It was two days after Mr. Grant had instructed me to speak with Chip Johnson, and I had made no attempt to reach out to the famous astronaut. Tara was clearly a distraction. I was also feeling some apprehension about the unusual purpose of my meeting with the national hero. But if I had any notion of dropping the matter, Mr. Grant had other ideas.
That morning, Cheryl Gordon, Mr. Grant’s appointment secretary, intercepted me. She handed me a piece a paper, “Here. I made a reservation for you and Chip Johnson at this restaurant for one o'clock today.”
“But, why? I didn’t ask…”
Initially surprised at my response, Cheryl’s features softened and a smile came to her lips, “I see… So, you didn’t know Mr. Grant had asked me to make this reservation,” she wryly surmised. “You’ll have to get used to this sort of thing. If he wants you to do something and doesn’t think you’re getting to it fast enough, he’ll just make the arrangements and let you know where to be. He’s done it to everyone. So, don’t sweat it. Just don’t miss that lunch.”
***
Chip Johnson still exuded the roguish enthusiasm of the swaggering test pilot he had been in his early career. At sixty-seven, he was as fit and nimble as many active astronauts. Though he was mostly retired, Boeing kept him on payroll for times when contract negotiations needed a little star power to win a bid.
As I greeted him at the entrance to the DuPont Circle restaurant, he explained that I was doing him a favor because it helped him keep up his “quota of power lunches that the Boeing brass keeps tabs on.”
The hostess greeted Chip by name. He flirted with her while she escorted us to our table toward the back of the restaurant. Chip sat with his back to the wall. He must have preferred that position, as his gaze frequently swept the dining room. Our lunch was interrupted several times by people he knew who came over to say hello. He clearly enjoyed being in public.
“Boeing has the right solution for managing the space station program and getting it back on track, Johnny.” I generally disliked being called ‘Johnny,’ but hearing Chip Johnson use the nickname made me feel I was part of his club. I knew Boeing was in the running to be named the prime contractor for the space station, so it wasn’t surprising he would want to talk about the project.
He had placed on the table between my cobb salad and his lamb chops a table-top flip chart and was walking me through the dog-and-pony presentation for Boeing’s proposed design and construction of the space station.
“This will be one sweet program. Now I know ther’ve been a few false starts with the station, but once the White House and Congress settle on a configuration, it should be the start of an exciting new era for spaceflight.” I was enthralled by the personal attention. That I had already seen the Boeing presentation at a recent subcommittee hearing didn’t matter. My head swelled even more when Chip mentioned how impressed he was by the quality of my questions. “I don’t talk to many Hill staffers who can get into the details at that level.”
At the same time, I detected a half-heartedness in his presentation. His words at times contradicted his body language in subtle ways. I wondered if I was the problem. After all, why would he want to waste a lunch with a junior staff like me? But, that wasn’t it. There was something about the presentation itself that seem to stick in his throat.
Chip was much more animated after he put the flip chart away and began sharing anecdotes about his astronaut and test pilot days. He clearly enjoyed having an eager audience for his stories. I was so captivated I had nearly forgotten to raise the subject that was the purpose of our lunch until it was nearly over. Chip so dominated the conversation that it became very difficult to know how to redirect our discussion.
When Chip signaled for the check, I panicked. Not only did I feel foolish for having waited so long, but the very subject matter made me anxious. There was nothing I could do at that point except blurt it out.
“Chip, I do have something else to ask…” In my hesitation he smiled and said, “You better shoot, son. You already cocked the trigger.”
“It’s something Mr. Grant asked me to discuss with you regarding the space program… Specifically, why is it exactly that you are so passionate about space?”
“Oh, yes. Seems I recall Harry mentioning that you might want to talk about that kind of stuff.” He smiled with a knowing sideways glance at me. He collected himself and seemed to mentally shift gears before continuing. “For starters, I guess you could say I’m just a country boy who always wanted to see what’s on the other side of the hill.”
“But can you explain why you’re so excited about space and what drove you to get into space program?”
His grin was replaced by a thoughtful frown, “Well, let’s see. Can’t say I get that kind of question often. But, I guess, if you’re asking me serious, I’d have to say the same thing. I just want to see what’s on the other side of the hill. Like Star Trek, you know: go where no man has gone before.
