He thought back. Seger’s telephoned voice had been distant, light, oddly false; Michaels felt a stab of worry. But the guy is under incredible pressure. Of course he’s going to sound strange. As long as he stays in one piece long enough to get the bird down. Seger’s mental state was something Michaels could deal with later. Christ, I’m going to have a few crazies on my hands before we’re done with this damn business.

Michaels walked back to his guests in the reception room. Obviously word was continuing to spread among them. Hell, they only need to look at my face to see that. He even saw one man crying.

In the dining room the waiters were laying out dinner; nobody was paying any attention to them.

Michaels found Bush and spoke briefly with him. Then he called for quiet and broke the news officially to the rest of the guests.

After that the group broke up quickly. The contractors who had hardware involved in the accident left to find planes to take them to Houston.

Michaels made his apologies to Bush, left the club, and ordered his driver to take him to NASA Headquarters.

Wednesday, December 3, 1980

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

The Astronaut Office was quiet that night. With two shots aloft — and with one of them in trouble — most of the pilots were wrapped up in work in support of the flights in the simulators, or working at contractors’ plants around the country.

Ralph Gershon was there, though, in the office. As a MEM specialist he didn’t have any specific assignments to do with the current shots. But he’d heard something about the problems on the NERVA flight today. He’d gone over to the MOCR, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do there. He was just in the way, radiating anxiety all over everybody else. So he made sure his location was known, in case he was needed, and he sat in the office he shared, quietly going through his in-tray.

The phone rang. He picked it up on the first ring.

“Ralph? I’m glad I caught you.”

“Natalie? Are you still on shift?”

“Yeah. Rolf Donnelly asked me to call you. I—”

“Yes?”

“We think we might lose the crew.”

Gershon could hear voices in the MOCR behind her, taut, shouting.

York wanted Gershon to arrange for astronauts and wives to go to the homes of the crew.

Gershon agreed straightaway, and York hung up.

It was a tradition, dating back to Mercury, that if you had to receive bad news like this, you’d get it from an astronaut, or his wife — someone close enough to the risks and pressures to understand how you’d be feeling.

Gershon dug out his phone book. He’d start with people he knew lived close to the families.