Of a Fire on the Moon (9780553390629) by Norman Mailer

can’t do it,” but in trouble he always talked computerese. The use of “we” was discouraged. “A joint exercise has demonstrated” became the substitution. “Other choices” became “peripheral secondary objectives.” “Doing our best” was “obtaining maximum advantage possible.” “Confidence” became “very high confidence level.” “Ability to move” was a “mobility study.” “Turn off” was “disable”; “turn on” became “enable.” It was as if the more natural forms of English had not been built for the computer: Latin maybe, but not simple Anglo-Saxon. That was too primitive a language—only the general sense could be conveyed by the words: the precise intent was obliged to be defined by the tone of the voice. Computerese preferred to phase out such options. The message had to be locked into a form which could be transmitted by pulse or by lack of pulse, one binary digit at a time, one bit, one bug to be installed in each box. You could not break through computerese.
    Through it all, Collins would smile, turn his sensitive presence as eyes to the questioners, ears to the answer. His smile would flicker at the plastic obsidian impenetrability of computerese. “Darn it all,” his smile would seem to say to the magazine writers, “if I had to learn how to translate this stuff, I’m sure you fellows can do as well!” Once again, Collins was being asked few questions.
    They turned after a while to Aldrin and began to draw some flecks of a true-blooded response. He was, of course, equally impenetrable in the beginning, but after a time he may have made the mistake of essaying a joke. Asked of his reactions to visiting the moon, he proceeded to build a wall of verbal brick, then abruptly with that clumsy odd sobriety, almost engaging, with which he was forever showing his willingness to serve, Aldrin made a remark about having been a boy scout. “I attained the rank of tenderfoot,” he said. He gave a discomfited smile. “I hope I don’t have a tender foot after walking around the moon.” It was so bad a joke that one had to assume it was full of interior reference for him,perhaps some natural male anxiety at the thought of evil moon rays passing into one’s private parts. A glum expression sat next to gloom—the damnedest things can happen to a good man.
    Then they queried Aldrin on personal mementos. Would he be taking any along?
    Well, yes, he admitted reluctantly, he would be taking a little family jewelry along. He stopped, he looked mulish. It was obvious he didn’t want to go on. The primitive value of the objects, their power, their retention of charms, their position in the possible hierarchy of the amulets would be vitiated by describing them. On the other hand, a high quotient of availability-for-miscellaneous-unprogrammed-situations (known in the old days as charity, spontaneity, or generosity of spirit) also ranked high in good astronaut qualifications. So Aldrin gave answers even if he didn’t want to.
    Well, he admitted, the family jewelry were …
rings
. He had two heavy gold rings on two fingers. Yes, he nodded distrustfully, looking for a moment like a chow forced to obey a command he cannot enjoy, yes, on the flight, he would probably still be wearing them.
    What else in the way of family jewelry?
    But now Aldrin had had enough. “Personal category,” he grunted.
    A Viennese or German correspondent asked in a heavy accent of Armstrong, “Have you had any der-reams?”
    Dreams. Armstrong smiled. He couldn’t say he did. The smile was as quick to protect him as the quick tail flick of a long-suffering cow standing among horseflies in a summer meadow’s heat, yes, smile-and-flick went Armstrong, “I guess after twenty hours in a simulator, I guess I sometimes have dreams of computers.”
    Yet as the questions went on, the game was turning. The German might have asked his question about dreams with the happy anticipation that any material provided would