Charlie sat there, stunned for a few minutes, along with the rest of Mission Control, at Buzz’s momentous news. Not only was there an alien on the Moon, it was telepathic—Telepathic, for heaven’s sake! What was this, a comicbook?—and apparently now spoke English.
Finally, he broke the silence. “No one hears about this,” he said with finality, looking around at everyone. “Breathe not a word about this until someone higher up tells you that you can.”
Murmurs of assent and uncertain nods were the response, and Charlie smiled without humor. “This day just keeps getting crazier, doesn’t it?” he asked to nobody in particular.
The President’s phone line crackled. “I... can’t say I was expecting that,” he said honestly, “But with this new development... I want to talk to her.”
“Yes sir,” Charlie said, once again putting the President on the line. All at once, the tables around which engineers and technicians gathered were perfectly silent. It was so profound, the crackling static of the phone line was the loudest sound in the large room.
“Mr. Armstrong,” he said, “I would like to talk to Luna. Can you arrange that?”
“Yes, sir,” Neil said. “Just one second.” He began muttering, along with sounds of the mike being taken off and adjusted, “If I turn up the volume on the headsets here, and the pickup on the mike all the way...” After a minute, he announced, “I think I have something that’ll work. Let’s try it.”
President Nixon cleared his throat. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” Neil and Buzz answered.
“Can the alien hear me?” he asked.
“Most assuredly,” her voice replied, in perfect American English. This was the final straw for some of the less mentally-strong on the NASA team, and a few thuds sounded as various members passed out.
“This device is fascinating,” Luna said, “I am most interested in its workings. Tell me, are you really on the planet below?”
“Yes, ah, ma’am, I am,” President Nixon affirmed. “My name is Richard Nixon. I am the President of the United States of America, the nation to whom Neil, Buzz, and the Lunar Module belong. As the head of state of the most powerful nation on Earth, I can say with certainty: Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“A head of state!” Luna said with joy. “This is a most pleasing meeting indeed.”
“Ah, yes,” Nixon returned, unsure as to what the best course of action would be after those planned few introduction sentences. “May I enquire as to your intentions?”
“My intentions, President Richard Nixon, are rather... shall I say, undetermined at this point?” She paused for a moment, and then continued with a determined voice, “To be frank with thee, my habitation here was not entirely of mine own choice, and this moon is rather barren and empty. I would be pleased to be able to visit this United States of America and return to the company of others. If, ah,” her voice turned uncertain, “That is agreeable with you.”
The President was obviously fighting hard to contain the victorious tones in his voice. “We would be glad to have you visit the United States,” he said happily. “I’m sure the Lunar Module can accommodate you if you wish, though it will be rather tight.”
“Space is no complaint with me,” she responded. “I shall continue with Neil and Buzz, then.” Some muffled noises, probably the astronauts moving in the background, made her pause. “What?” she asked loudly, and a whisper, unintelligible through the speakers, was audible.
“I will take my leave of you, President Richard Nixon,” she said distractedly. “Neil is advising me to remain quiet while they concentrate on the... ‘ascent stage.’ We shall converse at a later time.”
“Of course,” the President said seriously.
The line cut off, and Nixon said, “I’ll be sending Mission Control a list of questions to ask her as soon as we get them from the xenologist community we’re beginning to tap. Mr. Duke, I believe now is an appropriate time for you to leave—the car should be arriving at any moment.”
“Yes, sir,” Charlie replied.
“I have to hang up—I’ll see you in Hawaii, Mr. Duke.” A dial tone replaced his voice.
Charlie began to pack up his stuff, handed off his headset to someone else (his mind blanked on the man’s name), and headed out the back door to avoid a certain media firestorm in the front. He felt sorry for the people running the front room.
Out back, there was a nondescript black car, with blacked-out windows and unmarked license plates. Two burly guards stood by it, both sporting holsters and sunglasses.
“Charlie Duke?” one asked.
“That’s correct,” Charlie said, a slight feeling of unease tweaking his stomach.
The other opened the car door and gestured inside. “Get in.”
“Can I see some kind of ID?” Charlie asked, that unease now fairly roiling in his guts. Something was wrong.
The first man, the thinner of the two, said, “If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the flight.”
The second threw his hands up. “We don’t have time for this! Get in the car.”
“Not until I see some proof that you’re from the President,” Charlie said nervously.
The first man sighed and began to rummage in his pockets. The second man was not so patient.
“Get in the car,” he ordered flatly.
The first man sighed, “What are you doing? Just let me get out my ID—“
The second man cut him off. “We don’t have time for this.”
Charlie froze as the man pulled his pistol and leveled it at him. “Get in the car.”