For a minute, Pat stood on the griddle of the concrete tarmac deciding what to do. He was fifteen minutes early for his interview but worried about sweating through his suit. Like the fountain, he was dry but still a bit clammy from withdrawal. So he moved inside building 16, the glass front doors giving way to a hemispheric lobby with blue pearl granite floors, the walls sheathed in a tacky orange wallpaper that had bubbled with the humidity, and a reception desk in the shape of an airfoil. Pat wandered to the left to study the hanging route map, the blue and green peels of the Mercatored Americas with tiny lightbulbs dimly burning at the point of each Eastern destination. Lima flickered like a dying star as Pat tried to take a minute and rehearse some interview answers. Eastern’s labor costs were notoriously high. And the load factor, i.e., butts in seats, was not great on a lot of these routes to the Caribbean and points sud. Eastern was a big boy, but the littlest of the bigs, and the north–south frost-to-flowers routes made it a vacation airline with price-sensitive markets. Where American’s corporate pride was driven by fleet size, passenger loads, and revenues, Eastern was a little more humble and looser in terms of its management and marketing—the official airline of Mickey Mouse. Their immediate threat was Charlie Bryan of the machinists’ union, who was holding out for concessions when none could be offered. Pat was interviewing to be director of employee benefits—a step up in title even if he was downgrading from Cadillac to Chevy in terms of carrier.

After milling around near the map, Pat was not too early anymore and stepped toward the reception desk. His legs felt fine for once, and he was going to will his way through walking today. Nail this interview and you could show up day one on crutches. Just get an offer. Keep your hands steady. Be confident. You ran a department three times this size. Do it for Daniel. Do it for Daniel’s college bursar.

Pat announced himself and was escorted to the ninth floor. Past screaming orange wallpaper again, up a cantilevered stairwell of poured concrete, through a series of doorways with Moorish cut-outs like he was entering Rick’s Café, he was eventually led to the reception area for the office of Colonel Frank Borman, chief executive officer, Eastern Airlines, and former pilot, Gemini and Apollo space programs.

Pat had never met an astronaut before, but he had heard stories about Borman—West Point, hard charging, not one for nuance. “Uncomplicated,” which was offered as code for “asshole.” Pat had considered all of this: If America had to send someone to the moon, they wouldn’t send an asshole, right? Or maybe it takes an asshole to get you there?

The door swung open, and the former fighter pilot, still at his 168-pound flying weight, bounded out of the office.