The Cassandra Project by Jack McDevitt Read Free Book Online Page B

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    Everybody settled in. A few people went up to the head table for autographs or simply to shake hands with the guests. Eventually, the food began to arrive, baked salmon and roast beef, fortified with beets and potatoes and coleslaw. The low hum of conversation was interspersed with clinking silver. Kirby seemed to be enjoying himself, caught in an animated dialogue with Mary on one side and Cernan on the other.
    Dessert consisted of chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream. And, finally, it was time for the ceremony.
    —
    Mary stood, welcomed everyone, and got her first laugh by saying there was a rumor that a manned flight to Mars had entered the planning stage. It was an inside joke, the sort of thing NASA had consistently heard from a range of administrations, usually coming shortly before more funding cuts. “We’re also being told,” she added, as the room quieted, “that we may even be able to bring them back.”
    She asked each of the special guests to stand and be recognized. Each got a round of applause. Then she brought Harry Eastman to the microphone to make the presentation.
    The plaque, which was wrapped in purple cloth, was already stored out of sight at the lectern. “You all know Frank,” he said. He looked in Kirby’s direction, and the former astronaut raised a hand to the audience. “He’s ridden the shuttles, but he never flew higher than when he reached out to help the children of Orlando.” He read a list of the recipient’s accomplishments. Then he produced the plaque, removed the cloth, and carried it over to where Kirby was seated. Mary handed him a microphone. Then she and Cernan moved away to make room. “I’m honored,” Eastman said, “to present the first Harry Eastman Award for Civic Achievement to Frank Kirby.”
    Kirby received the trophy, took a moment to study it, and smiled. “Thank you, Harry.” They shook hands. He raised the award so everyone could see it. “I’m indebted not only to Harry, who’s been a friend for a long time, but also to Mary Gridley. To my former colleagues at NASA, who were so supportive for so many years. And to everyone who’s helped out in Orlando.” He put the award on the table. “But everybody knows I’m not alone. There are a lot of people who are doing far more than I’ve ever been able to. And some of them are in this room. There is an enormous number of kids who are in trouble. Who need our help.”
    He spoke for several minutes, mostly about the plight of children growing up in poor areas. Then he reminisced briefly about the state of NASA. “I’ve been away from my old job a long time,” he said. “But this is still where I live. When I was growing up, we assumed that by the time we’d entered the twenty-first century, we’d have Moonbase and be well on our way to establishing a colony on Mars. We thought we’d be safe from any single catastrophe. Safe in the knowledge that the human race would survive. More important, perhaps, we understood that going off world was more than a safety measure. More, even, than a dream. It was part of who we were. The only real question was whether our generation would manage it, or whether we’d be remembered as the people who got to the Moon and then forgot how we’d done it.”
    A murmur ran through the audience.
    “I guess we know how that turned out.”
    Someone up front wanted to know what had prompted him to start his charitable work, whether he’d been doing anything like that during his astronaut years. One of the computer guys asked whether he thought we’d ever get back to the Moon.
    “Of course we will,” he said. “Look, I know what you’re thinking. That I’m a pessimist. And I am. But only in the short term. Eventually, we’ll do what we need to. Maybe we’ll even take the grand tour. But it’ll be our grandkids who do it. Not us.” Mary’s hand touched his arm. “At least not me. I don’t expect to see much more happen during my lifetime.
    “But look at