Chapter 24
The real fun wasn’t in the power of the thing—the strength of those massive jet engines, the sheer force of that mechanical monster, built for one purpose only, to lift, to rise, to tear itself free of gravity and physics and sometimes, it seemed, common sense; the real fun came in that moment of sheer helplessness, strapped to a chair, leaning back at a forty-five-degree angle as the beast climbed and climbed and climbed. And suddenly it wasn’t climbing anymore, the great mammoth engines reduced in a whine of reverse thrusters, the nose tipping downward—and then it was falling. The straps came loose and you were out of your seat, just floating in that bizarre way, moving through the padded cabin, bouncing off the walls, the ceiling, the equipment you brought up there to test. Still helpless, but now because the physical laws you’ve lived with all your life were suddenly gone, replaced by a feeling that was new and unique and wonderful. Weightlessness. Zero g. And then the alarm went off, telling you that it was time to strap back in. The craft was now facing downward at a thirty-degree angle, diving at an incredibly high speed back toward Earth, caught again in the grips of gravity and physics. A moment later, the entire sequence began again: the upward climb, the unstrapped moment of bliss, the descent. Again, and again, and again. NASA had a name for it. They called it the Weightless Wonder, a KC-135 stratotanker known as NASA 931, an airplane that had been specially outfitted for the maneuver. Flying a perfect parabolic route above the Earth, it treated its passengers to as much as twenty-five seconds of weightlessness for every sixty-five seconds of flight. Which didn’t sound like much—until you were up there, spinning through the center of the white, cushioned cabin, trying to figure out how to use a screwdriver or plant a tree or maybe even operate a toilet. The ride up was exhilarating enough, but those brief moments when gravity
disappeared were another universe altogether. For some people—a full third of those who went up in the thing—it was too much to handle. NASA called it the Weightless Wonder, but everybody else called it the Vomit Comet. “But it’s really a misconception,” Sandra was saying, as animated as a cartoon as she bounced around Thad’s apartment, using her hands to help paint the picture for him as he lay back against a couch and tried to imagine himself in the scene she was describing. “It’s not weightlessness. You’re actually falling. Falling around the Earth, at seventeen thousand miles per hour. Altogether you get about twenty minutes of zero g—and it’s just amazing.” Her left hand was still making elliptical motions, showing the path of the airplane, and her little freckled face was beaming, as if she had just stepped off the thing. Thad was duly impressed. Sandra was still only nineteen, just an intern, not even a co-op, and she had gotten to do something that he himself had still never done. She had really broken out of her shell, and Thad felt proud that he had been a part of her growth. If it hadn’t been for the confidence he had instilled in her over the past year, in person and via their telephone bull sessions, she would never have had the guts to present her project idea to the team in charge of the Vomit Comet. But the fact that they had chosen her work, that was due to her alone; she was a rising star, and no doubt she’d be a co-op by next tour. “So did you get sick?” Thad had to ask, lacing his hands behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. In his mind, it was him floating around that cushioned cabin. “Nah. They give you these pills that make it almost impossible to get nauseous. I think only ten percent of people still have problems. I was too excited to feel sick. And once I started my work, I forgot I was on a plane at all. You know how hard it is to wire a circuit board in zero g?” Thad could only imagine. He was really happy for Sandra, because she’d had an experience that almost nobody else would ever have. She wasn’t even at the JSC full-time, just visiting now and then, but she had created a memory she would carry with her for the rest of her life. Thad must have gone silent for longer than was appropriate, because before he realized it, Sandra had sidled up next to him on the
couch, pushing his legs aside to give herself room to snuggle into the cushions. She was looking at him intensely, and he kept his eyes turned away—because he knew she was about to bring it up again. “Okay, now you’ve got to tell me,” she started, proving that he had read her correctly. “It’s just not fair, you keeping secrets like this. Does it have to do with Rebecca?” Sandra had been peppering him with questions about Rebecca since their aquarium date had morphed into a full-out love affair; in fact, in the past two weeks, Thad and Rebecca had been inseparable. He had spent every night in her still-furnitureless apartment. They had shared nearly every meal together, had spent the weekends camping, alone in a tent. They had made love every night, woken up naked and entwined together. He hadn’t spoken to Sonya much since meeting Rebecca. She had called a few times in the beginning—but over the past nine days, she had given up trying to reach him, and there was no doubt she suspected that something was going on at the JSC, involving someone else. Thad didn’t want to hurt her—but Rebecca had become much more than a fling to him. He was in love. As always, it was difficult for him to separate what was fantasy and what was real—but the feelings he was having for Rebecca felt like both, fantasy and real. So he had thrown himself into her with total abandon. And the more time he spent with her, the more the thoughts in his mind had grown clearer, the more the mental game had started to take a more physical shape. In the process, the game had become a secret that he was finding increasingly more difficult to keep. Both Rebecca and Sandra had noticed—especially during moments like this, when he went silent, playing it through in his head, like a movie on a spool that kept running over and over. With Rebecca, he had resisted by telling her that it was something he needed to protect her from, that if she really wanted to know, he would tell her—but that keeping it from her was for her own good. With Sandra, he had simply remained mysterious. But it was obvious from the way she was gripping his calf, her mouse fingers tightening into a claw, that she was getting tired of the subterfuge. If she was really his confidante, she felt she had a right
to know. “Okay, if it’s not Rebecca, is it Sonya again? Because I still think you’re doing the right thing—” “Why does it have to be about a girl?” “Because you’re a slut,” Sandra responded. Then she grinned. Two girls in one lifetime was about as far from a slut as a guy Thad’s age could get. Though he was technically married, and sleeping with a twenty-year-old beauty. But he no longer saw it that way. He was sleeping with the girl he was in love with. “Okay, if it’s not Rebecca or Sonya, then what is it?” Thad slowly sat up, crossing his arms against his chest. He looked at Sandra, trying to read the freckles on her cheeks. She really wanted to know—and in truth, he really wanted to tell her. But the minute he said it out loud, to someone here, in the JSC—it was going to become real in a whole different way. Gordon was so out of it and so out there —hell, Thad was pretty sure the stoner still had no real clue about what they were even e-mailing about. Gordon was playing a game, too, though Thad could never be sure what game the guy thought it was. But Sandra would understand—she would think it was impossible, because it was, but she would understand. And even just knowing about it—that would make her part of the scheme. Thad didn’t want to be responsible for that. He had helped her come out of her shell—he didn’t want to do something that could be detrimental in even a small way. Still, the idea of talking about it—even in a gentle way—was appealing. He decided that it couldn’t hurt to at least feel it out, without giving away anything important. “It’s not so much of a secret, actually, as it is a hypothetical.” “Like, hypothetically, whether or not you believe in love at first sight? Whether someone can fall so deeply in love in a couple of weeks—” “It’s not about love. It’s more of a moral hypothetical. Let’s say you were in a situation where you knew that there was somebody who owns something that’s clearly theirs—yet they throw it in the trash, they identify it as trash. And let’s say you had the opportunity to grab this thing before anybody knew. And even though they had labeled it as trash—you could sell it for a lot of money.”
