The next day was Monday. That meant pilots’ meeting, first thing. They convened in the small room next to Deke’s office up at the complex. The light was a white strip with a rectangular table sat beneath it. Deke stood at its head like a father at dinner. Behind him, on the wall, was a blackboard. Blinds were lowered across a wide window that overlooked the parking lot outside.
Gentlemen, he said when they were all seated and silent. Nineteen sixty-two is almost over. The years are gonna pass fast from now on. If you think you’ve been busy so far … We have a deadline, and we’re gonna make it, with time to spare. We’ve got some stuff to figure out, but we will figure it out and move on. You all look pretty relaxed there in your Ban-Lon shirts. That’s gonna change.
He pointed at the blackboard behind him. Environmental Training—exposure to acceleration, vibration, noise, weightlessness; simulated lunar gravity, wearing a bulkier pressure suit. Some of you will have more experience at this stuff than others. Doesn’t matter. Contingency Training. We’re gonna run survival schools in the desert and the jungle. In an emergency, who knows where you’ll come down. Also, ejection seats—in case there’s any of you who haven’t punched out of an airplane—and parachutes. Indoctrination Program, where we’ll practice moving and working in zero-g. And we’ll all ride parabolic trajectories in the zero-g airplane; a modified KC-135. What else? We’ll have engineering briefings and reviews, make sure you’re all up to speed on vehicle design and development. Some of you navy boys will find the next part old hat: Water Safety and Survival at the navy’s preflight school in Pensacola. And you’ll ride the wheel at Johnsonville, you lucky sons-of-bitches. Anyone who stays conscious at twenty-g’s will have a free steak dinner on Max Faget. Glenn did sixteen. So that’s the one to beat. It will be a special kind of torture. We’re gonna build our own centrifuge at MSC too. And we’ll be doing a lot of simulator work, of course.
What about flyin, Deke? Conrad said.
Yes. After the hell the Mercury fellas raised, we’ve decided to formalize it. You’ll all go through an Aircraft Flight Training program. So. Sixty-three through sixty-four will be dominated by training and developing your areas of specialization as Gemini progresses. We got a lot of ground to cover and not much time.
John Young, sitting on Harrison’s right, leaned back and sucked on his pipe. Harrison pulled out his cigarettes and gestured for a light.
I’ll have one of them if they’re going round, Borman said.
Harrison slid the pack across the table to him.
And you might want to cut back on those too, Deke said. None of you are gonna be smoking in a hundred percent oxygen environment so you better get used to it. All right. There’s gonna be a lot of memos floatin around. Make sure you read them. Being on a flight crew means your time will be dominated by your upcoming mission but you’ll need to stay on top of your paperwork. Now. Get the hell out of here.
They thanked Deke and picked up their pads and pens and got up.
Jim, you got a sec? Deke said, as the others filed out.
Sure, Harrison said.
Deke waited until they were alone and shut the door.
We’ve had a few calls, he said.
Press?
Yeah, Deke said. You okay with me sayin she’s sick?
Yeah, Harrison said.
Okay, Deke said, listen. If you get asked about it, either ignore it or confirm it; don’t deny it, even if it’s your first instinct. We need to be tellin the same story.
Harrison nodded. Sure thing, he said.
Right, Deke said. Let’s get back to work.
Out in the lot, Harrison slipped into his Corvette. The leather seats were hot. He should have parked in the shade. He put the key in the ignition switch and checked his mirror. He felt too far forward, so adjusted his seat back, then forward, then back again. He adjusted his mirror. Was the door shut properly? He wasn’t sure. He opened the door and shut it again. He readjusted the mirror. The seat was too far back. He moved it forward and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Christ, it was hot. He reached over to turn the key but stopped and retracted his hand. No. He wasn’t ready. He reached for it again, held it between his finger and his thumb, then withdrew again. Shit. Shit shit shit. He hit the wheel with his fist. He wound the window down. He moved about in his seat. He touched the mirror. He tapped the brake pedal with his foot five times. He reached for the key, started the engine, and drove off.
He spent Christmas at the Cape studying. His flight manual was already two inches thick. Orbital mechanics, principles of rocket flight, reentry mechanics, rendezvous mechanics. It was a hell of a holiday. He spoke to Grace once, on Christmas eve, in the early evening. It was only the second time they’d spoken since she left.
How you doing? she said.
Okay, he said.
How’s work? she said.
Same old, he said. I miss you.
Are you eating? she said.
He told her that he was.
He wanted to ask her about selling the house but couldn’t bring himself to churn up the conversation.
Some of the stuff I said before I left … she said. I’m sorry. I was in a pretty bad place.
I’m sorry too, he said, trying not to think about it.