The Cassandra Project Read Online Free PDF Page B

since last year.”
    “He commented that it seems to be a last-minute arrangement.”
    Damn. That meant he suspected what was behind the award. Jerry was momentarily surprised that he’d agreed to come if he’d figured it out already. But then Vanessa eased his mind: “He thinks you want to get to him before he passes.”
    “Oh.” Maybe they’d caught a break.
    “He seems like a nice guy,” she added.
    —
    The first Harry Eastman Award would be made at the new Hall of Fame, on the last Thursday of the month, which was three weeks away. Jerry handed most of the organizing details over to Vanessa, issued special invitations to people who’d played a major role in NASA’s activities over the years, invited the media, and put together some appropriate remarks for Mary.
    He settled back into his normal routine. He oversaw his blog, which was usually written by an intern; contributed to the NASA online presence; coordinated speaking engagements for the Agency’s representatives; made appearances at the University of Georgia and at the University of Central Florida in Orlando.
    The LEM story turned into a two-day gag line. Fortunately, it had no traction. Nobody believed there was anything to it. How could there be? Even Warren Cole, when he came by on an unrelated matter, laughed about it. “It’s a pity, though,” he said. “What a story that would have made.”
    They were seated in the downstairs dining room. Cole was enjoying a plate of fish and fries, while Jerry, always conscious of his weight, settled for a grilled chicken salad. “You’re really disappointed, aren’t you, Warren?”
    “I can’t get disappointed about something I never believed in the first place. Did you find out what they were talking about?”
    “Not really. It has to have been a joke.”
    “Yeah. Pity. It’s a story I’d have killed for.”
    Cole was one of several reporters Jerry used to get stories out. It was always helpful to give someone an exclusive, even if you were planning a formal announcement a day or two later. It was a way of making reporters happy and keeping them on your side.
    In this case, though, Jerry had his own motive. “On the subject of Myshko and the LEM,” he said, speaking casually, “did you know who the CAPCOM was on the ground?”
    Cole thought about it. Shrugged. “Before my time.” He studied his fish and fries. And shrugged again. “Why, Jerry? Does it matter?”
    “No.” Jerry took a large bite of his salad, chewed, and looked out the window. It was a gray, chilly day.
    “Then why’d you bring it up?”
    “His name’s Frank Kirby.”
    “He’s still alive?”
    “You got the handout on the Eastman Award?”
    “Yes.”
    “Kirby will be the recipient that night.”
    Cole was prematurely bald, with a ridge of brown hair around his skull. He squeezed his forehead, rubbed his temples. “The story’s dead, Jerry. You’re not trying to bring it up again, are you?”
    “Of course not. Though I wonder if he knows how close he came to giving the media the story of a lifetime.”
    Cole made a face like a guy with a toothache. “I think I’ll leave it alone.”
    Jerry smiled. “I’m in favor of that, Warren.”
    “Have you mentioned this to anybody else?”
    “No.” Jerry made a science of knowing the media people. Cole would say nothing to anyone. And on the day of the luncheon, he wouldn’t be able to resist. That would open the door.
    When they’d finished eating, Jerry picked up the tab.

3
    Morgan Blackstone looked out the window of his office and was well pleased. Off to the left, covering two acres of ground, was Blackstone Enterprises. To the right, thirty floors high and seeming to reach for the sky, was Blackstone Development. Between the two was the least impressive and most important of his businesses, Blackstone Innovations.
    It was amazing, he reflected, what one forty-two-inch bosom could lead to. He’d seen the possessor of that bosom on the beach when he was barely