some of the people who are here tonight. Then ask yourself whether we’re going to be satisfied with retiring to a front porch for the rest of our days.” He asked if there were more questions.
A woman who identified herself as a physicist from the University of Georgia insisted on throwing cold water on everything. “Human beings can’t survive in a zero-gravity environment,” she said. “Eventually, we’re going to have to face the reality that we’re effectively earthbound.”
The audience got restless, and there was some whispering. “You’re talking about an engineering problem, Professor,” Kirby said. “If that’s the biggest hurdle we have to get over, I’ll be grateful.”
Jerry didn’t know who she was, or how she’d gotten her invitation. He suspected she was a plant from higher up. Sent there for the express purpose of lowering expectations.
Warren Cole’s hand went up. “Mr. Kirby,” he said, “you were CAPCOM for a couple of the pre–Apollo XI flights. On one of them, Sidney Myshko reported that he was in the LEM and ready to go. And you replied ‘Good luck, guys.’ Can you explain what was going on?”
Kirby looked up at the overhead, then gazed out toward the entry doors. He shook his head. “Damned if I can remember what that was about. I know we said that. I mean, I heard the recording, so I know it happened. But it was a long time ago, and it’s hard to remember specifics. I can tell you that we used to joke around a good bit. Sid was always saying how if he got up there, he was going to take the LEM down, and I suspect that’s what it referred to. But it’s obvious it had no real significance.” He smiled and pointed toward a young woman seated off to one side.
But Cole stayed on his feet. “Follow-up, Mr. Kirby, if I may. There was a period afterward of more than fifty hours during which all your conversations were with Brian Peters. More than two days, sir. What happened to Myshko?”
Jerry could not entirely contain a smug sense of satisfaction. Cole was performing up to expectations.
Kirby’s manner stiffened, and the smile faded. “I guess I should remind you that I wasn’t in the capsule. I had no way of knowing why one person was on the microphone and not somebody else. It’s not something I would have given any thought to.”
He went back to the young woman.
“Which,” she asked, “gives you a bigger sense of satisfaction, Mr. Kirby, riding a rocket, or helping a disabled kid?”
“That one’s easy,” he said. “You get a lot of satisfaction from giving a hand to a child. Riding a rocket has always scared me. And I don’t want to speak for anyone else, but I’d be surprised if there’s anyone who ever sat up on the nose cone of a Saturn V who wouldn’t tell you the same thing. No, I’ll play ball with the kid anytime.”
—
When it was over, Kirby and his family and Harry Eastman were given a tour of the Hall of Fame. They saw a LEM and a model of the Space Station, made it onto a mock-up bridge of the command capsule, watched a 3-D film documentary explaining where NASA hoped to go during the next decade and why humans had to establish an off-world presence.
Jerry strolled over to where Kirby was talking with a couple of NASA people. When they wandered off, Jerry said how impressed he was with Kirby’s charity work. “When the foundation first indicated it wanted to give an award,” he said, “we had no idea what you’d been doing. It’s an incredible story.”
The wheelchair was powered, and they moved closer to a wall filled with three-dimensional photos of astronauts hopping across lunar turf, Saturn rockets soaring through sunlit skies, and shuttles docking at the Space Station. “So how,” Kirby asked, “did you come up with
my
name?”
“We went online. Ran every name we could think of.” Jerry shook his head. “You have a pretty good record, Frank.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you. It didn’t seem like all
A woman who identified herself as a physicist from the University of Georgia insisted on throwing cold water on everything. “Human beings can’t survive in a zero-gravity environment,” she said. “Eventually, we’re going to have to face the reality that we’re effectively earthbound.”
The audience got restless, and there was some whispering. “You’re talking about an engineering problem, Professor,” Kirby said. “If that’s the biggest hurdle we have to get over, I’ll be grateful.”
Jerry didn’t know who she was, or how she’d gotten her invitation. He suspected she was a plant from higher up. Sent there for the express purpose of lowering expectations.
Warren Cole’s hand went up. “Mr. Kirby,” he said, “you were CAPCOM for a couple of the pre–Apollo XI flights. On one of them, Sidney Myshko reported that he was in the LEM and ready to go. And you replied ‘Good luck, guys.’ Can you explain what was going on?”
Kirby looked up at the overhead, then gazed out toward the entry doors. He shook his head. “Damned if I can remember what that was about. I know we said that. I mean, I heard the recording, so I know it happened. But it was a long time ago, and it’s hard to remember specifics. I can tell you that we used to joke around a good bit. Sid was always saying how if he got up there, he was going to take the LEM down, and I suspect that’s what it referred to. But it’s obvious it had no real significance.” He smiled and pointed toward a young woman seated off to one side.
But Cole stayed on his feet. “Follow-up, Mr. Kirby, if I may. There was a period afterward of more than fifty hours during which all your conversations were with Brian Peters. More than two days, sir. What happened to Myshko?”
Jerry could not entirely contain a smug sense of satisfaction. Cole was performing up to expectations.
Kirby’s manner stiffened, and the smile faded. “I guess I should remind you that I wasn’t in the capsule. I had no way of knowing why one person was on the microphone and not somebody else. It’s not something I would have given any thought to.”
He went back to the young woman.
“Which,” she asked, “gives you a bigger sense of satisfaction, Mr. Kirby, riding a rocket, or helping a disabled kid?”
“That one’s easy,” he said. “You get a lot of satisfaction from giving a hand to a child. Riding a rocket has always scared me. And I don’t want to speak for anyone else, but I’d be surprised if there’s anyone who ever sat up on the nose cone of a Saturn V who wouldn’t tell you the same thing. No, I’ll play ball with the kid anytime.”
—
When it was over, Kirby and his family and Harry Eastman were given a tour of the Hall of Fame. They saw a LEM and a model of the Space Station, made it onto a mock-up bridge of the command capsule, watched a 3-D film documentary explaining where NASA hoped to go during the next decade and why humans had to establish an off-world presence.
Jerry strolled over to where Kirby was talking with a couple of NASA people. When they wandered off, Jerry said how impressed he was with Kirby’s charity work. “When the foundation first indicated it wanted to give an award,” he said, “we had no idea what you’d been doing. It’s an incredible story.”
The wheelchair was powered, and they moved closer to a wall filled with three-dimensional photos of astronauts hopping across lunar turf, Saturn rockets soaring through sunlit skies, and shuttles docking at the Space Station. “So how,” Kirby asked, “did you come up with
my
name?”
“We went online. Ran every name we could think of.” Jerry shook his head. “You have a pretty good record, Frank.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you. It didn’t seem like all
Similar Books