“I always loved flying planes, and pushing the edge of the envelope nearly every day. But, the space program was something else altogether. I had always had this thing about wanting to go places completely different, first where I had never gone, then where no one I knew had ever gone, then where hardly anyone else had ever gone. But somehow it was never enough. When I got the chance to be part of the space program, I just knew I had to be part of it. But, it wasn’t the test pilot side of me that wanted to go to space…it was the wanderer side. The side that just wanted to get to some other place that people had never been before. Hell, just about every place on this planet, somebody’s already been. The tallest mountains, the north and south poles, deep oceans. Somehow none of these places had the same attraction to me as space, and the moon especially.”
“So, I think I get what you’re saying,” I interjected. “Your passion for space stems from a desire to see what no one has seen before.” By this point, Chip had paid the check and we were getting up to leave. I kicked myself for putting this part of the discussion off for so long. Now, I was about to lose the chance to get what I needed from him.
“You’ve got part of it, Johnny,” he said as we walked out to the sidewalk. “I see we are not quite finished with this interview. Why don’t we walk for a bit?” I was relieved that he sensed my desire to keep the discussion going. We walked generally in the direction of the Smithsonian and the Mall.
“Yes,” he continued as we strolled, “I wanted to see what hadn’t been seen before, but I was much more excited about going myself where no one has been. You see the difference. I don’t know why that is, it’s just the way I feel.” It was during the walk that his good-old-boy banter faded, revealing a more thoughtful intellect better reflecting his Princeton education.
“Funny you bring this up. It’s the type of question I don’t get much, but in my old age, I think about quite often.” Chip needed no further prompting. A contemplative monologue took hold and easily flowed from him.
“The way I see it, it’s part of human makeup to want to roam, to wander to other places. It’s part of our curious nature, but much more. Just think where we’d be if we didn’t have this need to wander? We would have become extinct before we ever left the plains of Africa, or wherever the hell we started out. Now, not everyone feels strongly about wandering, of course. Some folk will never have any desire to leave their own backyard. We know that. But, there are always some guys, and gals I suppose, that have this urge. They were the ones who chose to go on voyages of discovery throughout history. In prehistoric times they were the scouts who searched for more fertile hunting grounds. In the Middle Ages it was the men who sailed the tall ships of Europe that braved the vast oceans to discover new lands for their kings. You can also look to the Lewis and Clark expedition across this continent. These are some obvious examples, but every age has their wandering sailors and explorers.
“You see, Johnny, we needed to have this drive to see what was beyond our vision, over the hill, on the other side of the ocean—whatever—so that we would eventually wander to every part of this planet, for better or worse. And that’s exactly what we did. The funny thing is, now that we reached the end of where we can wander on this planet, the desire doesn’t just go away. That desire is still a part of us, and without any land left to explore, we are naturally turning our attention that way,” he said, pointing his thumb upward.
“As I said, that desire to wander is a human trait that has enabled us to diversify our population geographically, which had a powerful impact on mankind’s long-term survival and growth. Sometimes we wandered to unknown regions because of necessity—scarcity of food, natural disasters, threat of neighboring tribes. Later in our evolution, the prospect of a better and new way of life was as strong a motivator. If we did not develop this uniquely human interest in wandering to other locations, we might well have irrationally stayed in one place regardless of the threats, with the ultimate result of our early extinction.”
We turned a corner and just ahead of us was the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.
He continued, “I guess what I feel is the same as what people have felt down through the ages. Whether it was the tribal villager who wondered what might be beyond the hunting grounds, or the person who lived near the water who wondered what was across the sea. Now that I think about it, it’s not so much the wanting to get to a new place as much as it is the excitement of not knowing what to expect on the other side.
“It’s like they say, I suppose: It’s not the destination, but the journey that counts. But there has to be a place, a specific place that we are journeying to. It’s not enough just to be on the road, if you see what I mean. My journey took me to the moon, and I was glad that I had that chance. But, I still feel I would have liked to have gone further.”
We arrived at the museum, and without discussion, entered the building.
“But my wandering spirit,” he went on, “is not just about me. I actually believe a lot of the NASA press releases. I know I went to the moon as a representative of the human race. Hell, I represented the whole damned planet.”
