CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Mrs Phelan is concerned.

She ladles more stew onto Larry’s plate, an extra helping, fishing about for a lump of meat with the spoon. There’s a big wooden platter in the centre of the table. Kerr’s Pinks are bursting out of their skins. The platter has been dropped sometime in the past and repaired. Larry used loops of wire for the job, like stitches. He likes to fix things; you can’t see the repair now as the dish is filled with spuds, but its there and he’s proud of it. He can fix washers on leaking enamel buckets as good as the tinkers. Larry is anxious to be finished the dinner. The forecast is for rain moving in from the West in the afternoon. They gave it out on the wireless this morning. There’s clouds gathering over Slievenaman and he still has the last few tram cocks to get in, above in the Wood Field. The hay won’t be great, too many rushes, and never enough air to dry out the field, but it’s the last one to be saved for this year. He had terrible trouble pulling bouchalauns out of it earlier on. You could poison a cow with that stuff, especially if it’s dried out. But Larry knows he’s got them all pulled before the meadow grass grew. Larry is a good farmer—steady.

Mrs. Phelan is still concerned and it has nothing to do with the weather.

“Would ya slip down to the Bugler’s when yer done with the dinner and see what’s up with that dog? He has me mithered. He hasn’t shut up barking in days. Ya must have heard him yerself.. .last night. I wonder has the Bugler gone off and left the poor thing tied up without food or water? I wouldn’t but it past the man. There’s no compassion in him for beast or.. .human for that matter. It’d be an ease ta me mind if ye’d do that one thing for me Larry.”

Larry has more to be doing that feeding the Bugler’s dog. He reaches over for another potato and peels it straight into the platter. He reads her tone of voice. When she gets the bit between her teeth there’s no stopping her. She has a way of wearing him down.

She opens the kitchen window and, now that she mentions it, he can hear a dog in the distance—bark, pause, bark, pause—constant as a dripping tap.

“You know as well as I do the thanks I’ll get from the Bugler if I go pokin’ me nose into his business. We’ll have him reading the riot act outside the gate whenever he’s the worst for drink. You don’t want that. I keep me distance from that bucko and it suits us both. Ya have to be wary of the Bugler. I’m not sure he’s as sick as they say he is. He has himself killed with drink...over the years. That British army pension must be great.”

Mrs Phelan won’t give up that easy.

“We could never forgive ourselves if anything happens to him, Larry. Maybe he’s taken some class of a turn. I don’t know how you can think that he’s not sick. He’s looking terrible shook this weather. Did you see the colour of him? He’s gone yella in the face. Even you can see that.”

Larry has seen her like this before. She could wear down a stone, a constant drip on his forehead.

“Here’s the deal, if that yoke is still barkin’ when I have the milkin’ done, then I’ll go down on me bike. I’ll call in and say I’m lookin’ for a stray beast, some excuse like that. That’s the best I can do for you. But take my advice, and don’t be tempted to go down there on yer own. Nothing has changed with that bucko over the years. You may believe he’s sick and he might be older, but he’s still dangerous as he ever was… maybe more so.”

Mrs Phelan understands that that’s the best she can do, for now. She is worried about that dog, though.

Something is not right with it.

WHEN HE STEPS FROM THE HELICOPTER ONTO THE LOWER DECK OF THE HORNET, ARMSTRONG REALLY LOOKS THE PART. IN HIS GREY BIOLOGICAL ISOLATION SUIT, HE IS A MAN FROM ANOTHER WORLD. IN THE SHORT TIME HE’S BEEN AWAY, HIS LEGS HAVE FORGOTTEN EARTH’S GRAVITY AND HE WALKS LIKE A SAILOR RECENTLY RETURNED FROM THE SEA, WITH THE DECK GHOSTING UNDER HIS RUBBERY LEGS. FOUR DAYS LATER, AND HE ARRIVES AT THE LUNAR RECEIVING LAB IN HOUSTON, SEALED INSIDE A TRAILER AS IF HE HIMSELF IS A LUNAR SAMPLE, A PIECE OF ROCK. LATER ON, ON A HOT NIGHT, WHEN THEY HAVE EXAMINED, DE-BRIEFED, PROBED AND RECORDED HIM, HIS BONDS ARE CUT AND HE IS SET FREE INTO A WORLD EXCITED AND CHANGED BY WHAT HE HAD BEEN PART OF AND WHERE HE’S BEEN. HE IS MYSTIFIED BY IT ALL. IT’S AS IF HE HAS DIED AND SOMEHOW COME BACK TO LIFE. SOMEWHERE ALONG THE LINE HE MISSED HIS OWN FUNERAL AND IT DISAPPOINTS HIM THAT HE WAS NOT THERE IN PERSON TO WITNESS THE GREAT EVENT. HE NEVER GOT TO SPRINKLE HIS OWN ASHES, OR HEAR WHAT THEY HAD TO SAY ABOUT HIS ACCOMPLISHMENTS.

NIXON HAS INVITED THEM TO A PARTY IN LOS ANGELES. THE AMERICANS WON THE RACE. THE WORLD WILL CHANGE. ARMSTRONG WONDERS WHAT IT WAS REALLY FOR? WAS IT JUST AN EXERCISE IN ENGINEERING, A PISSING CONTEST WITH THE SOVIETS? WHY WOULD ANYONE GO BACK TO THE MOON? YOU WOULDN’T ASK LINDBERG TO FLY THE ATLANTIC AGAIN, WOULD YOU?

NIXON RAISES HIS GLASS AND PROPOSES THE TOAST. THE ROLLERCOASTER HAS STARTED TO SPIN. ARMSTRONG LISTENS:

IN THE AGE OF APOLLO THE WORLD HAS GONE MOON MAD. IT WILL BE A SPRINGBOARD FOR DEEP SPACE PROBES.

THERE ARE THOSE WHO ARE STILL CONVINCED THAT THE MOON CONTAINS WATER; PERHAPS FROM THE COLLISION OF METEORS, BURIED DEEP BENEATH THE SURFACE. JUST LOOK AT THE RIVER BASINS ALONG ITS SCARRED SURFACE.

BUT ARMSTRONG BELIEVES DIFFERENT. HE BROUGHT BACK BLEACHED MOON ROCKS AND A MEMORY OF A PARCHED DRY DESERT. IF THE MOTORS HAD FAILED, THEY WOULD HAVE DIED OF THIRST AMONGST THOSE CRATERS. HE REALISES NOW THAT NO ONE WAS EVER GOING TO RESCUE THEM. THEY WOULD HAVE DIED IN SPACE LIKE THE RUSSIAN DOG.

NIXON IS STILL DRONING ON AND ON, ALL NASAL TRIUMPH. VOICE THICKENED WITH PROUD EMOTION, AS HE WOULD HAVE SOUNDED MAKING THE ANNOUNCEMENT TO THE WORLD THAT THEY HAD PERISHED ON THEIR MISSION. ARMSTRONG SIPS FROM THE FROSTED GLASS AND SHIVERS INSIDE HIS UNIFORM.