“Oh, I should have thought of this earlier,” I said. “We don’t need to go to Building 30. I can connect to Mission Control from here.”
“You can?”
“Yes, this building has a wireless node in the lounge, where the big screen is.” Once I got him playing on the simulator, he’d probably forget all about the mysterious Building 30, and his mother too.
Mr. Smith nodded. “Okay, then. But we had better hurry. We don’t want the Russians to get there first.”
“Right.” I took his arm and walked with him past the reception desk and back toward the dining area. The receptionist looked up as we went by, and I winked at her. Yvonne was a year older than me, a high school senior who worked here weekdays after school. She smiled and came around the desk with my laptop and hand controllers that she must have retrieved while we were in the elevator.
“Hey, Flyboy,” she said to Mr. Smith after handing me my stuff. I had told her previously that he claimed to have been a pilot. Though he protested (the reporters might overhear), his face always lit up when she called him that. Then again, I couldn’t think of too many men, myself included, that wouldn’t enjoy some attention from a pretty girl like her. “Going to do some fancy flying today?”
Mr. Smith straightened up and met her gaze with a shy smile. “I can neither confirm nor deny that statement, young lady. But maybe we can have a drink later in the lounge, and I can show you some moves!”
“I just might take you up on that,” Yvonne said with a wide grin and twinkling eyes. She pecked him on the cheek and did a little swirl as she moved back behind the desk. The scent of her lingered pleasantly in the air as I stuffed my gear into my backpack again.
In a whisper, Mr. Smith said, “Women love pilots, you know. Got to watch out, though. Reporters have eyes everywhere, even in nice hotels like this one.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. Had he been involved in a scandal with a famous actress? Maybe he had been a stunt pilot? I steered him back to the dining area. The tables were filling with early diners. I decided we’d be more comfortable in the lounge. The TV was still on the news channel, and still showing scenes from the Moon. Someone had turned the sound up to hear over the diners in the background.
“We have an update on the crisis on the Moon,” the anchor said. “The privately-funded Apollo Restoration Project is working with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration to see if it is possible for their stranded crew to use their Apollo lunar vehicle to reach orbit. If the two historians can reach lunar orbit, NASA says it can remotely maneuver an unmanned cargo ship to pick them up. The cargo ship is not equipped to land, but has emergency supplies that would support the two people in lunar orbit until a Russian rescue ship can reach them two days from now.”
“Well, that’s good news,” I said.
“Shhh,” Mr. Smith said. I shut up.
“The team is working against the clock. The spacesuits have only seven hours of battery power remaining.”
“That’s not good,” I said. Mr. Smith glared at me. “Sorry,” I whispered.
“The Apollo lunar module replica is brand new and contains all the same systems as the historical modules, including working engines for its planned use in an unmanned reenactment. However, recent tests showed that the hatch does not seal properly, so the cabin cannot hold pressure. Therefore, the historians will have to remain in their suits. Also, the fuel pressure is low, possibly because of a slow helium leak. But the biggest problem is that the ship does not have an autopilot, and Ms. Phillips has no flight experience.”
Mr. Smith stared at the screen. “No flight experience! What kind of stunt are the Russians trying to pull by putting that woman up there?”
“She’s American,” I noted.
He ignored me and kept on talking. “Newbies always overcontrol, and that thing is as fragile as tissue paper. Get it tumbling, and it might fly apart.”
“Well, how about flying it remotely?” I suggested. “That reporter said NASA’s going to fly the cargo ship remotely.”
Mr. Smith smiled weakly. “Remote control requires a computer interface. The computer on that thing is dumber than an adding machine.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering what an adding machine was.
“No,” Mr. Smith continued, “they need to come up with a preplanned set of maneuvers and then have an experienced pilot walk that woman through them.” He nodded to himself. “I’d better warn my wife.”
“What? Why?”
“I don’t want her home when the press start snooping around.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I said quickly. He always got most upset when he couldn’t reach his wife. “She’s visiting her mother.” It was the truth, if you believe in heaven.
“That’s good,” he said. “Then I’d better call Houston right away.” He stood up. “Where did you say the phone is?”
There was no way he was going to really call NASA in Houston. But some small voice inside me insisted that it was important to let him play out this fantasy. Not wanting to repeat the elevator fiasco, I said, “There’s a phone at the front desk.” I pointed toward the doorway that led to the reception area. I grabbed my backpack and hurried after him.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said upon reaching the front desk.
Yvonne looked up and smiled. “Back so soon, Flyboy?”
He cleared his throat. “Yes. I need to use the phone to make a long-distance call. It’s an emergency.”
Yvonne glanced at me, and I shrugged.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, but the phones are for staff use only,” she said.
Mr. Smith began breathing heavily. His long fingers curled into fists.
“But this is an emergency,” he repeated. “I have to check in with Houston!” His face was flushed, and that worried me.
“Yvonne, you’d better call Dr. Winkler,” I said.
“I don’t need a doctor. I need to call Houston!” Mr. Smith shouted.
“It’s okay, Bob,” I said in a soft voice, steering him by the elbow to a bench. “The doctor has to check you before you can go.”
“A flight physical now? There’s no time for that!” He was panting.
“No, no,” I said. “Not a complete physical. Just a quick check to make sure it’s okay for you to fly.” I needed to calm him down. “Take a deep breath and count to ten as you let it out. You don’t want the doctor to ground you, do you?”
“Certainly not!” he said. I was happy to see his long fingers uncurl and spread out over his boney knees.
A lean bearded man rushed over to where we sat, and squatted down in front of Mr. Smith. “Good afternoon, Mr. Smith,” he said in a soothing voice. “I’m Dr. Winkler.” He placed a small disk on Mr. Smith’s wrist and asked, “What seems to be the problem?”
“There’s no problem with me,” Mr. Smith said, a bit breathlessly. “I just need to call Houston, and they won’t let me use the phone.”
“I see,” Dr. Winkler responded. “Pulse is elevated. Blood pressure a little high, but otherwise you seem fine.” I sighed with relief. “Would you like me to make that call for you?” Dr. Winkler offered.
“Yes, please!” Mr. Smith said.
“Okay, then, come with me to my office.”
I assumed this was Dr. Winkler’s way of getting Mr. Smith to a place where he could examine him better and make sure he calmed down. We each took one of Mr. Smith’s arms and helped him down the hall to Dr. Winkler’s office. While we walked, I summarized what we’d seen on the television and explained that Mr. Smith seemed to think he could help the stranded historian learn to fly the lunar module.
Dr. Winkler listened silently. We entered his office and he asked us both to take a seat. While he shut the door, I saw that the newsfeed on his computer was following the lunar crisis. So, he already knew what was going on.