Marianne Dyson: Fly Me to the Moon

“Are they in blackout?” Mr. Smith asked.

“Yes,” I agreed, holding the plugs to his headset and the speaker out of view. All of Mission Control had heard his outburst at Ms. Pressa. I hoped they didn’t realize that she really was his great-granddaughter. Even though Pressa was probably her married name, some enterprising person could use it to figure out Mr. Smith’s identity.

Mr. Smith gulped the water like he was taking a shot of scotch. He settled onto the stool, glancing down at his feet. “Man, I hate these stiff military shoes. When I retire, I’m only going to wear slippers!”

“Your mother won’t like that,” I quipped.

He smiled. “No, she won’t!” he agreed. “And that’s another reason I’m going to wear slippers!” He laughed.

I was dying to know what was going on with Ms. Phillips. The trajectory display on the TV was blinking. In all the commotion, the maneuver had come and gone. He couldn’t do any harm now.

“We’re getting the signal back,” I said, and plugged Mr. Smith and the speaker back in. Guidance reported that he was waiting for Lunar Ops to confirm target acquisition.

Mr. Smith surprised me when he calmly said, “Ms. Phillips, quit worrying about the trajectory for a minute. Look out the window. You owe it to yourself.”

I wasn’t sure if Mission Control had let this message through until Ms. Phillips said, “Seeing the Earth above the desolate Moon reminds me of just how precious life is. I’ll never forget this moment.”

“Me either,” Mr. Smith said.

“Me either,” I whispered.

Lunar Ops reported target acquired! I sagged onto my stool, suddenly realizing how tired I was. Some fancy remote flying on the part of Lunar Ops completed the rendezvous. The cargo ship scooped the LM into its wide bay, and cheers erupted in Mission Control. I gave Mr. Smith a high five, and Dr. Winkler patted him firmly on the back. “Where are the cigars?” Mr. Smith asked.

“Sorry, but this is a no-smoking area,” Dr. Winkler said.

“Oh,” Mr. Smith said, obviously disappointed.

A text appeared on my laptop. “Good call on the nautical miles—you saved two lives. Sorry about the photo. Forgot blackmail incident still upsets him. I’ll be in touch. Thanks again.” She signed it, “R. E. Pressa, Director of Knowledge Capture, Department of Homeland Security. Knowledge Capture?

After the cargo hold was pressurized, Ms. Phillips was able to take off her spacesuit and help Dr. Canterbury out of his. The flight surgeon did a remote exam. Turned out that Dr. Canterbury didn’t have a concussion. His suit had been damaged and he was suffering from carbon-dioxide poisoning. If they hadn’t done the direct ascent, he would have died. Ms. Phillips hooked him up to oxygen and settled in to wait for the Russian rescue ship to rendezvous with them. Mr. Smith’s advice no longer needed, Mission Control cut our connection. We were now in listen-only mode.

Dr. Winkler escorted a sleepy Mr. Smith to the men’s room while I moved the chairs back to their proper places in the lounge.

Just before I unplugged the speaker box, I heard Ms. Phillips thank the team in Houston for sending the cargo ship and especially for recruiting Mr. Smith to help her. “I have dedicated my life to preserving the history of space,” she said. “Yet today when I was faced with having to recreate that history, I realized just how little I actually know. I now have a new level of understanding and respect for the courage and skill of the Apollo astronauts. I hope that I’ll have the opportunity to thank Mr. Smith in person when I get back.”

I knew that wasn’t going to happen. By the time she got back, he’d already have forgotten all about this day.

But I wouldn’t. I would remember for him. And tomorrow, I’d check out every e-book and disk I could find at the library and read all about the Apollo program and the amazing men who first walked on the Moon. We’d watch that Apollo movie with Tom Hanks, and fly simulations together. Though Mr. Smith might soon forget even his real name, and wouldn’t remember Ms. Phillips next week, my memories of this time with him would be as long lasting as his footprints on the Moon.