Sandra was watching him carefully, her left hand still resting gently against his calf, but her claws had retracted. “A lot of money,” he repeated. “Would it be morally all right to take this thing and sell it?” Sandra’s eyes never left his face. “What are you getting at?” “It’s a hypothetical.” “Thad—” “Just go along with it. I really want to know your opinion.” “Okay, hypothetically, I think it would probably be okay. Since there’s no harm being done, because whoever owned the thing has already deemed it trash. You’re kind of creating value. So in a way, it’s actually a good thing.” Thad was getting warm inside, like when he’d taken a sip of Rebecca’s wine before letting her finish the glass. “Now this is torture,” Sandra grumbled. “You know you can trust me. I mean, I’ve known you like ten times longer than Rebecca, and don’t forget—I saw you naked first.” “It’s not a matter of trust. It’s just … it’s something pretty crazy. And it’s a lot safer if you don’t know.” “Now you’ve really got to tell me. I’m not scared. I don’t get scared anymore.” Thad laughed. He really didn’t want to tell her, but he was running out of excuses. Just like with Rebecca—it was doubly hard to keep a secret that you didn’t really want to keep. And was it really anything more than the hypothetical he had just brought up? Wasn’t it still just a hypothetical heist? “I’m going to give you only one chance,” he said finally. “A little game. If you win, I’ll tell you. But if you lose, you can never ask me again.” “What sort of game?” He reached over the arm of the couch and retrieved a little cardboard box from the floor. Inside the box was a stack of flash cards. Each had a Chinese character written on one side, an English translation on the other. Thad had gone through them many times in the course of his Chinese lessons, and even so, he still found them
difficult. Reading those twists of black ink was as hard as intuiting an expression from a matrix of freckles. “I’m going to show you twenty of these flash cards and tell you what they mean. Then I’m going to shuffle them and show them to you again, one at a time. If you get all twenty right, I’ll tell you what you want to know. And if not—” “I can never ask you again.” She shifted her body so that she was facing directly toward him, little hands on her lap, her face a mask of concentration. Almost immediately, Thad regretted offering up the game. Still, twenty characters? She couldn’t possibly get them all right. “Here we go.” He held up the first card, showing her the convoluted twists of ink that made up one of the more recognizable Chinese words. “This one means ‘love.’ I guess it’s as good a place to start as any.” “At the very least,” Sandra joked as her eyes flicked back and forth over the flash card, putting it to memory, “I’m going to have some great ideas for a tattoo by the end of this.” Thad sighed, wishing he hadn’t told her so many details about his time with Rebecca. He held up the next card, showing her another character. “‘Umbrella.’ Not quite as popular as tattoos go, I imagine.” And on and on they went, through the flash cards. Thad didn’t move too quickly, but his pace wasn’t slow either. Within a few minutes, he had been through all twenty, and then he began shuffling. Sandra barely seemed to be watching him, but he could tell she was going through the cards over and over again in her mind. Carefully, he began showing her the shuffled cards, one at a time. By the fifteenth card, he felt his cheeks flushing red. He had underestimated her. Her memory was even better than his own. As he reached the twentieth card, his fingers were shaking. He held the card up in front of her—and she paused only a moment. Then her face broke out in a huge, freckled grin. “‘Happiness,’” she nearly shouted, her voice bouncing off the walls. Shit. Thad thought about ignoring the results, simply telling her again that he just couldn’t risk getting her involved. Really, it was for her own
good. But she had played the game, and won. He leaned close, and lowered his voice. “Okay,” he said—and then he started talking.
