Lightspeed: Year One

I couldn’t resist smiling at the name, but I knew he’d heard all the jokes. I identified myself. Then: “Sergeant, you have a listing for the Cassandra Project.” I gave him the number. “Can I get access to the contents?”

“One minute, please, Mr. Carter.”

While I waited, I glanced around the office at the photos of Neil Armstrong and Lawrence Bergman and Marcia Beckett. In one, I was standing beside Bergman, who’d been the guy who’d sold the President on returning to the Moon. In another, I was standing by while Marcia spoke with some Alabama school kids during a tour of the Marshall Space Flight Center. Marcia was a charmer of the first order. I’ve always suspected she got the Minerva assignment partially because they knew the public would love her.

“When were you planning to come, Mr. Carter?”

“I’m not sure yet. Within the next week or so.”

“Let us know in advance and there’ll be no problem.”

“It’s not classified, then?”

“No, sir. I’m looking at its history now. It was originally classified, but that was removed by the Restricted Access Depository Act more than twenty years ago.”

I had to get through another round of ceremonies and press conferences before I could get away. Finally, things quieted down. The astronauts went back to their routines, the VIPs went back to whatever it was they normally do, and life on the Cape returned to normal. I put in for leave.

“You deserve it,” Mary said.

Next day, armed with a copy of the Restricted Access Depository Act, I was on my way to Los Angeles to pay another visit to a certain elderly retired astronaut.

“I can’t believe it,” Frank Allen said.

He lived with his granddaughter and her family of about eight, in Pasadena. She shepherded us into her office—she was a tax expert of some sort—brought some lemonade, and left us alone.

“What can’t you believe? That they declassified it?”

“That the story never got out in the first place.” Frank was back at the desk. I’d sunk into a leather settee.

“What’s the story, Frank? Was the dome really there?”

“Yes.”

“NASA doctored its own Cassegrain imagery? To eliminate all traces?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“So what do you know?”

“They sent us up to take a look. In late 1968.” He paused. “We landed almost on top of the damned thing.”

“Before Apollo 11.”

“Yes.”

I sat there in shock. And I’ve been around a while, so I don’t shock easily.

“They advertised the flight as a test run, Jerry. It was supposed to be purely an orbital mission. Everything else, the dome, the descent, everything was top secret. Didn’t happen.”

“You actually got to the dome?”

He hesitated. A lifetime of keeping his mouth shut was getting in the way. “Yes,” he said. “We came down about a half mile away. Max was brilliant.”

Max Donnelly. The lunar module pilot. “What happened?”

“I remember thinking the Russians had beaten us. They’d gotten to the Moon and we hadn’t even known about it.

“There weren’t any antennas or anything. Just a big, silvery dome. About the size of a two-story house. No windows. No hammer and sickle markings. Nothing. Except a door.

“We had sunlight. The mission had been planned so we wouldn’t have to approach it in the dark.” He shifted his position in the chair and bit down on a grunt.

“You okay, Frank?” I asked.

“My knees. They don’t work as well as they used to.” He rubbed the right one, then rearranged himself—gently this time. “We didn’t know what to expect. Max said he thought the thing was pretty old because there were no tracks in the ground. We walked up to the front door. It had a knob. I thought the place would be locked, but I tried it and the thing didn’t move at first but then something gave way and I was able to pull the door open.”

“What was inside?”

“A table. There was a cloth on the table. And something flat under the cloth. And that’s all there was.”

“Nothing else?”

“Not a thing.” He shook his head. “Max lifted the cloth. Under it was a rectangular plate. Made from some kind of metal.” He stopped and stared at me. “There was writing on it.”

“Writing? What did it say?”

“I don’t know. Never found out. It looked like Greek. We brought the plate back home with us and turned it over to the bosses. Next thing they called us in and debriefed us. Reminded us it was all top secret. Whatever the thing said, it must have scared the bejesus out of Nixon and his people. Because they never said anything, and I guess the Russians didn’t either.”

“You never heard anything more at all?”

“Well, other than the next Apollo mission, which went back and destroyed the dome. Leveled it.”

“How do you know?”

“I knew the crew. We talked to each other, right? They wouldn’t say it directly. Just shook their heads: Nothing to worry about anymore.”