But the moment his boots leave the surface of Phobos, the ship disappears and he feels a sudden pull of gravity. He slams into something hard and smacks his head into the top of his space helmet. Everything goes black.
Someone is pulling him upright.
His head hurts like hell.
There is a click and a welcome rush of air as someone removes his helmet. He takes a deep gulp of dank and dusty air. Nothing has ever tasted so good. He takes another and another, his hungry lungs burning from the effort, the pain behind his eyes telling him his air must have run out while he was unconscious.
A familiar face smiles at him. “You’re alive.” It’s Donald Menzel.
“That was one heck of a re-entry,” says Borman.
“Thank the Lord,” says Menzel.
“He had very little to do with it,” Borman assures him. He looks around, realizing he’s back in the Verus Foundation’s underground facility, the same place Menzel brought him last time. He looks up at the scientist and grins in relief. “It’s good to see you again.”
45
As Borman pulls into the driveway, he sees the lawn is newly mown. The site humbles him. That has to be Fred’s handiwork. It should be him doing the mowing, but like so many things on the home front, he’s left it to Susan to take care of. She taught their son how to mow the lawn. That should have been something his dad taught him, but Borman has only ever been a part-time father. For years, NASA has consumed his every waking hour. It’s all his family knows. It’s all they expect.
She meets him on the front porch, smiling and happy, showing no signs of concern or indeed any idea of what he’s been through. He pulls her close and kisses her on the lips, a little harder than intended, but she doesn’t resist. She’s surprised, but in a good way.
“It’s so good to see you,” he says, fighting back tears.
As far as she’s concerned, he’s been gone less than 48 hours. For him, it’s been more than a week. Most of that time, Borman was convinced he would never see his family again. This feels like he’s been given a presidential pardon. He holds her tightly in his arms, feeling like he never wants to let her go.
Finally, she peels herself away, not because the affection is unwelcome, but because it’s so completely out of character. This in itself is enough to make her worry. “Is everything OK, Frank?” But Susan Borman almost buckles at the knees from the shock of seeing tears rolling down her husband’s face. “Good God — what’s wrong?”
“I’m just so happy to see you. I thought…” He stops himself.
“What, are your thoughts classified now too?”
“I thought I’d never see you again.” Tears are pouring down his face now. Susan is both moved and more than a little unnerved.
“But you can never tell me why.”
“No. I’m going to tell you everything. To hell with official secrecy. You need to know.” More than that, he needs to tell her. For sanity’s sake, as well as for their marriage. “I got something for you.” He pulls a pebble from his pocket.
“You got me a rock?”
“It’s one of a kind. Well, here on Earth it is.”
Susan frowns. “I’m not going to like this story, am I?”
Borman laughs. “Oh, the story is incredible. It’ll blow your mind. But I guess you won’t like it, no.”
“Well, I’ve just made some coffee.”
“That sounds incredible. Hey, I’ve been thinking. We don’t need to be in Houston any more. Let’s move back to Tucson.”
“But you still work for NASA, don’t you?”
“Well I guess so, yeah, but they don’t really need me much now. It’s what you want, isn’t it? To be closer to your mum and away from all the crazy? Maybe help you calm down a bit. Know what I mean?”
She nods. There’s been way too much of the crazy in the past few years.
“I love you so much, Susan.”
“No more secret missions?”
“Not like that. Not like that.”
She shakes her head. “You are unbelievable, you know that?”
“That I do believe is the truth, Mrs Borman.”
46
At noon on any given day of the week, Washington’s Sans Souci restaurant is buzzing. Every table is full. Everyone is talking loudly, like they want their conversations to be the talk of the town. It’s a place people come to be noticed. Today, the general level of buzz has risen to fever pitch in anticipation of one of President Nixon’s regular lunch visits.
It strikes Borman as a most unsuitable place to be meeting Trick Stamford, given what they have to discuss. He’s trying his best to limit the conversation to small talk, hoping to suggest they find somewhere more appropriate once they’ve finished their Martinis.
“That chandelier is a bit over the top, don’t you think?” Borman decides. “And the lamps? I’ve never seen street lamps inside a restaurant before.”
“Don’t worry, the food more than makes up for it.”
“Really?”
“No, it’s terrible,” says Stamford. “I don’t know why people love this place so much. It puts French cuisine on a pyre, sets it on fire and burns it blacker than the charred corpse of Joan of Arc.”
“You’ve got a sick mind, you know that?”
Stamford laughs. “What’s the matter? You seem ill at ease, Frank.”
“Just picked up on that, have you?”
“You’re worried we’ll be overheard.”
“Aren’t you?”
Stamford looks around the room. “There’s a few people here who might recognize you, but this is Washington — you’re not the one they’re here to see. When Nixon’s entourage walks in, nobody will give a damn what you and I say to one another. It’s called hiding in plain sight. Trust me, I’m better at this than you are.”
Borman is grateful his Apollo 8 fame already seems to be fading in the eyes of the public. The success of Apollo 9 and this week’s launch of Apollo 10 have afforded him a greater degree of anonymity. The stars of Washington seem to glimmer in a universe of their own. Power is what holds people’s attention in the capital, far more than yesterday’s hero. Still, it feels strange to be out in the open like this. When the drinks arrive, he knocks back half a Martini in one gulp. He’s not much of a drinker, but he hopes it will calm his nerves.
“I read your report,” Stamford tells him. “As you know, the old man and me are not easily shocked or surprised, but to be honest with you we were just about ready to consign you to a rubber room. Mind-reading Martians? A different dimension?”
Borman is starting to think this lunch might be a mistake. “How do you think I felt, putting that stuff down on paper? It’s like something out of an Asimov novel. But it happened. All of it. I haven’t lost my marbles.”
“If you had, you’d be the last person to know about it,” says Stamford, laughing. “As it turns out, we found something, well, I should say Menzel found something to back up your story. But given you failed to mention it in your report, I’m wondering how much you know about it.”
Borman stares back at him nonplussed. “First, tell me what you know.”
“It was attached to the back of your spacesuit. To your life support system. A pocket was sewn into the side where a pocket never used to be.” Stamford waits, apparently seeking some glimmer of recognition in Borman’s eyes. Seeing none, he continues. “It was put there, I suppose, by your hosts. A gift. Something truly remarkable.”