We casually mingled among the relics of the Space Age that once was. A few tourists spotted Chip and asked for autographs, but for the most part no one recognized the aging hero of America’s first steps into space.
Chip became silent. Clearly his reflections were not the usual topic for him. Whether he simply loved to talk on any subject, or he was experiencing some kind of release through this discussion, I couldn’t really tell.
We had strolled up to an exhibit that included a picture of Chip in his prime and the two other astronauts on his Apollo flight crew. He stared at the photograph for nearly a minute saying nothing.
Still gazing at the picture, he said, “When I was up there looking out the window at the Earth, really seeing the whole planet in one view, I was mesmerized. I looked and looked. And then I had the strangest experience. My whole body seemed to go numb. My head opened and expanded. I felt this unbelievable sense of connection to the planet. I felt I was the human race looking back on the world, rather than just one guy. That feeling stayed with me for a long while as I went about my duties. Eventually, I heard about other astronauts who had similar experiences. A guy even gave it a name. Frank White, I think his name is. He calls it the Overview Effect.”
He lingered in some memory for a moment before continuing. “I never felt more fulfilled--before or since--than during that time. And it wasn’t the fame or the money or the history books or any of that bullshit. In a heartbeat I would give up everything I’ve gotten if I could only be a part of that again.” He paused, and then apparently snapped out of his reverie, turning to me saying, “To be honest, Johnny, I could give a rat’s ass about the space station. Not that it’s not important. It certainly is for the all the reasons we talked about. But, we’ve been to the moon. That’s where we should be building a base, and planning trips for Mars and other interesting rocks around this old solar system. Spending billions on a tin can in low Earth orbit so we have a place to send the Shuttle just doesn’t make a bit of sense.” Then he leaned into my face and said, “And if you ever tell anyone I said that, I’ll skin you alive, son.” He laughed at my startled reaction. “Don’t worry, Johnny. It’s no fun if I’m not doing something to piss off the brass every once in a while.” We shared a laugh at that.
I attempted to tie the conversation back to my initial question. “So it’s the thrill of exploration that motivates you?”
He finally turned to me and said, “Yeah, though I prefer the term wanderer. And it’s not a thrill so much as it is the feeling of fulfillment, and the satisfaction of knowing that I was fulfilling something not just for my own gratification. That I am fulfilling some purpose for the whole human race. I’m not sure how to really communicate that.”
He paused looking searchingly into my face. Then suddenly, his signature broad smile appeared on his face. He let out a hoarse laugh and patted me on the shoulder.
“Johnny, you really got this old test pilot going there, didn’t you? I hope it all didn’t come out like a bunch o’ sappy gibberish to you. Just remember, it’s the wanderer in us that drives us to reach for the stars. See if Harry Grant is okay with that answer. And another thing: make sure he votes against that stupid Weinstein amendment.”
We made our way to curb, and with an exaggerated wave of his hand, Chip declared, “We’ll see you on the Hill, Johnny,” and he walked back in the direction of his office.
***
“I met with Chip Johnson, by the way,” I casually mentioned as I walked with Mr. Grant to the subcommittee hearing room. The hearing was on the post-Shuttle launch alternatives NASA was studying.
“Oh, good. So what did he say?” A heightened eagerness came to his voice. As I began to share the details of my visit with the astronaut, I was aware that Mr. Grant had changed our course that took us out of the Rayburn Building. It was a sunny day, and we walked over to the grounds of the Capitol Building.
“We have some time, I think. Let’s chat out here for a bit. So continue.” We sat down on a bench and I did my best to relate the main points of my conversation with Chip Johnson. It was difficult to keep eye contact with Mr. Grant, who never seemed so interested in anything I had ever said before.
“The Wanderer,” he said forcefully after a pause at the end of my report. “That’s as good an explanation as any of the Wanderer Endowment.”
“The Wanderer Endowment?...”
