Marianne Dyson: Fly Me to the Moon

“Flight, Surgeon.”

“Go ahead, Surgeon.”

“Sir, I understand Lunar Ops’ concern, but an extra hour trapped in that spacesuit may mean the difference between life and death for the injured historian, Dr. Canterbury. We’re also concerned about Ms. Phillips’ state of mind. She was severely traumatized by the death of the pilot and is barely able to follow simple directions. The sooner both of them get out of those suits, the better their chances for survival.”

Guidance assured the flight director that the new software would support direct ascent, especially after the simulations with Mr. Smith. The flight director decided to stick with direct ascent.

“Flight, Lunar Ops.”

“Go ahead, Lunar Ops.”

Another short delay followed that I now understood was because of the distance the signal had to travel. “I understand and will do my best to support the direct ascent. But I have a request. No offense to the guidance team, but speaking as a pilot, I’d feel a lot better if we have that Apollo astronaut do any flying that’s necessary.”

“You mean have Mr. Smith input the commands to the autopilot program? I’m not sure he’ll be up to it. Doctor Winkler, what do you think?”

“Sir, I’m sorry,” Dr. Winkler said. “But I don’t know what state he will be in when he wakes up from his rest. I have some medication I can give him that should help, and George and I will do our best to remind him of the circumstances. But I suggest that you go with your original plan to have one of your astronauts run the autopilot and talk Ms. Phillips through any problems.”

“Excuse me, Flight,” the flight surgeon interjected. “How about if we have Mr. Smith serve as a coach for Ms. Phillips? Being a historian, having an Apollo astronaut looking over her shoulder could keep her calm and also give her the confidence she needs.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Lunar Ops said.

“Doctor Winkler?’

He glanced over at me. “George, you know how he usually behaves after his afternoon naps. Think he can do it?”

I gulped. The fate of two people might depend on my decision. I looked at Mr. Smith sleeping peacefully. Usually, a nap “reset” his memory. But given the right “props,” I could probably get him back into his astronaut mindset in time for the launch, now only forty-five minutes away. I took a deep breath and nodded yes. I hoped I wouldn’t regret this!

Doctor Winkler and the capcom, who was a current astronaut with lunar experience, agreed to do a voice check and let Mr. Smith talk to Ms. Phillips before the launch. At that time, we’d decide if he could continue on the live loop and be given command authority to the autopilot.

I stood up. “Dr. Winkler, I’m going to get Mr. Smith’s shoes—his slippers remind him of his mother.”

The doctor nodded in understanding. “While you’re up there, see if he has a white shirt. And bring a belt too. People used to dress up back then.”

“Roger!” I said, and dashed out for the elevator.

When I returned, the liftoff was only a half hour away. Dr. Winkler was talking on his cell—something about a security team. He disconnected when he saw me and said, “Time to wake our famous moonwalker.”

Dr. Winkler set a wind-up alarm clock (no voice controls!) next to Mr. Smith and let it ring. Mr. Smith immediately nabbed it and shut it off. He blinked and stared at Dr. Winkler, who had donned his white lab coat. “Do I know you?” he asked. Dr. Winkler explained that he was a NASA flight surgeon. He regretted waking him, but Mission Control needed Mr. Smith’s assistance.

“There’s a mission on?” he asked, straightening up.

“Yes, and they’re in trouble,” Dr. Winkler said as he handed him the white golf shirt I’d brought. The doctor explained what had happened to Ms. Phillips, and that Mission Control wanted him to talk her through a lunar ascent and rendezvous. Mr. Smith looked confused. “We beat the Russians, and quit flying to the Moon,” he insisted.

“Yes, we did,” the doctor agreed. “But then we went back to the Moon as partners. Ms. Phillips was visiting the Moon when the accident happened.”

I cringed. I wish he hadn’t used the word “accident.” It might evoke memories of Mr. Smith’s wife. But Mr. Smith was more focused on the first part of the sentence. “Partners? With the Russians? Like Apollo-Soyuz?”

“That’s right,” Dr. Winkler said. “Like Apollo-Soyuz, only on the Moon.”

“Okay,” Mr. Smith said. “And they got in trouble?”

“Yes,” Dr. Winkler repeated. I helped Mr. Smith with his shoes and then his belt. I combed his thin white hair. He suddenly noticed me and stared at my badge. “What kind of badge is that? Are you press? Reporters aren’t allowed in here.”

“I’m not a reporter, Mr. Smith. I’m George. I’m uh, a member of the guidance team,” I said quickly in an attempt to use an appropriate term. I thought of adding that I was in charge of the “manual” system, but stopped myself.

“Then don’t call me Mr. Smith,” he barked. “Makes me feel old.”

“Okay, Bob,” I said with a wink.

Dr. Winkler handed him a cup of coffee spiked with some of that pink medicine. Mr. Smith sipped it gratefully. “Ready?” Dr. Winkler asked.

“Where are we going?” Mr. Smith asked.

“To the hotel lobby—we’ve set up a direct link to Mission Control. We’re going to help a young woman take off from the Moon.”

“Better call my wife,” he said. “She’ll be worried.”

“She’s visiting her mother,” Dr. Winkler explained.

“Oh? That’s good,” he said.

I heard a thumping sound as we approached the double doors at the front of the building. “Whoa,” I said. “There’s a helicopter in the parking lot!”

“Darn press,” mumbled Mr. Smith. His hands curled into fists.

“No, sir, that’s Homeland Se—I mean the Air Force,” Dr. Winkler said. So that’s who he was talking to on the phone! Wonder what they’re doing here.

“Oh, of course,” Mr. Smith said, his hands relaxing again.

A man in a black suit with a security bud in his ear was asking Yvonne a question. With her eyes as large as saucers, she pointed in our direction. The man turned toward us. I thought he looked like one of those guys who guard the president. Maybe he did. He saluted Mr. Smith as we walked past, and Mr. Smith acknowledged him with a curt nod. Then Mr. Smith blew a kiss at Yvonne, who blushed deeply enough to match the purple of the front desk.

Would she guess who Mr. Smith was now? Even if she did, I realized that I would not be able to confirm her suspicions without breaking my word. I’d always thought of security as keeping bad guys out, not good guys in!

Is that why DHS was here? To make sure no one tried to kidnap Mr. Smith? Age and Alzheimer’s had kind of done that already. Or were they here to keep the media out in case someone leaked that one of the original moonwalkers was alive and helping them? Or both?

At the doorway to the lounge, another man in black stopped us. Mr. Smith waited patiently while he asked me to raise my arms and ran a metal detector over me like they do at airports. He confiscated my phone, saying no recordings or photos were allowed. Did I understand?

I didn’t know if this was an act for Mr. Smith’s benefit or not, but I quickly replied, “Yes sir!” Lakewood did not to allow the taking of photos or videos of the residents by non-family members, anyway. Now I understand just how important that rule was to someone like Mr. Smith.

A nicely dressed middle-aged woman stood up as we shuffled Mr. Smith into the darkened lounge. She pecked Mr. Smith on the cheek. “Good to see you again, Flyboy!” she said. With an exaggerated wink, she added, “Name’s Ruth, in case you forgot.”