I haven’t stopped loving you, Rebecca, but I have accepted our separate paths. I hope that someday you allow me the closure I have longed for, that you forgive me for not being there forever, for taking a foolish risk that jeopardized our union. Perhaps you desire not to be friends, perhaps you have succeeded in convincing yourself that my love was not genuine. I hope these things have made the past few years easier, but as the wound heals I hope you find it in you to share your mind w ith me
sex on the moon - the amazing true story
Re: sex on the moon - the amazing true story
Chapter 25
Rebecca ricocheted through the compact, galley-style kitchen, first tossing her purse on top of a pile of unopened mail, then grabbing a tied-off plastic bag full of recyclables with one hand while opening the refrigerator and retrieving a pair of long-neck bottles of root beer from the fridge door with the other. Still moving—hell, the girl never stopped moving—she offered one of the bottles to Thad, who was half skipping behind her, trying desperately to keep up. Then she yanked open the sliding-glass door that led to the small balcony where she kept her garbage. The bag of recyclables landed with a clunk next to an overstuffed garbage can, and Thad had the feeling that his girlfriend was taking care of the recycling for her entire building. “It’s just so crazy what this place used to be like,” she gushed as she spun back through the kitchen, using her arms to hoist herself onto the edge of the counter, her slim bare legs crossed at the ankle. “I mean, it’s still cool now—but back then it was just insane. These guys, these cowboys—they were basically strapping themselves onto the tips of missiles. Blasting off into space, trying to get one foot onto the surface of the moon—actually competing for the opportunity to go on what was basically a suicide mission—and all of it taking place in a time when their biggest supercomputers were less sophisticated than my cell phone.” Thad laughed, but he was no less awed by the thought than she was. He guessed that conversations like this were taking place all over the JSC; tonight had been the annual co-op ritual where everyone gathered together to watch the movie Apollo 13—the story of one of the ill-fated attempts to duplicate Neil Armstrong’s walk on the moon. Having spent time in the old Mission Control room, where the events documented in the movie had taken place, Thad had seen for himself how rudimentary some of the technology had been during the Apollo era. He’d sat in the actual flight director’s chair, his fingers touching the very consoles that had been used in those missions. But nothing about
seeing the original Mission Control made him feel superior—quite the opposite, seeing what those men had to work with, the truly historic level of bravery—it only made him feel utterly small. “Mars isn’t going to be all that different,” Thad responded, putting his hands on her bare knees as he leaned in, planting a kiss on her lips. “We’re still going to be strapping ourselves into a tin can attached to a missile. The toy’s a lot shinier—but the project is going to be just as dangerous. It’s going to take a special type of person to embark on what might end up a suicide mission. Someone willing to take a chance, to make a leap of faith.” Rebecca put her hands on his shoulders, feeling his muscles through his shirt. “A leap of faith; I like that. Like, maybe, finding yourself madly in love with someone you’ve only known for ten days.” She was grinning, but Thad couldn’t really read her expression. He wasn’t sure whether she was talking about herself or about him. They had been using words like love and forever since their very first evening together, but it was hard to know whether those sentiments were just symptoms of her youth, or symbols of his passion; Thad only knew for sure what he was feeling. Which was beyond anything he could remember ever feeling before. He’d always loved Sonya, but he didn’t remember it ever being this all-encompassing, mind-bending thing. He realized that he had once again slipped into that other place, going silent as he stared right through her. Her grin had turned down at the corners as she watched him, her hands going limp against his chest. “There it is again,” she said. “That thing you do, sometimes right in the middle of a sentence. Sometimes even when we’re making love. I know there’s something you’re keeping from me.” Thad stepped back, taking his hands off her knees. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. He’d explained again and again that it wasn’t some other woman, some relationship, or anything to do with Sonya. But now they were at a point where she was asking about his secret almost every time they were together. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. It’s just that, well—I’m thinking
about doing something that’s technically illegal. I mean I’m pretty sure I’m not going to do it, but even talking about it feels like it could be dangerous.” He felt his adrenaline rising, because this was the closest he had come to telling her. And he knew he was standing on the top of a slippery slope. Telling Sandra hadn’t made the secret any easier to keep; in fact, he’d gotten such a rush out of talking through his plan with her, he was having a hard time not shouting it from the rooftops. And he could see by the way Rebecca’s eyes had gone really intense that she wasn’t going to be content with another excuse. Maybe it was time to tell her. Meeting her had pushed him forward in the mental game; that very morning, he’d sent another e-mail to Gordon, asking him to research the sister-in-law of the Belgian rock hound, the woman named Lynn Briley, because, at least via e-mail, they were coming close to actually setting up a face-to-face meeting. Not just any meeting—an exchange, goods for cash—as if it were really that simple, as if there weren’t a step in between the e-mails and handing over the parcel in exchange for a hundred thousand dollars in a suitcase. A step that was still entirely fantasy, entirely impossible. Thad breathed deeply—and then, he just let it out. It was like he was back on that cliff, heels hanging out over the drop—but this time, it was he who was going to jump first. “I have this idea. It’s completely insane. And it’s also impossible. I’m thinking about stealing a safe full of moon rocks. It’s in an impenetrable lab, protected by the highest level of NASA security. The samples are considered trash because they’ve already been worked with and experimented on—but they’re incredibly valuable. I’ve already got someone who wants to pay me a hundred thousand dollars for a little piece of the moon.” Rebecca was still staring at him, her eyes wide and her lips parted so that he could see just the tips of her teeth. Even as he was talking, he was thinking it through, not just how elaborate and ridiculous and impossible the actual heist would be, but internally, he was asking himself why he was even still playing this game, why he didn’t just erase all the e-mails, lose the contact info for the woman in Philadelphia, maybe even throw out Gordon’s phone number—just
