Ben Bova: Moonrise

A sardonic voice in his head answered, You’ll find out real soon now.

The sunrise line inched forward to meet him, undulating slowly over the uneven ground, moving toward him at the pace of a walking man.

Despite the fear gnawing inside him, Paul thought back to his first days on the Moon. The excitement of planting boot prints where no one had ever stepped before; the breathtaking grandeur of the rugged landscape, the silence and the dramatic vistas.

That was then, he told himself. Now you’ve got to make it to the next shelter before you run out of oxy. Or before the Sun broils you. Or the damned bugs eat up your suit.

He forced himself forward, dreading the moment when he stepped from the night’s shadow into the unfiltered ferocity of the Sun.

Yet even as he walked toward the growing brightness, his mind turned back to the day when all this had started, back to the time when he had married Joanna so that he could take control of Masterson Aerospace. Back to the moment when Greg Masterson had begun to hate him. It had all been to save Moonbase, even then. Paul realized that he had given most of his life to Moonbase. “Most of it?” he asked aloud. “Hell, there’s a pissin’ great chance I’m going to give all of it to Moonbase.”

They had spent the afternoon in bed, making love, secure in the knowledge that Joanna’s husband would be at the executive committee meeting.

At first Paul thought it was only a fling. Joanna was married to the head of Masterson Aerospace and she had no intention of leaving her husband. She had explained that to him very carefully the first time they had made it, in one of the plush fold-back chairs of Paul’s executive jet while it stood in the hangar at the corporation’s private airport.

Paul had been surprised at her eagerness. For a while he thought that maybe she just wanted to make it with a black man, for kicks. But it was more than that. Much more.

She was a handsome woman, Joanna Masterson, tall and lithe, with the polished grace that comes with old money. Yet there was a subtle aura of tragedy about her that Paul found irresistible. Something in her sad gray-green eyes that needed consolation, comforting, love.

Beneath her veneer of gentility Joanna was an anguished woman, tied in marriage to a man who slept with every female he could get his hands on, except his wife. Not that Paul was much better; he had done his share of tail chasing, and more.

Screwing around with the boss’s wife was dangerous, for both of them, but that merely added spice to their affair. Paul had no intention of getting emotionally wrapped up with her. There were too many other women in the world to play with, and an ex-astronaut who had become a successful business executive did not have to strain himself searching for them. The son of a Norwegian sea captain and a Jamaican school teacher, Paul had charm, money and an easy self-confidence behind his gleaming smile: a potent combination.

Yet he had stopped seeing anyone else after only a few times of lovemaking with Joanna. It wasn’t anything he consciously planned; he simply didn’t bother with other women once he became involved with her. She had never taken a lover before, Joanna told him. “I never thought I could,” she had said, “until I met you.”

The phone rang while they lay sweaty and spent after a long session of lovemaking that had started gently, almost languidly, and climaxed in gasping, moaning passion.

Joanna pushed back a tumble of ash-blonde hair and reached for the phone. Paul admired the curve of her hip, the smoothness of her back, as she lifted the receiver and spoke into it.

Then her body went rigid.

“Suicide?”

Paul sat up. Joanna’s face was pale with shock.

“Yes,” she said into the phone. “Yes, of course.” Her voice was steady, but Paul could see the sudden turmoil and pain in her wide eyes. Her hand, gripping the phone with white-knuckled intensity, was shaking badly.

“I see. All right. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Joanna went to put the phone down on the night table, missed its edge, and the phone fell to the carpeted floor.

“He’s killed himself,” she said.

“Who?”

“Gregory.”

“Your husband?”

“Took a pistol from his collection and… committed suicide.” She seemed dazed. “Killed himself.”

Paul felt guilt, almost shame, at being naked in bed with Hier at this moment. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. Joanna got out of bed and headed shakily for the bathroom. She stopped at the doorway for a moment, gripped the doorjamb, visibly pulled herself together. Then she turned back toward Paul.

“Yes. I am too.” She said it flatly, without a trace of emotion, as if rehearsing a line for a role she would be playing.

Paul got to his feet. Suddenly he felt shy about getting into the shower with her. He wanted to get to his own condo. “I’d better buzz out of here before anybody arrives,” he called to Joanna.

“I think that would be best. I’ve got to go to his office. The police have been called.”

Searching for his pants, Paul asked, “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, it’s better if we’re not seen together right now. I’ll phone you later tonight.”

Driving along Savannah’s riverfront toward his condo building, Paul tried to sort out his own feelings. Gregory Masterson II had been a hard-drinking royal sonofabitch who chased more, tail than even Paul did. Joanna had sworn that she had never had an affair before she had met Paul, and he believed her. Gregory, though, he was something else. Didn’t care who knew what he was doing. He liked to flaunt his women, as if he was deliberately trying to crush Joanna, humiliate her beyond endurance.

Hell, Paul said to himself, you should talk. Bedding the guy’s wife. Some loyal, trusted employee you are.

So Gregory blew his brains out. Why? Did he find about Joanna and me? Paul shook his head as he turned into the driveway of his building. No, he wouldn’t commit suicide over us. Murder, maybe, but not suicide.

As he rode the glass elevator up to his penthouse condo, Paul wondered how Joanna’s son was taking the news. Gregory Masterson III. He’ll expect to take over the corporation now, I’ll bet. Keep control of the company in the family’s hands. His father nearly drove the corporation into bankruptcy; young Greg’ll finish the job. Kid doesn’t know piss from beer.

Paul tapped out his code for the electronic lock, stepped into the foyer of his condo, and headed swiftly for the bar. Pouring himself a shot of straight tequila, he wondered how Joanna was making out with the police and her husband’s dead body. Probably put the gun in his mouth, he thought. Must be blood and brains all over his office.

Feeling the tequila’s heat in his throat, he walked to the big picture window of his living room and looked out at the placid river and the tourist boats plying up and down. A nearly-full Moon was climbing above the horizon, pale and hazy in the light blue sky.

A sudden realization jolted Paul. “What are they going to do about Moonbase?” he asked aloud. “I can’t let them shut it down.”

Paul flew his twin-engined executive jet to New Yoik’s JFK airport, alone. He hadn’t seen Joanna in the three weeks since Gregory Masterson’s suicide. He had phoned her and offered to take Joanna with him to New York, but she decided to go with the company’s comptroller in her late husband’s plane. This board meeting would decide who the new CEO of Masterson Aerospace would be, and Paul knew they would elect young Greg automatically.

He also knew that Greg’s first move as CEO would be to shut down Moonbase. The corporation had run the base under contract to the government for more than five years, but Washington had decided to stop funding Moonbase and ‘privatize’ the operation. Masterson Aerospace had the option of continuing to run the lunar base at its own expense, or shut it all down.