This is an NBC special news report brought to you by the Gulf Oil Corporation.…
Harrison felt something, but didn’t know what. The pack of Lucky Strikes in his hand was empty. There was a fresh pack by his bed. He got up and wondered where Grace was. He went upstairs and stopped dead. Grace sat against the shut door of the empty bedroom, eyes fat with tears. She looked up at him and he felt the air leave his lungs and his heart lurch. He stumbled into the bathroom and shut the door. His face was wet. It tasted like the sea. He wiped his forehead, his temples, his chin; his heart was trying to bust out of his rib cage like an inmate during a prison riot. He gripped the sink and knew fear. Grace was on the other side of the door. Then she was on the stairs. Then she was in the kitchen. Something dropped away, and his hammering heart settled. He sat down on the floor. He was dizzy. His pulse slowed. His breathing grew shallow. He was exhausted. He sat in the bathroom for a long time. Then he washed his hands and went downstairs and saw John Glenn waving from the deck of the Noa.
Christ, Harrison said, walking into the office one morning in late April. Glenn is everywhere.
Yup, Ridley said, not looking up from the report he was typing.
It’s been two months!
He’s a Man Destined To Do Great Things.
He’s probably got his own room at the White House now, Harrison said. Who’s next?
Uh, Carpenter, Ridley said, swigging his coffee.
The diving guy?
The very same.
Where the hell did they get these pilots? Harrison said. Pull names out of a hat?
Ridley looked up. Beats me, he said. Is Deke comin back?
Heard he’s gonna run the Astronaut Office.
What happened?
Some heart thing.
Jesus, Ridley said. One minute you’re fine, the next—
Only two ways you can walk out a doctor’s office, Harrison said. Fine or grounded.
He sat down and flicked through the mail.
Joe around?
Ridley nodded.
Harrison got up and left the room. Between Ridley’s office and the staircase that led down to the hangar and locker room was a small lounge area that led to two other offices. The walls were covered with safety posters and maps of the surrounding desert. Old magazines sat in piles on hard blue sofas. The latest issue of Aviation Week caught his eye and he stooped to pick it up. He walked to the window and flipped through the pages. At the end of the news section was a small piece headlined NASA WILL ADD NEW ASTRONAUTS. He read the copy. Between five to ten additional astronauts for NASA’s manned space flight program will be selected this fall. Project Mercury would end soon and NASA had already begun work on Project Gemini. The new two-man spacecraft had been contracted to McDonnell. They were scheduled to deliver the first ship in sixty-three. Harrison skimmed until he got to the selection requirements: The applicant must be an experienced test pilot ideally engaged in flying high performance aircraft. He must have attained experimental flight status through military service, the aircraft industry or NASA. He must have a college degree in the physical or biological sciences or engineering. He must be a US citizen. He must be under thirty-five years of age at the time of selection. He must be six feet (or less) in height. The report noted the deadline, the first day of June. He tore out the page and put it in his pocket.
Harrison found Joe in the hangar with Neil. He talked to the two men. Neither of them mentioned the announcement. Had they seen it? It was nearly noon. He stepped outside for a smoke. Shallow clouds roamed slowly through the tin-colored sky. The air felt heavy. A memory of his mother came to him. She was collecting eggs from their chicken coop as rain fell on its corrugated tin roof. He thought about it for a minute then drove home, the folded magazine page pressing against his leg.
He cut the engine outside the house and stepped out of the car and walked to the back door. He stopped and stared at the door for a long time. Then he sat down on the stoop and put his hands over his face. The wind was warm around him. He walked quickly back to the car and drove back to work.
At the end of the day Harrison said to Neil, Pancho’s? and the men drove over. They sat in the corner with a beer each and talked about hypersonic lift-to-drag ratios and trans-atmospheric cross-ranges and controlled lifting reentry. Pancho came over and called them a pair of miserable bastards and Neil smiled and sketched out Boeing’s mock-up of the delta-winged X-20 Dyna-Soar space-plane on a napkin and Harrison ordered a scotch and felt good.
When he got home, Grace was upstairs in the empty bedroom. Harrison stood outside and watched. There were piles of folded clothes on the little bed. Grace picked up a pile at a time and placed them in large black bags.
What are you doing? he said.