forget about the whole stupid thing. And yet he kept talking. “I mean, a hundred thousand dollars, it’s a hell of a lot of money. The things you and I could do with that money—we could go to Africa, and you could study the plant life there. We could put the money toward starting our own lab, so we wouldn’t need to compete for a grant or wait until we were old enough. We could start right away, doing all the things that we’ve talked about doing. But the money, it’s only part of it.” He kept expecting her to interrupt. He fully expected her to shake her head, glare at him like he was crazy, talk him out of it. He expected her to tell him that it sounded exciting, but of course he shouldn’t do it, that he would be risking everything, that he would get in huge trouble, that it was a really bad idea. But still she remained silent, letting him finish the thought that had been building since the moment he’d first laid eyes on her. “Rebecca, I want to give you the moon. I mean, a piece of the moon. Like the astronauts we just watched in that movie, the cowboys who took that crazy chance, all to set foot where only a couple of people have ever been—I want to give you that. I want to give you the moon.” Thad realized that his eyes were watering. It sounded so crazy, so stupid, and—well, he didn’t really know how it sounded. But he did know that he actually meant it. The kitchen was dead silent, the scene frozen like a photo in an album. Then Rebecca’s eyes lit up, and she was grinning. “That sounds so romantic. Let’s do it.” And in that instant, Thad knew that he’d been correct; Rebecca was his catalyst. His instant, passionate, consuming love for her had shattered the glass wall in his mind that separated fantasy from reality. The fracturing that had begun long ago was now complete, and the mental game he had been playing had gone from a thought experiment to a project, no different from any of the projects he had worked on at NASA, no less real than the Space Shuttle Simulator or the space station that was sunk into that six-million-gallon pool. Without another word, Thad leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. Slowly at first, then gaining in intensity. To Rebecca, he was everything he’d ever wanted to be: exciting, adventurous, James Bond. He didn’t know if anyone had ever promised her the moon
before—but he was the one guy who was going to deliver. She was his catalyst. And now it was only a matter of time.
Rebecca ricocheted through the compact, galley-style kitchen, first tossing her purse on top of a pile of unopened mail, then grabbing a tied-off plastic bag full of recyclables with one hand while opening the refrigerator and retrieving a pair of long-neck bottles of root beer from the fridge door with the other. Still moving—hell, the girl never stopped moving—she offered one of the bottles to Thad, who was half skipping behind her, trying desperately to keep up. Then she yanked open the sliding-glass door that led to the small balcony where she kept her garbage. The bag of recyclables landed with a clunk next to an overstuffed garbage can, and Thad had the feeling that his girlfriend was taking care of the recycling for her entire building. “It’s just so crazy what this place used to be like,” she gushed as she spun back through the kitchen, using her arms to hoist herself onto the edge of the counter, her slim bare legs crossed at the ankle. “I mean, it’s still cool now—but back then it was just insane. These guys, these cowboys—they were basically strapping themselves onto the tips of missiles. Blasting off into space, trying to get one foot onto the surface of the moon—actually competing for the opportunity to go on what was basically a suicide mission—and all of it taking place in a time when their biggest supercomputers were less sophisticated than my cell phone.” Thad laughed, but he was no less awed by the thought than she was. He guessed that conversations like this were taking place all over the JSC; tonight had been the annual co-op ritual where everyone gathered together to watch the movie Apollo 13—the story of one of the ill-fated attempts to duplicate Neil Armstrong’s walk on the moon. Having spent time in the old Mission Control room, where the events documented in the movie had taken place, Thad had seen for himself how rudimentary some of the technology had been during the Apollo era. He’d sat in the actual flight director’s chair, his fingers touching the very consoles that had been used in those missions. But nothing about
seeing the original Mission Control made him feel superior—quite the opposite, seeing what those men had to work with, the truly historic level of bravery—it only made him feel utterly small. “Mars isn’t going to be all that different,” Thad responded, putting his hands on her bare knees as he leaned in, planting a kiss on her lips. “We’re still going to be strapping ourselves into a tin can attached to a missile. The toy’s a lot shinier—but the project is going to be just as dangerous. It’s going to take a special type of person to embark on what might end up a suicide mission. Someone willing to take a chance, to make a leap of faith.” Rebecca put her hands on his shoulders, feeling his muscles through his shirt. “A leap of faith; I like that. Like, maybe, finding yourself madly in love with someone you’ve only known for ten days.” She was grinning, but Thad couldn’t really read her expression. He wasn’t sure whether she was talking about herself or about him. They had been using words like love and forever since their very first evening together, but it was hard to know whether those sentiments were just symptoms of her youth, or symbols of his passion; Thad only knew for sure what he was feeling. Which was beyond anything he could remember ever feeling before. He’d always loved Sonya, but he didn’t remember it ever being this all-encompassing, mind-bending thing. He realized that he had once again slipped into that other place, going silent as he stared right through her. Her grin had turned down at the corners as she watched him, her hands going limp against his chest. “There it is again,” she said. “That thing you do, sometimes right in the middle of a sentence. Sometimes even when we’re making love. I know there’s something you’re keeping from me.” Thad stepped back, taking his hands off her knees. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. He’d explained again and again that it wasn’t some other woman, some relationship, or anything to do with Sonya. But now they were at a point where she was asking about his secret almost every time they were together. “It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. It’s just that, well—I’m thinking
