Wednesday, January 21, 1981

LYNDON B. JOHNSON SPACE CENTER, HOUSTON

The day after the meeting in Washington, Fred Michaels called up Seger in Houston.

He leaned on Seger to take some leave.

Seger was reluctant; he felt fit and energetic, and he was getting on top of the issues coming out of the accident.

They finished the call without resolving the issue.

Later that day, Tim Josephson, who’d been working out of Houston since the disaster, went to see Seger in his office.

“Look, Bert, we want you to take an extended leave.”

“But I’ve discussed this with Fred.”

“So have I. And I’ve already drafted an announcement, to go out tomorrow.”

Seger was furious. “In that case, you can announce my resignation instead.”

Josephson met his stare, steadily, analytical. “Bert, you’re overstressed. You’re not thinking straight.”

“Oh, is that so? How the hell do you know that? What are you, a doctor that you can diagnose me?” He stared into Josephson’s thin, intelligent face. “What’s going on here, Tim? Overstressed, what the hell is that? I think you’re acting on rumors, and half-truths, and things you don’t understand.”

“Really?” Josephson asked drily.

“Really. Listen, me and my guys down here are doing fine. We’re working through the issues with the guys in Huntsville. With the grace of God, we’re going to get through this. In spite of whatever you’re hearing, I’m not going into shock.”

“It’s not like that, Bert. Nobody wants—”

“Listen, Tim. If you want to fix up some kind of psychiatric hearing, then you do it; I’ll abide by the decision of any competent psychiatrist. If he thinks I need R R, then I’ll discuss it with you. But I’m not having you, or Fred Michaels, or any other amateur, diagnosing my psyche. Now, you got that?”

Josephson seemed to think it over. Then he nodded, his face expressionless, and left the office.

Seger got on with his work; he hoped he’d heard the end of that.

But a little later Josephson called back and said that he’d arranged a hearing with two psychiatrists in the Houston Medical Center for that very evening.

Seger spent three hours with the psychiatrists, talking things over. They fed back their conclusions to him quickly.

He was obviously under a strain, they said, but he didn’t have a psychosis. There was no danger that Seger was going to fall apart under further pressure.

Seger went back to his office, elated. He called Tim Josephson and told him he should cancel his press release. Then he got to his knees, in his darkened office, and prayed his thanks.

He felt like laughing; if he was truthful, he felt as if he had fooled the psychiatrists.