Read Of a Fire on the Moon (9780553390629) for Free Online
Authors: Norman Mailer
cross-country runner. Of course, since he also had the sly privacy of a man whose thoughts may never be read—what a vast boon was this to the Press!—one could, if picturing Armstrong as an athlete, see him playing end. He might, thus sly and private, be difficult to keep up with on pass patterns.
The story resided, however, with the two men who would land on the moon—it could reside nowhere else—but since Collins with a few smiles and a remark or two had become the favorite, a question and then another came his way at the end of the interview. Finally, the real question came.
“Colonel Collins, to people who are not astronauts, you would appear to have the most frustrating job on the mission, not going all the way. How do you feel about that?” The contradiction implicit in being an astronaut was here on this point—it was skewered right here. If they were astronauts, they were men who worked for the team, but no man became an astronaut who was not sufficiently exceptional to suspect at times that he might be the best of all. Nobody wins at handball who is not determined to win.
He answered quickly. “I don’t feel in the slightest bit frustrated. I’m going 99.9 percent of the way there, and that suits me just fine.” Growing up in Rome, Puerto Rico, Baltimore and Washington, Texas and Oklahoma, son of one of the more cultivated purlieus of the military grace, the code would be to keep your cool. The only real guide to aristocracy in American life was to see who could keep his cool under the most searing conditions of unrest, envy, ambition, jealousy and heat. So not a quiver showed. “I couldn’t be happier right where I am,” he concluded and the voice was not hollow, it did not offer a cousin to a squeak. Still nobody believed him. Somewhere in the room was the leached-out air of a passion submitted to a discipline. For a moment Collins was damnably like an actor who plays a good guy.
Armstrong came in quickly. “I’d like to say in that regard thatthe man in the Command Module” … pause … “of course by himself” … another pause … “has a giant-sized job.” When Armstrong paused and looked for the next phrase he sometimes made a sound like the open crackling of static on a pilot’s voice band with the control tower. One did not have the impression that the static came from him so much as that he had listened to so much static in his life, suffered so much of it, that his flesh, his cells, like it or not, were impregnated with the very cracklings of static. “He has to run Buzz’s job and my job” … static … “along with his own job simultaneously” … static … “in addition act as relay to the ground” … pause and static … “It’s at least a three-man job and”—he murmured a few words—“Michael is certainly not lacking for something to do while he’s circling around.” Then Armstrong flashed a smile. One of his own jokes came. His humor was pleasant and small-town, not without a taste of the tart. “And if he can’t think of anything else, he can always look out the window and admire the view.”
Now came a question from a reporter who was new on the job: “From your previous experience in the two and a half hours or so that you’re atop the rocket before actual blast-off, is this a period of maximum tension, rather like being in a dentist’s waiting room?”
A temporary inability to understand the question was finally replaced by this speech. “It’s one of the phases that we have a very high confidence in,” Armstrong answered with his characteristic mixture of modesty and technical arrogance, of apology and tight-lipped superiority. “It’s nothing new. It’s the thing that’s been done before,” now static while he searched for the appropriate addition, “and done very well on a number of occasions, and we’re quite sure this girl will go,” he said solemnly, pleasantly, lightly, carefully, sadly, sweetly. He was a presence
The story resided, however, with the two men who would land on the moon—it could reside nowhere else—but since Collins with a few smiles and a remark or two had become the favorite, a question and then another came his way at the end of the interview. Finally, the real question came.
“Colonel Collins, to people who are not astronauts, you would appear to have the most frustrating job on the mission, not going all the way. How do you feel about that?” The contradiction implicit in being an astronaut was here on this point—it was skewered right here. If they were astronauts, they were men who worked for the team, but no man became an astronaut who was not sufficiently exceptional to suspect at times that he might be the best of all. Nobody wins at handball who is not determined to win.
He answered quickly. “I don’t feel in the slightest bit frustrated. I’m going 99.9 percent of the way there, and that suits me just fine.” Growing up in Rome, Puerto Rico, Baltimore and Washington, Texas and Oklahoma, son of one of the more cultivated purlieus of the military grace, the code would be to keep your cool. The only real guide to aristocracy in American life was to see who could keep his cool under the most searing conditions of unrest, envy, ambition, jealousy and heat. So not a quiver showed. “I couldn’t be happier right where I am,” he concluded and the voice was not hollow, it did not offer a cousin to a squeak. Still nobody believed him. Somewhere in the room was the leached-out air of a passion submitted to a discipline. For a moment Collins was damnably like an actor who plays a good guy.
Armstrong came in quickly. “I’d like to say in that regard thatthe man in the Command Module” … pause … “of course by himself” … another pause … “has a giant-sized job.” When Armstrong paused and looked for the next phrase he sometimes made a sound like the open crackling of static on a pilot’s voice band with the control tower. One did not have the impression that the static came from him so much as that he had listened to so much static in his life, suffered so much of it, that his flesh, his cells, like it or not, were impregnated with the very cracklings of static. “He has to run Buzz’s job and my job” … static … “along with his own job simultaneously” … static … “in addition act as relay to the ground” … pause and static … “It’s at least a three-man job and”—he murmured a few words—“Michael is certainly not lacking for something to do while he’s circling around.” Then Armstrong flashed a smile. One of his own jokes came. His humor was pleasant and small-town, not without a taste of the tart. “And if he can’t think of anything else, he can always look out the window and admire the view.”
Now came a question from a reporter who was new on the job: “From your previous experience in the two and a half hours or so that you’re atop the rocket before actual blast-off, is this a period of maximum tension, rather like being in a dentist’s waiting room?”
A temporary inability to understand the question was finally replaced by this speech. “It’s one of the phases that we have a very high confidence in,” Armstrong answered with his characteristic mixture of modesty and technical arrogance, of apology and tight-lipped superiority. “It’s nothing new. It’s the thing that’s been done before,” now static while he searched for the appropriate addition, “and done very well on a number of occasions, and we’re quite sure this girl will go,” he said solemnly, pleasantly, lightly, carefully, sadly, sweetly. He was a presence