about doing something that’s technically illegal. I mean I’m pretty sure I’m not going to do it, but even talking about it feels like it could be dangerous.” He felt his adrenaline rising, because this was the closest he had come to telling her. And he knew he was standing on the top of a slippery slope. Telling Sandra hadn’t made the secret any easier to keep; in fact, he’d gotten such a rush out of talking through his plan with her, he was having a hard time not shouting it from the rooftops. And he could see by the way Rebecca’s eyes had gone really intense that she wasn’t going to be content with another excuse. Maybe it was time to tell her. Meeting her had pushed him forward in the mental game; that very morning, he’d sent another e-mail to Gordon, asking him to research the sister-in-law of the Belgian rock hound, the woman named Lynn Briley, because, at least via e-mail, they were coming close to actually setting up a face-to-face meeting. Not just any meeting—an exchange, goods for cash—as if it were really that simple, as if there weren’t a step in between the e-mails and handing over the parcel in exchange for a hundred thousand dollars in a suitcase. A step that was still entirely fantasy, entirely impossible. Thad breathed deeply—and then, he just let it out. It was like he was back on that cliff, heels hanging out over the drop—but this time, it was he who was going to jump first. “I have this idea. It’s completely insane. And it’s also impossible. I’m thinking about stealing a safe full of moon rocks. It’s in an impenetrable lab, protected by the highest level of NASA security. The samples are considered trash because they’ve already been worked with and experimented on—but they’re incredibly valuable. I’ve already got someone who wants to pay me a hundred thousand dollars for a little piece of the moon.” Rebecca was still staring at him, her eyes wide and her lips parted so that he could see just the tips of her teeth. Even as he was talking, he was thinking it through, not just how elaborate and ridiculous and impossible the actual heist would be, but internally, he was asking himself why he was even still playing this game, why he didn’t just erase all the e-mails, lose the contact info for the woman in Philadelphia, maybe even throw out Gordon’s phone number—just
forget about the whole stupid thing. And yet he kept talking. “I mean, a hundred thousand dollars, it’s a hell of a lot of money. The things you and I could do with that money—we could go to Africa, and you could study the plant life there. We could put the money toward starting our own lab, so we wouldn’t need to compete for a grant or wait until we were old enough. We could start right away, doing all the things that we’ve talked about doing. But the money, it’s only part of it.” He kept expecting her to interrupt. He fully expected her to shake her head, glare at him like he was crazy, talk him out of it. He expected her to tell him that it sounded exciting, but of course he shouldn’t do it, that he would be risking everything, that he would get in huge trouble, that it was a really bad idea. But still she remained silent, letting him finish the thought that had been building since the moment he’d first laid eyes on her. “Rebecca, I want to give you the moon. I mean, a piece of the moon. Like the astronauts we just watched in that movie, the cowboys who took that crazy chance, all to set foot where only a couple of people have ever been—I want to give you that. I want to give you the moon.” Thad realized that his eyes were watering. It sounded so crazy, so stupid, and—well, he didn’t really know how it sounded. But he did know that he actually meant it. The kitchen was dead silent, the scene frozen like a photo in an album. Then Rebecca’s eyes lit up, and she was grinning. “That sounds so romantic. Let’s do it.” And in that instant, Thad knew that he’d been correct; Rebecca was his catalyst. His instant, passionate, consuming love for her had shattered the glass wall in his mind that separated fantasy from reality. The fracturing that had begun long ago was now complete, and the mental game he had been playing had gone from a thought experiment to a project, no different from any of the projects he had worked on at NASA, no less real than the Space Shuttle Simulator or the space station that was sunk into that six-million-gallon pool. Without another word, Thad leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. Slowly at first, then gaining in intensity. To Rebecca, he was everything he’d ever wanted to be: exciting, adventurous, James Bond. He didn’t know if anyone had ever promised her the moon
before—but he was the one guy who was going to deliver. She was his catalyst. And now it was only a matter of time.
Re: sex on the moon - the amazing true story
Chapter 26
Nothing got the old heart pumping like the shrill, piercing wail of a telephone cutting through the dead, still heat of a summer morning. It wasn’t particularly early, but Axel had been dozing pretty deeply, his rounded form splayed out comfortably across the small couch that ran along one wall of his living room. The TV was still on a few feet away, tuned to the French murder mystery he had been watching when he’d first closed his eyes for a moment—but one more metallic ring reverberating through his head, and he knew for sure that the sound wasn’t coming from some faraway sound studio in Paris. It was echoing off the walls of his own home in a quiet corner of Antwerp. It had been a perfect weekend morning before the sound of the ringer had ruined it; perfect, because the kids were locked up in the kitchen frantically studying for their exams, and because Christel was out having breakfast with a friend. Which meant that Axel was able to enjoy some quality time with his favorite couch cushions. Since he still hadn’t been sleeping that well at night—his mind locked into the drama he imagined was unfolding far across the ocean—the minutes alone with the couch were as valuable as polished topaz. Ten days without any contact from either the FBI or Orb Robinson had certainly taken its toll on Axel’s psyche. It was kind of like watching the French murder mystery, but with the sound off. He could only fantasize about what was really going on. For all he knew, the whole thing had fizzled and disappeared. The hoaxer might have finally grown bored with the game, moved on to something else. Maybe he was now sending out e-mails, posing as a Nigerian banker, or the cousin of a deposed prince. Just send a cashier’s check, and my fortune w ill be yours. But as soon as Axel heard his son, Sven, answer the phone through the door that separated his living room from the kitchen, as soon as he
registered the shocked tone of the fifteen-year-old’s voice, he had a feeling that his wait was suddenly over. He sat straight up, shaking the last vestiges of sleep out of his eyes, just in time to see his son stick his head out through the kitchen door, the phone cupped against his chest. “Dad, I think it’s for you. It’s an American.” Sven looked like he had seen a monster, and that got Axel’s heart pumping even faster. He indicated with his hand that he was going to pick up the receiver in the living room, and that his son should hang up once he was on the line. Then he rose, flattening the wrinkles out of his slacks with his palms, and crossed to the computer desk in the corner of the room. He didn’t know why, but for some reason he wanted to look presentable—even though he was only going to be talking over the phone. It wasn’t often that he got calls from America. Actually, it wasn’t ever. He cleared his throat, then picked up the receiver. “This is Axel Emmermann.” The American on the other end of the line quickly introduced himself as Special Agent Nick Nance of the FBI. Axel felt his shoulders pulling back, his chest sticking out as he heard the words. E-mails were one thing, but now he was talking to a real-life FBI agent. His superhero status was quickly rising. Very rapidly, the official-sounding man on the other end of the line brought him up-to-date. Even though Axel hadn’t heard anything for the past week and a half, it turned out that the FBI had been quite busy. Agents posing as Axel’s brother and sister-in-law had continued to lead Orb Robinson along, getting him to the point where they seemed actually ready to enact an exchange. They were in the process of setting up a face-to-face meeting. Robinson still didn’t seem to have the actual items in his possession, but he was moving forward as if he could get them at any moment. Agent Nance explained that “Lynn and Kurt” had confirmed receipt of the hundred thousand dollars, and had e-mailed Robinson, telling him that they trusted him, that they believed his claims were truthful and were ready to buy what he was selling. Axel had to fight the urge to start jumping around the living room. The
