What the hell were they doing on the Moon anyhow?
You know what scares me? There’s the biggest science project of the last century and the nitwit in the White House doesn’t know anything about it.
Give him a break, Harry. He’s a government worker.
Thank God for Bucky.
The racetrack sounded. “George.”
“Yes, Ray?”
“They’re in the air. On the way back. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Okay. Good. I assume Weinstein will check in again when they land?”
“Yes, he will.”
“Are you actually going to stay on?”
“I’ll be here, George.”
“All right. When they’re on the ground, let me know. Have we arranged a hotel for Ms. Morris?”
“It’s pretty late. I thought we’d put her in the Lincoln Bedroom.”
“Okay. That’s a good idea.”
“I was thinking, as an alternative, we could install her over at the Watergate.”
Cunningham was silent for a moment. Then: “This is why you’ll always have a job with me, Ray.”
Jon Stewart started his show by assuring everybody that there was nothing to worry about, that the president had everything under control, had known from the beginning about the Myshko and Walker flights. Had undoubtedly known what Blackstone would find because, hey, do you think everyone in the White House is an idiot? Then he ran a clip from the Beverly Hills fund-raiser. A guy whom Cunningham remembered only vaguely, Michael Somebody, asking for his reaction to the Blackstone TV show. And the president’s brush-off response: “Look, Michael, I really don’t know how to respond to his comments. I think you’ll have to ask him. While you’re at it, you might check with Mr. Blackstone to see if he’s figured out what’s going on in the Bermuda Triangle.”
And, of course, Stewart responded with shock.
It was certainly not the first time Cunningham had been a target on The Daily Show. There had been times when the president had said one thing and done another. Like during the campaign, when he’d blamed the country’s economic woes on the sharp decrease in population growth at the same time he was arguing that overpopulation was draining the country’s natural resources. And again, when he’d reassured the nation that blue sky science was part of who we were, then proceeded to delay funding yet again for the Webb Telescope.
Normally he was able to laugh off the flubs. A foolish consistency and little minds. Everybody understood that. But this one hurt. It wasn’t really his fault that secrets had been kept. Nothing he could have done about that, no way he could have known. But nonetheless, he looked ridiculous at the moment.
Arthur Stiles, on The Late Show, commented that historians had recently uncovered evidence that an Englishman named Joseph Pettigrew had actually been the first European to arrive in America. “Almost sixty years before Columbus,” he said, shaking his head in mock astonishment.
“Holy cats, Arthur,” said his bandleader, who also doubled as a straight man, “how come we never found out about it?”
Stiles shrugged. “Apparently, Henry V—he was king at the time—wrote it down somewhere, then forgot about it.”
“Well,” said the bandleader, “I guess it could happen to anybody.”
The audience broke up.
“Want some coffee?” asked Lyra, getting off the sofa.
“Please. And a donut would be good, too.”
—
Vanessa Hodge, on CBS Late Night, was also enjoying herself at his expense. “We have a late-breaking story,” she said. “The White House has just announced that the Russians have the bomb.”
“Now that,” said Lyra, bringing in the coffee, “is clever.”
Cunningham nodded. “I suppose.”
“George, you need a better sense of humor. You know that?”
“I know, Lyra. And I don’t mind getting bushwhacked when I deserve it. And sometimes even when I don’t. But this thing has come out of nowhere. What the hell was Nixon up to?”
“We’re also getting word,” said Hodge, “that the administration won’t have to worry about a negative reaction to canceling the funding for the Webb Telescope project. NASA is reporting they can’t find the telescope.”
“The only thing that makes any sense,” said Cunningham, “is that Myshko and one of his partners, Peters, I guess, made an unauthorized landing. Wanted to be first on the Moon. Nixon was under a lot of pressure at the time, couldn’t get clear of the war, so he panicked and ordered a cover-up.”
“So what would have been the purpose of the second mission?”
“They went down and sprayed some kind of paint on the descent stages, made them the same color as the ground, and hoped they wouldn’t be found. And they were right.”
“So why did the Russians join in?”
“Damned if I know. They had nothing to lose. So they probably extracted some sort of deal. My guess is that when Nixon’s lockbox gets here, we’ll find out.” He was surprised to discover he’d eaten the donut. He sipped the coffee, put it down, changed channels.
HBO had The Greta Lee Show. Greta, lovely dark eyes, black hair, enticing smile, looked directly out of the TV. “Well,” she said, “so we got two missions to the back side of the Moon, which is nothing but a big parking lot. And I guess you heard that we’ve also developed artificial semen. And we wonder where the money goes.”
Cunningham growled something and went to one of the movie channels. He selected Casablanca, probably his all-time favorite film. “Okay?” he asked.
“Sure, babe.”
“I wonder how Bogie would have handled this?”
Lyra raised her cup. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”
He kissed her. Started to unbutton her blouse. And, in his best Bogart imitation: “You too, sweetheart.”
The racetrack sounded again. “George, they’ll be on the ground in twenty minutes. Should be here in less than an hour.”
37
“Canaveral has offered us its landing facility if we want it,” announced Gaines, listening to the transmission from Earth. He turned to Bucky. “We might consider it. It’s a hell of a lot better than Flat Plains in every respect.”
“With one exception,” replied Bucky. “We own Flat Plains. I won’t be beholden to the government or to NASA.”
“Are you sure? I mean, if we need medical care . . .”
“Do your job right, and we won’t,” said Bucky, ending the conversation.
“Bucky, you should be the happiest man alive,” said Neimark. “Why are you so grumpy?”
“In a couple of hours, I’m going to face the cameras and tell the nation that my president is a liar or a fool. And while we’ve had our differences, I’m just enough of a patriot not to be looking forward to it.”
“So let Jerry Culpepper do it,” said Bassinger. “That’s why you hired him, isn’t it?”
“This is my operation,” said Bucky firmly. “I’ll make the report to the public. Which brings up another matter.”
“Oh?” said Neimark suspiciously.
“Yeah. I don’t want anyone making any public guesses about what this . . . this thing is. Or was. We’ll wait until our experts have examined it six ways to Sunday, and we’re sure.”
“Oh, come on, Bucky,” said Bassinger. “It’s an alien artifact. There’s no keeping it secret, and I can’t imagine why you’d want to.”
“I’m not that sure, Phil,” said Neimark. “We’ve got to run it through half a dozen tests at our lab first.”
“What else could it be?” demanded Bassinger.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. But it’s always possible it was brought to the Moon not by aliens but by Sidney Myshko.”