The Cassandra Project by Jack McDevitt Page B

was a long time ago.
    He still thought about her when life got quiet. He was over her, finally. Or at least that’s what he told himself. Two years ago, she’d earned a Ph.D. in astrophysics. Now she worked for NASA in Houston. She was one of the reasons he’d joined NASA, with the possibility their paths might cross. In any case, she knew how high he’d climbed. Undoubtedly, she saw him now and then doing a press conference, or on the Agency’s TV channel. He liked to think she regretted tossing him aside.
    Now, in a rented car and under a bright moon, he pushed her out of his mind as he cruised down F Street and turned south onto Ninth. He passed more trees and sculpted lawns and broad driveways. The house numbers were hard to see in the dark, but Alcott had described the house, red brick with green shutters and two white cars in the driveway. The post light was on. He spotted it, parked, and looked around to assure himself there were no reporters in the area. Then he climbed slowly out of the car and started up the walk. A dog was barking somewhere, and a couple of kids next door were taking turns missing long shots at a basketball hoop mounted over the driveway. Basketball, he thought, was never really out of season. A cool breeze blew in off the Bay. He took a deep breath, thought again how the smart thing to do would be to go home and forget the whole thing. No matter how this played out, he was going to become a target for everybody’s jokes. A comic figure representing an agency that belonged to the past.
    He climbed a set of wooden steps onto the front deck. Lights blinked on, and the door opened before he reached it. A middle-aged woman, with dark hair and a nervous smile, looked out at him. “Mr. Culpepper?” “Yes, ma’am.” He could hear excited kids and sound effects inside. A war game in progress.
    “Come in, please.” She opened the door wide. The combat was coming from another room. “I hope you don’t mind the noise.” “Not at all,” Jerry said, walking into a tastefully decorated living room. A pair of vases filled with flowers stood on a table near the window, framed by lush, raven-colored drapes. The furniture was leather. Pictures of family members, mostly children, dominated the walls. A photo of Aaron Walker, in a commander’s uniform, occupied a spot between the flowers.
    She indicated a chair. “Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Culpepper. Can I get you something to drink?” “No,” he said. “Thank you very much. And my name’s Jerry.”
    “I know. I’ve seen you on TV.” She sat down on the sofa. “I’m Jane.” “Pleasure to meet you, Jane.”
    “You’ve seen the journal, right?”
    “Yes, I have.”
    “I don’t think I have anything to add. I was surprised by the entry. Jolted, as a matter of fact.” “I understand you’d never really looked through it before?”
    “No, sir. Umm, Jerry. I’ve had the journal since my father died. Never really opened it until recently. He was living with us. Here. He had a room in back. A whole wing of the house, in fact.” “You must have been very proud of him, Jane.”
    “Oh, yes. He was a remarkable man. I miss him.” Her eyes fluttered. “You would have liked him.” “I’m sure I would.” He commented on how attractive the home was, and the neighborhood, then got to the point: “Do you have any idea what he meant by that passage?” She leaned back and shook her head. She was an attractive woman though there was a sadness in her eyes. A sense, perhaps, that something incredible had happened in her father’s life, and she’d somehow contrived to miss it. “No. I came across it about a year ago. We were housecleaning, trying to make some room, and we started throwing a lot of stuff out. And we discovered the journal. Actually, I’d known that he kept one because I’d seen him sometimes writing in it at night, but I’d forgotten. Then I opened a box, and there it was. Along with some of his books.
    “I sat