French murder movie seemed like such a trifle now, compared with the real mystery that he was an integral part of. He was actually talking to the FBI, and they were going to meet with this hoaxer. He couldn’t wait until his wife got home so he could tell her what was about to happen. And then Nance added something to the conversation—something Christel wouldn’t find quite as enthralling. “Now, there’s a chance this Robinson might try and call you directly. I don’t think it would be that hard for him to find out where you live, and get your phone number. So we’re thinking about installing a recording device so if this happens, we can listen in.” Axel swallowed, focusing on the comment that Robinson wouldn’t have much trouble figuring out where he lived. He immediately pictured his kids in the kitchen, huddled over their schoolbooks. It was a terrifying thought. Certainly, this bit of information he would leave out of the upcoming conversation with Christel. “And if this actually goes down,” Agent Nance continued, “if we do arrest this Orb Robinson—we need to ask—would you be willing to testify? We’d bring you here to the U.S. and put you up in a hotel for the length of the trial, if we deemed it was necessary. Is this something that you would be willing to do?” Hearing this, Axel had to sit down in the chair in front of his computer. That he could be asked to take part in bringing this criminal to justice—not just being the middleman in an e-mail investigation, but actually taking physical part, becoming a player in the drama—wow. “I would be honored to take part in your judicial system.” Axel Emmermann the superhero, becoming Emmermann the star witness. It certainly would beat an afternoon at the popinjay field. But sitting in the chair—looking at the computer where this had all started—Axel began to have a thought. The way Nance was talking, it was beginning to sound like this might somehow be a little more than a hoax. If they were thinking of bringing Axel all the way to America … well, it wouldn’t be because someone was trying simply to make money on the Internet. “Special Agent Nance, are you beginning to suspect that this Robinson might be trying to sell authentic moon rocks?” There was a long pause. For a brief moment, Axel could hear the
buzz of the international phone line. And then: “It’s not impossible.” With that, the FBI agent thanked him again for his time and then gratefully hung up. As Axel replaced the receiver, the words continued to reverberate through his mind. It’s not impossible. Christ; what, exactly, had he stumbled into? … Axel was still sitting in front of the computer—mulling over what he had just learned, waiting for the sounds of his wife’s heels on the front steps so that he could relay the developments he’d just learned of, and sure, brag a little bit about the possibility that he could soon be racing halfway around the world to bring a master criminal to justice—when an icon appeared on his computer screen indicating that he had a new e-mail. One click later, and he saw that it was once again from the FBI, the same Special Agent Nance: Mr. Emmermann. It was nice to talk to you this morning. I neglected to ask you for your help in putting together some questions that should be asked by Lynn. Since my knowledge of lunar materials is limited at best, I was hoping you could provide questions to via e-mail that will lend to my/our credibility. Any help would be greatly appreciated … At first, Axel was quite puzzled by this new e-mail, which was accompanied by an even longer explanation of what Nance was looking for. It seemed the FBI was asking for Axel’s help in explaining how their agent could best recognize real moon rocks—and furthermore, how she would be able to tell the difference between moon rocks that had actually come, by hand, from the moon, and ones that had fallen to Earth as meteorites. Wouldn’t the FBI have their own specialists who could assuredly do a better job of explaining this than an amateur rock collector such as himself? But as Axel worked it out in his head, he realized that the FBI’s request made sense. Orb Robinson had written that the moon rocks were not currently in his possession—which meant that he intended to
steal them. There was only one place on Earth from which he would be able to steal the amount of moon rocks he was talking about: the Johnson Space Center in Houston. If the FBI had wanted to talk to specialists who could help identify real moon rocks … well, the place they would normally go was also where Robinson’s crime would take place—the JSC. So obviously, the FBI couldn’t go there for information; they couldn’t yet know who Orb Robinson really was, and had to suspect anyone with access to the Apollo rocks. It was hard for Axel to believe that someone who worked at NASA was planning to steal moon rocks; not just because they were national treasures, but if you were lucky enough to work at NASA—in the same hallowed buildings where the Apollo program had taken place—how could you throw it all away for a hundred thousand dollars? In any event, Axel was more than happy to continue to help the FBI. After his first contact with Robinson, he had done a fair amount of research into moon rocks. With the help of his notes, he began to compose his response to Agent Nance. Moon rocks were usually light in weight and color, made up mostly of basalt, with a mix of pyroxene and feldspar within, easily recognizable by a geologist using a magnifying glass. But this information wasn’t going to be all that helpful to an agent during a sting operation. Especially an agent posing as a rock collector—and not a professional geologist. But there was a much simpler way to recognize a moon rock—and especially to distinguish a moon rock that had actually been picked up by hand—by an astronaut on the moon—from a meteorite that might have been stolen from a museum. As most people were aware, the moon had no atmosphere. Which meant that anything that hit the surface of the moon—from a giant asteroid to a tiny grain of sand—hit the ground somewhere between ten thousand and eight thousand kilometers per hour. On Earth, such objects burned up in the atmosphere because of air friction, but because the moon had no atmosphere, dust and sand were continually raining down to the surface, at these immense speeds.
