The Tranquillity Alternative by Allen Steele Page B

Parnell knew that not all reporters on the space beat were bottom-feeders looking for a hot scoop. He had encountered enough good journalists—Jack Wilford of the Times , Ike Asimov of the Boston Globe , even good ol’ Uncle Walter himself—to know that some were not there just to wait for the next Challenger disaster so they could thrust a microphone into the face of a stunned widow.
    But Berkley Rhodes … Berkley Rhodes was another case entirely.
    Parnell had been briefed on her background when she was assigned to the mission. Rhodes had been a middle-ranked Washington correspondent for ATS until a few years ago, schlepping her notebook and tape recorder from one Senate budget hearing to the next. She might have remained in obscurity, at best interviewing politicians for First Edition before the morning weather, were it not for a stroke of luck that turned her career around.
    To this day, no one knew exactly why she had received a manila envelope stuffed with photocopies of classified documents, smuggled out of the Pentagon by a highly placed Air Force officer whose identity still remained a secret. It was understandable that Sy Hersh of the Times and Bob Woodward of the Washington Post , two of the top investigative reporters in the country, had received the same information … but why Rhodes instead of network power-hitters like Rather or Donaldson? There were persistent rumors that she might have slept with the mysterious Colonel X, but nothing had ever been proven. Maybe Colonel X had pulled her name out of a hat. Perhaps he liked the way she had tough-talked Jesse Helms during an interview three days before.
    In the end, it was pointless to speculate on why Berkley Rhodes was one of the first reporters to break the Teal Falcon story, the scandal that had not only swept Bob Dole out of the White House, but also caused Tranquillity Base to be prematurely shut down and damaged NASA’s credibility. Whatever the reason, her reputation had skyrocketed just as quickly as the agency’s had plummeted, until it could now be safely argued that more people recognized her face than they did any of the Conestoga ’s astronauts.
    Which was the reason why, when she had asked—demanded, really—to cover NASA’s final mission to the Moon for a network documentary about the demise of the U.S. space program, the agency had all too willingly agreed.
    “Gene … hey, Gene, stop looking that way! Look at the rocket, the rocket …”
    Turning around to gaze up at Constellation once more, Parnell recalled his meeting with NASA’s Chief Administrator, a few months ago. It was a warm day in early autumn; from the window of his office in the NASA headquarters building they watched as protesters marched in circles in front of the National Air and Space Museum. We’re on the ropes, Gene , Dan Goldin had said, his hands clasped behind his back. Tranquillity’s being sold to the Germans, and Congress is threatening to do the same with the Wheel. The deficit, the latest budget cutback … you know the story. Unless we can get the public back on our side, the program’s dead and gone by the end of the decade. That’s half the reason why we want you to go up. You’re the last of the old guard, you were out of the loop during the Desert Storm thing, and … look, I know it’s P.R. bullshit, but it’s all we’ve got going for us right now. What do you say, Commander?
    Of course, he had said yes … although for reasons of his own.
    T-minus thirty-five minutes and counting. The stentorian voice of the Launch Control talker came over the pad’s loudspeakers, interrupting Parnell’s train of thought. We are on hot countdown, observing maximum pad discipline.
    The pad rats who had been watching the astronauts turned away from the railing, heading to their last-minute jobs. It took more than three thousand men and women to get an Atlas-C off the ground, and it didn’t help matters much when the passengers were loafing around instead of