 July 24th, 1969, Tape 7024, Apollo 11 air-to-ground voice video transcript. Monitor, but we can make out a fair amount of detail. 413-2228, LMP. Okay, will you verify the position? The opening I ought to have on the camera. 413-2234, CCM. Standby. 413-2242, CAM. CDR moves down the lander's ladder, descending toward the lunar surface. 413-2248, CCM. Okay, Neil, we can see you coming down the ladder now. 413-2252, CAM. CDR pauses, then climbs back up to the ladder's first rung. 413-2259, CDR. Okay, I just checked getting back up to that first step, Buzz. It's not even collapsed too far, but it's adequate to get back up. 413-2310, CCM. Roger, we copy. 413-2311, CDR. It takes a pretty good little jump. 413-2325, CCM. Buzz, this is Houston. F2, 1-1-60th second for shadow photography on the sequence camera. 413-2335, LMP. Okay, 413-2336, CAM. CDR once again descends the lunar lander's ladder, arriving at the final rung. 413-2338, CDR. I'm at the foot of the ladder. The LM foot pads are only depressed in the surface about 1 or 2 inches, although the surface appears to be very, very fine grained. As you get close to it, it's almost like a powder. Down there, it's very fine. 413-2340, CAM. CDR pushes back from the lander's ladder, easing down towards the lunar surface. 413-2343, CDR. I'm going to step off the LM now. 413-2345, CAM. CDR makes contact with the lunar surface. 413-2448, CDR. That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind. 413-2456, LMP. Wait, what? Tape 7024, Apollo 11, air-to-ground voice video transcript. 413-2505, CAM. CDR commences to slowly walk along the lunar surface. 413-2512, CDR. And the surface is fine and powdery. I can pick it up loosely with my toe. It does adhere in fine layers, like powdered charcoal to the sole and sides of my boots. I only go in a small fraction of an inch, maybe an eighth of an inch. But I can see the footprints of my boots. And 413-2521, CAM. LMP emerges from the lander module and descends toward the lunar surface. 413-2523, LMP. Neil, can you repeat your previous transmission to me? 413-2528, CDR. And the treads in the fine sandy particles. There seems to be no difficulty in moving around as we suspected. It's sorry, Buzz, come back. 413-2532, CAM. LMP makes contact with the lunar surface. 413-2538, LMP. Repeat your previous transmission to me? 413-2543, CDR. About the surface texture? I said, 413-2549, LMP. Negative. Repeat what you said when you touched down on the surface of the moon. 413-2553, CAM. CDR stops moving along the lunar surface and turns to face LMP. 413-2555, CDR. I said, one small step for a man. One. 413-2558, CAM. LMP approaches CDR. 413-2602, LMP. No, you didn't. You said, one small step for a man. You left out the A. 413-2608, CDR. Buzz, we just landed on the moon. I don't think it matters whether I and no. For your information, I did not leave out the A. 413-2615, CAM. A large figure can be seen approaching from the horizon, approximately 15 meters from CDR's position. 413-2617, LMP. Yes, you did. I heard you. You left out the A. Tape 7024, Apollo 11 air-to-ground voice video transcript. 413-2622, CDR. I did not leave out the 413-2628, CCM. Neil, this is Houston. We didn't hear an A down here. 413-2633, CDR. Houston, stay out of this. 413-2634, CAM. The figure is now approximately 10 meters away. It appears humanoid. 413-2637, LMP. Look, we'll just do it over. 413-2640, CCM. Guys, this is Houston. 413-2642, CDR. Do it. Are you? We can't do it over. It's done. We landed. My footprint is already there. 413-2646, CAM. The figure is now 5 meters away. It can be identified as a bronze full-body deep-sea diving suit. Its design is notably bulky and antiquated. 413-2648, CCM. This is Houston. Come back. There's some sort of 413-2654, LMP. We'll dust it out. 413-2701, CDR. What? No. No, for Christ's sake, no. This is history in the making. We have accomplished what no other human being has ever done. We have set foot on the lunar surface. We're not doing this over. There are no do-overs on the moon. 413-2717, CAM. The figure is now directly behind CDR and LMP. It proceeds to forcibly shove both astronauts aside and climbs up the lander's ladder. 413-2720, LMP. What the? 413-2725, CCM. This is Houston. Come back, Neil. Come back. Are you all right? Come back. 413-2730, CAM. The lander door closes. As LMP and CDR recover, the lander initiates its lunar liftoff sequence. 413-2732, CCM. What the? just happened? Transcript of a recording of a telephone conversation between Gene Kranz and on July 20th, 1969, from 421pm EST to 425pm EST. Kranz. Hello? Hello? Kranz. We have an emergency. Two of our- Kranz. Fine. I don't care about your plan of action, though. What matters right now is we've got two of our boys on the surface of the moon, and some goddamn lunatic just stole their module. Kranz. I- what? Did he- no, he didn't look like- why would you ask if he looked like a- are you saying- are real? And there's- there's one on the f***ing moon? Kranz. And you didn't think that was something you should have briefed us on before we went there? Kranz. Fine. Whatever. I don't care. How do we get our boys? Kranz. Okay. Good. Okay. Thank you. Thank you. Kranz. Yeah, we can, but we won't be able to recover it. And I don't think there's enough fuel left to- the orbit will eventually decay. I think- one sec. Let me check. Kranz. Jesus Christ, okay. Okay, fine. I don't know how you're going to- but I guess that's above my pay grade. And yeah, I just checked my notes. We can do it, but the orbit won't be- Kranz. Yeah. I'll brief them personally once you've brought them back, and the orbit won't be stable. Whatever that thing is, it won't stay up there forever. Kranz. You got 50, maybe 60 years before it drops back down, and it's gonna drop hard. Kranz. Yeah, 60 years. Give or take 10. So, you know, make sure you archive that somewhere. 