So any rock from the moon would be covered in tiny impact craters. These craters were called “zap pits,” ranging from a few microns in size to as big as a few millimeters. They would be easily recognized, even without a microscope: a tiny black-glass center surrounded by a halo of concentric circles, much like the large craters you could see through a telescope when you looked at the surface of the moon. As Axel sent the new e-mail off to Agent Nance, part of him wished he could follow that little electronic packet of information around the curve of the Earth. He wished that he could walk into that meeting place, with a suitcase full of cash, and sit down across from this master criminal, this person who would dare to steal a national treasure. He wished that he could look this man in the face and tell him, It was me who brought you down. It was Axel Emmermann who caught you. And then he remembered how he had felt when Nance had told him that this Robinson could easily figure out where he lived. And he quickly changed his mind. Axel was the kind of superhero who was happy to bring justice to the world, from the comfort and security of his cozy Antwerp lair.
Nothing got the old heart pumping like the shrill, piercing wail of a telephone cutting through the dead, still heat of a summer morning. It wasn’t particularly early, but Axel had been dozing pretty deeply, his rounded form splayed out comfortably across the small couch that ran along one wall of his living room. The TV was still on a few feet away, tuned to the French murder mystery he had been watching when he’d first closed his eyes for a moment—but one more metallic ring reverberating through his head, and he knew for sure that the sound wasn’t coming from some faraway sound studio in Paris. It was echoing off the walls of his own home in a quiet corner of Antwerp. It had been a perfect weekend morning before the sound of the ringer had ruined it; perfect, because the kids were locked up in the kitchen frantically studying for their exams, and because Christel was out having breakfast with a friend. Which meant that Axel was able to enjoy some quality time with his favorite couch cushions. Since he still hadn’t been sleeping that well at night—his mind locked into the drama he imagined was unfolding far across the ocean—the minutes alone with the couch were as valuable as polished topaz. Ten days without any contact from either the FBI or Orb Robinson had certainly taken its toll on Axel’s psyche. It was kind of like watching the French murder mystery, but with the sound off. He could only fantasize about what was really going on. For all he knew, the whole thing had fizzled and disappeared. The hoaxer might have finally grown bored with the game, moved on to something else. Maybe he was now sending out e-mails, posing as a Nigerian banker, or the cousin of a deposed prince. Just send a cashier’s check, and my fortune w ill be yours. But as soon as Axel heard his son, Sven, answer the phone through the door that separated his living room from the kitchen, as soon as he
registered the shocked tone of the fifteen-year-old’s voice, he had a feeling that his wait was suddenly over. He sat straight up, shaking the last vestiges of sleep out of his eyes, just in time to see his son stick his head out through the kitchen door, the phone cupped against his chest. “Dad, I think it’s for you. It’s an American.” Sven looked like he had seen a monster, and that got Axel’s heart pumping even faster. He indicated with his hand that he was going to pick up the receiver in the living room, and that his son should hang up once he was on the line. Then he rose, flattening the wrinkles out of his slacks with his palms, and crossed to the computer desk in the corner of the room. He didn’t know why, but for some reason he wanted to look presentable—even though he was only going to be talking over the phone. It wasn’t often that he got calls from America. Actually, it wasn’t ever. He cleared his throat, then picked up the receiver. “This is Axel Emmermann.” The American on the other end of the line quickly introduced himself as Special Agent Nick Nance of the FBI. Axel felt his shoulders pulling back, his chest sticking out as he heard the words. E-mails were one thing, but now he was talking to a real-life FBI agent. His superhero status was quickly rising. Very rapidly, the official-sounding man on the other end of the line brought him up-to-date. Even though Axel hadn’t heard anything for the past week and a half, it turned out that the FBI had been quite busy. Agents posing as Axel’s brother and sister-in-law had continued to lead Orb Robinson along, getting him to the point where they seemed actually ready to enact an exchange. They were in the process of setting up a face-to-face meeting. Robinson still didn’t seem to have the actual items in his possession, but he was moving forward as if he could get them at any moment. Agent Nance explained that “Lynn and Kurt” had confirmed receipt of the hundred thousand dollars, and had e-mailed Robinson, telling him that they trusted him, that they believed his claims were truthful and were ready to buy what he was selling. Axel had to fight the urge to start jumping around the living room. The
French murder movie seemed like such a trifle now, compared with the real mystery that he was an integral part of. He was actually talking to the FBI, and they were going to meet with this hoaxer. He couldn’t wait until his wife got home so he could tell her what was about to happen. And then Nance added something to the conversation—something Christel wouldn’t find quite as enthralling. “Now, there’s a chance this Robinson might try and call you directly. I don’t think it would be that hard for him to find out where you live, and get your phone number. So we’re thinking about installing a recording device so if this happens, we can listen in.” Axel swallowed, focusing on the comment that Robinson wouldn’t have much trouble figuring out where he lived. He immediately pictured his kids in the kitchen, huddled over their schoolbooks. It was a terrifying thought. Certainly, this bit of information he would leave out of the upcoming conversation with Christel. “And if this actually goes down,” Agent Nance continued, “if we do arrest this Orb Robinson—we need to ask—would you be willing to testify? We’d bring you here