“Yes, this Wanderer trait that Chip talked about is an Endowment that emerged in human consciousness early in our development.” He paused to allow that to sink in. Ignoring my puzzled look, he explained further, “All species in biology are good at spreading their life in all directions that will sustain them. So the Wanderer Endowment is linked to this primal function. The difference is that in humans, this primal tendency is evolved to incorporate the cognitive faculties of our developed intellect. Once we developed the ability to think abstractly, we could conceptualize, and even fantasize, what life would be like at some far distant location, over land or across the sea…or in outer space.”
It was difficult for me to get used to this new side of Mr. Grant’s personality that he was sharing with me. His paleontological lecture on the development of human consciousness starkly contrasted with his congressional persona. Nonetheless, I was deeply drawn into the distinctions he was making.
“I can see the logic in what Chip and you are saying: the passion for space is based on the instinctual desire to wander. I kind of get that. But what does all this have to do with the saying on the plaque?”
“Before we can discuss the Obligation, you must first understand the nature of all of the Endowments.”
“All of the Endowments. How many are there?”
“Six” He smiled. My feeling of overwhelm was mixed with an intense interest to know more.
“Six? …Well, can you tell me what they are? Maybe I can look them up.”
“The best way to learn about the Endowments is to spend time with those who embody the essence of each Endowment. Chip represented the Wanderer Endowment. Spending time in his presence communicated as strong a message about the Endowment as anything he said. So if you are interested in these matters, you’ll have to meet with a representative of each Endowment.”
He paused and looked at me for a response. I can only imagine the stupefied look I must have had on my face, because after a few seconds of silence, Mr. Grant burst into a huge belly laugh.
***
I really wanted to share with Tara the plaque, the Endowments and all of it. I’m sure I would have if our relationship hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. I didn’t want the Weinstein amendment to come between us, and I know she didn’t either. In hindsight, it probably was inevitable. Our conflicting allegiances came to a head on a Saturday night, at a party she’d invited me to.
I met Tara for Ethiopian food before heading to the party, a gathering of her environmentalist friends. At first we clicked, just as we had a few days earlier. Eating Ethiopian with my fingers was a new experience for me. Playfully, she demonstrated how to pick up the stewed meats and vegetables with a piece of injera, a spongy flatbread. I followed her instructions, but still managed to drop food on my shirt and trousers, much to her amusement.
Our conversation easily shifted from celebrity gossip to the serious issues of the day. But, eventually the conversation turned to the Weinstein amendment, and that’s where things always got sticky.
“You’re just not stating clearly why we need to spend a hundred billion over the next twenty years on the space station. I mean, I have no doubt it will produce valuable research data, but how can a single research facility possibly justify that kind of expense, no matter how valuable the research?”
Our discussions on this topic always went right up to the line of argument, and we were about to go over it.
I found myself vigorously defending my position. “There are the scientific arguments, and there are the political arguments. As unsavory as it might be, the space station is an important economic driver for many states around the country. The political will is squarely on the side of continuing the program. Your coalition is strong, but ultimately, dismantling the space station budget and spreading the savings around to these other programs will not have enough of an impact to influence enough Members to go to the mat in support of the amendment.” I wished I hadn’t given a rebuttal. I could see the humor drain from her face as I drove home my stupid point.
We agreed to change the subject for our own good, but a cloud had already formed over the meal. I did my best to lighten things up again, but she seemed less inclined to join me. I had hoped the party would make things right again.
On our walk from the restaurant she reminded me, “As I told you, there will be mostly environmentalists there, so just let me know if anybody comes on too strong. Okay?”
“If I need protecting, you’ll be the first person I run to.”
The party was in a brownstone not far from my own place on Capitol Hill. It was a nicely sized group, but not too crowded. Tara introduced me to a few people when we first arrived. I was conscious of trying not to be the leechy new boyfriend following her wherever she went. So I feigned disinterest when she slipped away, while I engaged in a conversation on energy policy with a petite woman from the Natural Resources Defense Council.
A half keg was flowing on the back porch. A self-serve bar was laid out on the kitchen table. It had been a while since I had had more than two drinks in one night. The appeal of heavy drinking had worn off for me sometime in my sophomore year. But I made a serious error in judgment by going for innocuous-looking cherry-mango punch. I knew it was spiked, but I was three-quarters through my sixteen-ounce cup before I felt the effect of the extremely high alcohol content of the sweet drink. I could feel the flush in my cheeks and mild disorientation coming over me.