60 years. Give or take 10. Later. Somewhere in New Jersey. It's 3 a.m. in a waffle house. Adam Saxon sits alone in a booth with his complimentary glass of fluoridated tap water. He pretends to read the laminated menu while observing the restaurant's six other patrons. An elderly couple snuggling in the corner. A trucker at the counter. Devouring a steaming pile of eggs, bacon, and naked waffles. A trio of exhausted teens in ratty clothing. None spare Adam so much as a glance. For this occasion, the retired intelligence officer wears his least conspicuous head. A blind man with sunglasses and a face wrapped in linen. Adam is particularly proud of the nose. He sets the menu down to quickly adjust it as the door jingles. Jeremiah August is a short, slender black man in a dark suit. His hair is trimmed down to a dense layer of short charcoal curls, and his face is full of piercings. Once he reaches Adam's booth, he removes the jacket and neatly folds it over an arm. He then gracefully slips into the seat across from the ex-agent who was called him here. Mr. Saxon, I presume. August speaks like a fencer. Each syllable is a jab. Each paws a faint. Adam finishes tweaking his nose. Yeah? Why did you call me? Adam leans back in his seat. The cushioning's plastic sleeve squeaks under him. You're gonna make me say it. Humor me. I worked in the foundation's counterintelligence division for over 20 years, son. I know when I'm being tailed. August lifts a pierced eyebrow. Really? Adam feigns a sigh. Fine. He gestures. Eldly couple in the back. They're good. Too good. Nobody's that sweet on each other at this hour in a goddamn waffle house. The trucker hasn't touched a thing beside his plate. No salt. No pepper. No butter. No syrup. Not even ketchup. I've yet to meet a night-holer who doesn't drown his eggs in ketchup. And the teens. I look like I'm on my way to a casting call for the invisible man, and they haven't so much as snickered. The eyebrow creeps higher. Adam continues. Not to mention that, for the past 15 minutes, I've been pretending to read this menu, despite clearly looking blind. Waitress didn't even ask if I wanted one in Braille. As for this water, he nudges the glass toward August. I'm guessing what? Some new experimental amnestic? Nanotech maybe? Something you think will work on me. August looks at the glass. Then back at Adam. He tilts his head. There's no ice. Adam explains. They always add ice. He folds his arm across his chest. So, yeah. That's why I called. To ask you straight to your face. What does the foundation want with this old washed-up field agent? August taps his lip piercing against the front row of his teeth, pondering. With a feeling grace, he takes the glass, brings it up to his lips, tilts it back, and gulps it down. Once finished, he returns it to the table with a sharp clunk. Then he fluxes a paper napkin out of the nearby receptacle and dabs his nails. Adam stiffens. Okay. So maybe I was reaching with the water, but Mr. Saxon, August folds the napkin and sets it down. Despite being the man's senior, Adam's chest constricts beneath the weight of that flat, merciless tone. Are you familiar with the phrase, wilderness of mirrors? He doesn't reply. Counterintelligence officers are trained to recognize patterns and identify threats. Every shadow can hide a dagger. Every smile a plot. Every cup a drum of poison. In the world of espionage, perceiving agency behind seemingly random occurrences is what keeps you alive. But out here, in the wilderness, it's just paranoia. This isn't. The elderly couple is just affectionate. The trucker just has terrible taste. The teenagers are just polite. And I doubt the waitress even cared enough to notice that you are pretending to be blind. Adam leans back farther, his shoulder slump. You mean that no one's tailing you? No. So I just called a senior foundation official to a waffle house in the middle of the night for no good reason? Yes. Hi. F**k. Jesus. F**k. Adam wishes he could rub his temples, but the paper mache is far too brittle to risk it. F**k. Something that might resemble sympathy flickers over August's face. I've reviewed your file, Mr. Saxon. Your performance was exemplary. Prior to your, uh, incident, you were a highly valuable asset, but now you're retired. This is a time for you to enjoy the fruits of I need to work. That shred of sympathy gives way to an ocean of cold conviction, not an option. You said you reviewed my file. That means you know what I did, what I gave up to keep working, to keep serving the foundation. August lips pull into a thin dark line. On behalf of the foundation, I commend you for your sacrifice. That being said, we cannot. Adam lunges over the table and seizes him by the collar. This motion is sufficient to dislodge the ring of glue around Adam's throat. The paper mache bust wobbles over his neck like a life-sized bobblehead. F**k your commendations. I gave you f**ks everything. And all I'm asking is a chance to go back to work. The elderly couple draw their service pistols from each other's holsters. The trucker pulls one out from under