Viktorenko said, “Of course, as the philosophers say, the best part of a good dinner is not what you eat, but with whom you eat.” He dug out five metal tubes from a pocket of his coverall. The tubes were labeled: “vodka.” The astronauts made dutiful noises of pleasure, and when they opened the tubes up, they found borscht, which they displayed to the camera. A Soviet joke Ha-ha.

With the meal cleared away, the telecast should have been finished, so the crews could relax. But Bob Crippen, capcom for the day, called up from Houston. “Moonlab, we have a surprise for you. Go ahead, Mr. President; you’re linked up to Moonlab.”

Familiar Georgian tones crackled over the air. “Good evening, gentlemen. Or is it morning where you are? I’m speaking to you from the Oval Office at the White House, and this must be the most remarkable telephone call since John Kennedy spoke to you, Joe, and Neil Armstrong on the surface of the Moon, eleven years ago…”

The crews sat around the table, staring into the camera, smiles bolted in place.

Carter made a speech of stunning banality, a ramble that seemed to last forever. Solovyov and Viktorenko looked poleaxed. Carter was duller than Brezhnev.

Jesus, thought Stone. It wouldn’t be so bad if we didn’t know that Carter was on his way out And that he has always been dead set against the space program.

Carter went around the table, speaking to each astronaut and cosmonaut in turn. “So, Joe, I believe this is your first flight in eleven years.”

“Yes, sir, that’s so, my first since the Moon landing. And it’s wonderful to be back.”

“Do you have any advice for young people who hope to fly on future space missions?”

Muldoon’s face might have been carved from wood. Stone knew exactly what he was thinking. Yeah. Don’t fuck yourself over by mouthing off against the Agency. “Well, sir, I’d say that the best advice is to decide what you want to do and then never give up until you’ve done it…”

Well, as long as Carter doesn’t ask if he’s missing his wife, Stone thought, Muldoon will be home clear; everybody in Houston knew that Jill had walked out a couple of months before the launch, but somehow it had been kept out of the press.

Across the table from Stone, Viktorenko dug out five more “vodka” tubes; wordlessly he passed them around. Stone opened his and sniffed at it. Viktorenko nodded to him, holding his gaze. Yes, this really is vodka. But they will think it is borscht. A double joke!

Stone drained his tube in one pull and crushed the metal in his fist.

As the banal speeches and ceremonies went on, the mountains of the Moon, ignored, cast complex shadows over the tabletop.

Wednesday, December 3, 1980

APOLLO-N; LYNDON B. JOHNSON SPACE CENTER, HOUSTON