Kyle McAllister, the Executive Director of the CRFS, must have been feeling his punch as well. At first, I was glad to see a familiar face in the room, but within a few minutes I would deeply regret speaking to Kyle or even coming to the party at all.
“Tara tells me you’ve been in Congressman Grant’s office for all of four months. He’s been in Congress forever, hasn’t he? Like thirty years or something? Talk about job security,” he chuckled. I didn’t like that he was making fun of Mr. Grant, and when he saw I wasn’t amused, he added, “Hey, just kidding, man. He’s a great guy.” He seemed insincere, which annoyed me.
I said nothing and started to turn away, but he continued to engage me. “So John, I hear you’re working on Grant’s floor speech for the vote on the space station project,” he grinned. Seeing my surprise at this knowledge, he added, “Tara tells me everything.” He wiggled an eyebrow that suggested innuendo and I felt an irrational urge to smash him right then. “Funny that Grant would put his ass on the line to save the space station. Does he even have any NASA contracts in his district? What’s with that?”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about. We’ve got plenty of NASA contracts.” Yeah, a whopping three million in research grants at the local university, but it was enough to counter Kyle’s glib remark. “He happens to believe that the space station project is important for the country and the world. I have to respect that.”
“I hope you feel the same way when the Congress votes to cancel the program. You really should try to talk some sense into him. He’s on the wrong side of this issue.”
“I disagree.”
Kyle laughed, “Oh, don’t tell me you buy this space and patriotism stuff?” I probably didn’t, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
“Let’s just say I respect Mr. Grant’s opinion. I hope you do as well,” I said, in as even a tone as I could. Without waiting for a response, I started to walk past him.
He grabbed my shirt. “Hey, John. Don’t be like that.” For the first time his voice did not have smarmy edge to it, but it was too late. I had had enough. Reflexively, I pushed him away hard. The cherry-mango punch caused me to exert more effort than I intended. He stumbled backward into a group of partiers and spilled his drink, splashing several people and himself. He slipped on a wet spot, lost his balance and fell hard to the floor. I was as shocked as everyone else at the result of my shove. Suddenly, all eyes were on Kyle and me.
“What’s going on?” Tara had appeared as Kyle was helped to his feet.
“It’s nothing. No big deal,” Kyle insisted to everyone watching the scene. “But Tara, you should see if you can get your friend a thicker skin.” He turned to me and stuck out his hand. “Listen, no hard feelings.” But I just couldn’t immediately accept it. I still felt too much anger and embarrassment.
I looked at Tara, whose gaze was a mixture of puzzlement and disappointment. Just as I noticed her eyes becoming glassy with tears, she turned and walked quickly out of the house. As I made my way after her, I heard someone shout, “Preppy asshole.”
Tara was a half block down the street leaning on a low wrought iron fence. A tree shaded the light of the streetlamp, but Tara’s silhouette was unmistakable.
As I approached, she got up and walked swiftly in the opposite direction.
“Tara,” I called and she stopped, perhaps realizing she couldn’t anonymously slip away from me.
I caught up to her. “Tara, that whole thing back there. It was stupid. It got way out of hand. I never would...”
She held up a hand to stop me talking. She was quiet for a moment. “John, I’m confused. I want to be with you. Really I do.” She let me hold her. “But right now, with the Weinstein amendment coming up, it seems too hard. We’re clearly not seeing eye-to-eye, and that’s getting in the way. And now this…”
I felt awful. “Tara, come on. We can get through this. In a few weeks this issue will be over one way or the other.”
“Do you really think that will be the end of it? We are on opposite sides of the space issue. As much as you support the space program, I believe it’s a waste of money. Will that change?”
“Maybe not, but we can choose not to let that come between us.”
“It already has.”
“Tara?”
“Look. I need some time to think. Maybe we should cool things down for a while.”
“Tara? You’re breaking our agreement. You’re letting our jobs get in the way of us.”
“You did also, back there, when you couldn’t control yourself.” She started to cry and looked like she had more to say, but gave up. “I can’t do this now. I’ve got to go.” She abruptly turned away and headed back down the sidewalk.
I called after her. “Tara?” She ignored me as I watched her disappear into the party house.