to the U.S. and put you up in a hotel for the length of the trial, if we deemed it was necessary. Is this something that you would be willing to do?” Hearing this, Axel had to sit down in the chair in front of his computer. That he could be asked to take part in bringing this criminal to justice—not just being the middleman in an e-mail investigation, but actually taking physical part, becoming a player in the drama—wow. “I would be honored to take part in your judicial system.” Axel Emmermann the superhero, becoming Emmermann the star witness. It certainly would beat an afternoon at the popinjay field. But sitting in the chair—looking at the computer where this had all started—Axel began to have a thought. The way Nance was talking, it was beginning to sound like this might somehow be a little more than a hoax. If they were thinking of bringing Axel all the way to America … well, it wouldn’t be because someone was trying simply to make money on the Internet. “Special Agent Nance, are you beginning to suspect that this Robinson might be trying to sell authentic moon rocks?” There was a long pause. For a brief moment, Axel could hear the
buzz of the international phone line. And then: “It’s not impossible.” With that, the FBI agent thanked him again for his time and then gratefully hung up. As Axel replaced the receiver, the words continued to reverberate through his mind. It’s not impossible. Christ; what, exactly, had he stumbled into? … Axel was still sitting in front of the computer—mulling over what he had just learned, waiting for the sounds of his wife’s heels on the front steps so that he could relay the developments he’d just learned of, and sure, brag a little bit about the possibility that he could soon be racing halfway around the world to bring a master criminal to justice—when an icon appeared on his computer screen indicating that he had a new e-mail. One click later, and he saw that it was once again from the FBI, the same Special Agent Nance: Mr. Emmermann. It was nice to talk to you this morning. I neglected to ask you for your help in putting together some questions that should be asked by Lynn. Since my knowledge of lunar materials is limited at best, I was hoping you could provide questions to via e-mail that will lend to my/our credibility. Any help would be greatly appreciated … At first, Axel was quite puzzled by this new e-mail, which was accompanied by an even longer explanation of what Nance was looking for. It seemed the FBI was asking for Axel’s help in explaining how their agent could best recognize real moon rocks—and furthermore, how she would be able to tell the difference between moon rocks that had actually come, by hand, from the moon, and ones that had fallen to Earth as meteorites. Wouldn’t the FBI have their own specialists who could assuredly do a better job of explaining this than an amateur rock collector such as himself? But as Axel worked it out in his head, he realized that the FBI’s request made sense. Orb Robinson had written that the moon rocks were not currently in his possession—which meant that he intended to
steal them. There was only one place on Earth from which he would be able to steal the amount of moon rocks he was talking about: the Johnson Space Center in Houston. If the FBI had wanted to talk to specialists who could help identify real moon rocks … well, the place they would normally go was also where Robinson’s crime would take place—the JSC. So obviously, the FBI couldn’t go there for information; they couldn’t yet know who Orb Robinson really was, and had to suspect anyone with access to the Apollo rocks. It was hard for Axel to believe that someone who worked at NASA was planning to steal moon rocks; not just because they were national treasures, but if you were lucky enough to work at NASA—in the same hallowed buildings where the Apollo program had taken place—how could you throw it all away for a hundred thousand dollars? In any event, Axel was more than happy to continue to help the FBI. After his first contact with Robinson, he had done a fair amount of research into moon rocks. With the help of his notes, he began to compose his response to Agent Nance. Moon rocks were usually light in weight and color, made up mostly of basalt, with a mix of pyroxene and feldspar within, easily recognizable by a geologist using a magnifying glass. But this information wasn’t going to be all that helpful to an agent during a sting operation. Especially an agent posing as a rock collector—and not a professional geologist. But there was a much simpler way to recognize a moon rock—and especially to distinguish a moon rock that had actually been picked up by hand—by an astronaut on the moon—from a meteorite that might have been stolen from a museum. As most people were aware, the moon had no atmosphere. Which meant that anything that hit the surface of the moon—from a giant asteroid to a tiny grain of sand—hit the ground somewhere between ten thousand and eight thousand kilometers per hour. On Earth, such objects burned up in the atmosphere because of air friction, but because the moon had no atmosphere, dust and sand were continually raining down to the surface, at these immense speeds.
So any rock from the moon would be covered in tiny impact craters. These craters were called “zap pits,” ranging from a few microns in size to as big as a few millimeters. They would be easily recognized, even without a microscope: a tiny black-glass center surrounded by a halo of concentric circles, much like the large craters you could see through a telescope when you looked at the surface of the moon. As Axel sent the new e-mail off to Agent Nance, part of him wished he could follow that little electronic packet of information around the curve of the Earth. He wished that he could walk into that meeting place, with a suitcase full of cash, and sit down across from this master criminal, this person who would dare to steal a national treasure. He wished that he could look this man in the face and tell him, It was me who brought you down. It was Axel Emmermann who caught you. And then he remembered how he had felt when Nance had told him that this Robinson could easily figure out where he lived. And he quickly changed his mind. Axel was the kind of superhero who was happy to bring justice to the world, from the comfort and security of his cozy Antwerp lair.