaign front man. But nothing on this scale, nothing on cable news that would go out to the entire nation. And never confronting a loudmouth host whose primary goal was to make his guests look silly.
Then it was time. Shirley switched on the monitor, and he watched the intros to Koestler Country. Koestler appeared, relaxed in a book-lined studio. He was in his fifties, sporting a smile that suggested the rest of the world was deranged but he would set it straight. He had thick red hair and always dressed casually. Tonight, it was a light blue pullover shirt and an azure sports jacket. He was looking through a sheaf of notes as the camera panned in on him, and a piano played the show’s bouncy theme. He looked up, suddenly aware of the presence of an audience. “Hello, Mr. and Ms. America,” he said. “Welcome to Koestler Country.” He smiled and laid the papers on a side table. “Tonight, we’ll be looking at who really controls the environmental protections in the United States, why a former astronaut showed up on the Space Coast for a public service award from NASA and promptly gave it back, whether we’re doing the right thing shutting down our military and naval bases around the world, and, finally, whether our continually advancing technology is destroying our kids’ ability to talk with one another. Our first guest this evening is Eliot Kramer. Eliot is an economist and was a member of the last administration’s corruption watchdog group.”
Kramer walked in past a set of dark curtains. He wore an artificial smile. “Good to see you again, Al,” he said, as Koestler rose to shake his hand. Then they both sat down.
“Last time, Eliot,” said the host, “we talked about the degree to which corporations control the efforts to do something about the environment. Has that changed at all?”
“It has, Al. It’s gotten worse. And in my view, it’s time to put some of these people in jail.”
—
“So, Jerry,” he said, inviting him in, “what’s happening with NASA these days?” Al Koestler was not a fan of the space effort. “Once you got beyond Earth orbit,” he was fond of saying, “there’s no point in continuing. It’s cold, dark, and empty out there. No place to go. Nothing to bring back.”
“We’re still doing exploratory work.”
“What, actually, are you exploring?”
Jerry was taken by surprise. He’d expected an immediate focus on Frank Kirby. “The outer planets. We’ve learned a lot these past few years.”
“For example?”
“We have a pretty good idea why Uranus rotates on its side. You know that, right? That it’s completely tipped over?”
“How would that affect us, Jerry?”
“Well, there is no direct impact. But— You are familiar with the term ‘blue sky science’?”
“Of course. That’s science that doesn’t do anything for us. But it’s fine. I just don’t think the taxpayers should have to pay for it.” He continued in that vein for several minutes. And finally took a long, deep breath. “NASA gave an award to one of its former employees this morning. It went to Frank Kirby for community service in Orlando, Jerry. Am I right?”
“Yes. That’s correct.”
“Kirby, I understand, has a long history of taking care of battered women and kids in trouble. A genuinely good guy.”
“Yes. He is. We were pleased to have the opportunity to recognize all he’s done.”
“Let’s play a clip. This took place shortly after the award ceremony.” Koestler glanced up at a screen set back among the books. Jerry watched himself again talking with Kirby, watched the conversation morph into a confrontation, himself matched against a kindly man in a wheelchair.
Then Kirby shoved the plaque at him. “Here, Jerry, you can have it. And if we weren’t in polite company, I’d tell you what you could do with it.”
They froze the picture. “Jerry,” said Koestler, “why would anybody care who was on the capsule radio?”
“It just seemed odd, Al. It was no big deal, and I was surprised he got annoyed.”
“Is there a suggestion that Myshko and his partner, um, Crash Able—I love that name, don’t you?—weren’t in the capsule during that period?”
“I asked him about it simply because the AP reporter had asked. That was all. I thought maybe it was an interesting question. I didn’t even know if it was true. Didn’t realize that Frank was upset, or I wouldn’t have said anything.”
“Well, okay. But what was that about the rocks?”
“The rocks?”
“The Navy guy who said he saw one of the astronauts bringing back some rocks?”
“I think he said with rocks. Rocks is a code word. It’s a Navy expression for being nervous. As in ‘he was rocked by the experience.’” That was a stretch, but Jerry hoped it would get him past the question.
“Why was Kirby so upset, do you think?”
“I just don’t know. I’m certainly sorry I brought it up.”
“But he was angry at you. You say you don’t know why?”
“No, I don’t. I guess there was a misunderstanding of some sort.”
“In what way?”
“I’m not sure, Al. I’m really not. The only thing I can say is that I have a great deal of respect for Frank Kirby, and I want to take advantage of this opportunity to apologize if I gave offense. And obviously I did.” Jerry looked directly into the camera. “I’m sorry it happened, Frank. And I’d like to make it right.”
—
Mary called him minutes after the show. “You did good, Jerry. I thought you came away from it about as well as you could. Let me know if you hear from Frank.”
—
Kirby called the following morning. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have blown my stack like that.” He looked down at Jerry from the TV screen, which was mounted beside a picture of Jerry and Myra Hasting, editor of The Florida Times-Union.
“It’s okay. It was my fault, Frank.”
“Let’s just forget it, okay?”
“Yes. That’s a good idea. You’ll be wanting your award back, I hope.” Jerry grinned.
“That would be nice, yes.”
“I’ll ship it this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Jerry. And one other thing?”
“Sure.”
“That business with Sidney Myshko. Forget it, okay? It’s just confusion over a bad joke.”
—
Jerry was grateful to put it aside and get back to his normal routine. Fortunately, the media have a short memory. The disappearance of Sidney Myshko from the Apollo transmissions all those years ago needed precisely two days to drop out of the news. Then, as he was getting ready to quit for the day, he got a call from Ralph D’Angelo. Ralph was a friend from Jerry’s days at Wesleyan University. He was a columnist for The Baltimore Sun.
“Long time,” Jerry said. “How you been, Ralph?”
“Still working, Jerry.” He hadn’t aged well. Ralph looked twenty years older than he actually was. His hair was gone, his forehead was wrinkled, his eyes were glazed. Jerry suspected he had health problems. Or worse.