the counter. The three teens lift theirs over the table. The waitress kicks open the kitchen door, lifting her binelli and four semi-automatic shotgun, cocked and ready. Seven fingers curl around seven triggers. Seven barrels. Aim for Adam Saxon's heart. No one speaks. No one moves. No one even breathes. Adam's prosthetic head continues to wobble. Eventually, it bobs too far to one side, peeling free from the metal pedestal at his neck. It hits the floor with a flump, then dribbles away. Site director Jeremiah August regards the space where the ex-agent's head used to be. Adam's neck ends with a flat metal cap. A six-inch steel rod extends out from its center with a small metal sphere at the top. Release me, Mr. Saxon. The headless ex-agent lets go. He sinks back into his seat. No tail, huh? August stands. Straightens his collar and gestures to the other patrons. They lure the weapons. August then follows the path of the loon-wrapped bust, halting its roll with a tip of a well-pulled shoe. As I said, no one has been tailing you. But when a retired foundation field operative calls and demands a late-night meeting at a waffle house, one is inclined to take precautions, particularly when it's an operative with your reputation. He retrieves the prosthetic head, then returns it to Adam. Adam reluctantly accepts it. He slides it back down on the rod, making some rough adjustments. The head no longer fits right. On top of that, he's pretty sure the nose is ruined. Okay, I'm sorry. That was... Perhaps we can find something for you to do. August interrupts him. Nothing like your previous work, I'm afraid. We can't have you involved in anything sensitive. But if you just want something to keep your mind occupied... Anything. Adam's voice quakes. I'll take anything. Given your comprehensive knowledge of the foundation's history, I think I know just the place for you then. August retrieves his folded coat from the seat, slipping it back on. Tell me, Mr. Saxon, what do you know about the archival division? Somewhere along the coast of North Carolina. So, we think in Moon Wizard, the veteran agent crouches and shakes her hand. Not his style. The three foundation agents are crammed into the cargo bay of a refurbished Shin-Meiwa US-1A, an amphibious propeller-driven rescue plane that resembles an ugly boat with grotesque delusions of flight. It's landed close to the beach, where the contents of its bloated gut can now be examined, catalogued, and discharged. Said contents consist of the charb remains of Apollo 11's command module, a compact dome. It was designed over 50 years ago by a generation's brightest, most brilliant minds to handle the catastrophic force of an atmosphere smashing into it at over 25,000 miles per hour. Someone has split it open, like tinfoil, from the inside, with their bare hands. Looks like it was in a decaying orbit, the vets says. She leans in to examine one of the strips of chrome that have been peeled back, exposing the cramped interior space. Must have snatched it off the moon back in 69. Wait, what? The second in command makes a face. He's a mountain of a man, a plump, silver-bearded viking with more hair on his chest than his head. The skin on his hands is like tanned, corded leather. How the hell don't I know about this? I saw it on the news. I was just a kid, but I'd remember seeing someone jack their ride. The vet is short and wide. Not quite as wide as the second in command, but it's close. And mostly muscle. Her dark, sleeveless top leaves her biceps bare. They're thick and scarred, with red, fractalized scars that branch out from her shoulder and wrap down to her wrists. She tilts her head back and throws in the grin. How do you think? The second in command scowl deepens. Are you f***ing with me? Um, the newbie is a young man with russet skin and dense, tightly curled charcoal hair. He's got on a black leather coat with a satchel over his shoulder and carries himself with all the dignity of an over-excitable puppy. Can we rewind a bit? You said moon wizard? You're telling me we actually fake the moon landing? Like a real wizard? Wizards are real? No, the vet replies standing up. She wipes her hands off on her trousers. Moon landing happened. They just reshunt the footage. Wizards are real and one lives on the moon? For f***'s sake. Yes, kid. The second in command throws his hands up. Santa Claus is real. The tooth fairy wants to eat your teeth and there's a f***ing wizard on the moon. Can we please move on? He turns to the vet. Why was the moon landing reshunt? The vet shrugs. Beats me. Razor doesn't have any documentation on it. That's why they sent us the second in command size. Fine. So what do we do? Not our department. She turns and examines the wreck. Just notify Razor and send this hunk of junk off to the archival division. Somewhere in the Atlantic. A massive figure, encased in an ancient deep-sea diving suit, stands on the ocean's floor. Long, tangled strips of seaweed trail behind it, rolling back like ribbons of silken hair, caught in a lethargic breeze. Intrigued, a great white swims close. Like most sharks, it investigates the world through its mouth, so it decides to take a tiny, curious bite. Half a minute later, the two jagged halves of the shark's sundered corpse lay behind, as the figure trudges silently through a cloud of viscera and blood. Straight on ahead, like a slow bullet, toward Britain's coast. End of file. 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