Out of Gershon’s window there was a flat, close horizon. He could see dunes, and dust, and little rocks littering the surface. Nothing was moving, anywhere. Without buildings, or people or trees, it was hard to tell the scale of things. The sky was yellow-brown, the sun small and yellow and low. The light coming in the window was a mix of pink and brown, and he could see how it reflected off his visor, and off the flesh of his own cheeks.

Martian light, on his face.

He saw Stone grin, behind his faceplate. “Houston, this is Mangala Valles. Challenger has landed on Mars.” Gershon could hear the confident elation in his voice.

Gershon and Stone and York shook hands, and slapped each other on the back, and threw mock punches at each other’s helmets.

Gershon said, “Houston, can you pass on my regards to Columbia Aviation. This old Edsel has brought us down. JK, you are one steely-eyed missile man.”

He checked his station. He had fourteen seconds of landing fuel left. Well, the hell with it. Fourteen seconds is a long time. Armstrong himself only had about twenty seconds left, and nobody beefed about that.

Anyhow, it’s going to be a long time before anyone comes back, to better what I did today.

Thursday, March 21, 1985

PATRICK AIR FORCE BASE

Joe Muldoon squinted down as the plane from Houston came in on its approach to Patrick.

Although it was still hours to sunup, there was a steady stream of corporate planes descending on Patrick Air Force Base and Orlando Airport. And every road on the peninsula looked like a ribbon of light, locked up. He felt a knot of anxiety gather in his gut. Maybe he’d left it too late to get to the launch.

But he couldn’t have gotten away any earlier. He hadn’t had any sleep that night, and not much the night before. The logistics of the launch — the press stuff, and ensuring the NASA control centers were talking to each other, and handling a lot of last-minute crap to do with VIP passes and TV sites and such — all of it just went on and on, ballooning in complexity and detail.

Hell, was he going to have to listen to the launch on the radio of some hired car in bumper-to-bumper traffic?

The stewardess offered him a drink before landing. He refused, as he had before. Time enough for that later.

When the plane got into Patrick he hurried off. A young guy in a suit was waiting for him, holding up a hand-lettered card with his name on it.

“Mr. Muldoon?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m from KSC. We have a chopper waiting for you. This way, sir.”

“Thank Christ for that.”

Muldoon had a bag to collect from the plane. He hesitated for less than one second. To hell with it; he’d buy a clean shirt when he needed it.