The Trove

Author’s Note: I love NASA and space exploration. Such fertile ground…

Phil Smith traced a finger along the arm of the leather sofa, variables playing in his head. He and Alan Talcott had worked on many projects, from the lunar colony to in-space ship design and maintenance. But they had never faced a problem like this before.

As always, Talcott called for tea and settled into the chair beside him.

“How’s Mikey? Jana?”

“Jana’s good,” Smith’s mustache twitched, but he didn’t look up. “Starting high school next year. Mikey’s in his second year at MIT.”

“Not Caltech, huh? Chip off the old block.” If they had been closer, Talcott might have offered a gentle nudge on the arm, but from his appearance, Smith might burst into tears if he did.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Chip. Yep.”

“Which one got your green thumb?”

“Jana. She’s tending the garden for me.”

Talcott settled into the tense silence of Smith-in-a-bad-place. He had seen it before; he knew to wait it out, to give Smith all the room he needed. But after Jesse delivered the tea, they had no excuses.

“I can see you’re not yourself, Phil. You ready to tell me why you requested this meeting?”

Smith sniffed.

Talcott poured a cup of tea for each of them. “Science or personal?” He dropped a sugar cube in his, tinking the cup with his spoon. He noticed a new liver spot.

“Both,” Smith’s choked reply caught Talcott by surprise.

“How so?” He pushed the plain tea toward his lead scientist, who opted instead to hand him the first of the two folders he had brought. While Talcott commenced his customary page rifling, Smith sipped at his tea. Today the shuffle stopped early.

“Your team analyzed the sample five times?” Talcott’s mouth hung open, a foreign expression on his hard Roman features.

“Uh huh.” Smith focused on the pair of prints hung opposite: Trouvelot’s The Great Comet of 1881 and El Greco’s Christ Carrying the Cross. He noticed Talcott shift uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye.

“And each time they had the same results?”

“It’s in the report, Alan.” 

Talcott reached for his tea. The clatter of cup and saucer revealed a tremble Smith hadn’t noticed before. The mission director sipped loudly as he absorbed the contents of each page.

Twenty minutes later, Talcott had reviewed the report twice without uttering a single syllable or asking a single question. When he set the report down on the coffee table, he appeared steady as ever.

“So who knows about this?”

Smith feared this question most. 

“The sample analyst—”

“Names and titles, Phil. Please.” Talcott pulled out his phone. The question made Smith cringe.

“Enrique deFuentes, sample analyst. Myself. Dan Blenski, instrument and science—”

“Why’s Blenksi involved?”Talcott’s face turned red exactly when Smith predicted it would.

“Because we asked them to send over the full range of photographs from the collection site.”

“Full range? Infrared? GPIR?”

Smith nodded.

“Those the images?” He nodded to the other folder. Smith picked it up as if to protect it.

“Let’s see then.” Talcott held out his hand.

The images from Perseverance IV were undeniable. 

“My God,” Talcott kept muttering. “How can this be?”

Smith finally exhaled, surprised at how long he had held his breath. He needed to pee. “We kept asking the same question. That’s why we had to get the images.”

“I wish you hadn’t,” Talcott laughed. “You should’ve just come to me.”

“But we didn’t know for sure what we were looking at.” Smith tensed up again. “We didn’t do anything wrong, Alan.”

“I know, I know.” Talcott muttered. The second folder joined the first, and he sat there with his head in his hands.

“Thank God for NDAs.” he finally said.

Smith had begun playing with the leather arm again. “You really think the NDAs will stop everyone?”

“Damn well better.” Talcott jumped up and began pacing. Smith was relieved to see him break into problem-solving mode. “I want you to gather the data. All of it. Anything not in my possession needs to be handed over immediately. You and Blenski advise anyone who worked with that data to turn it over. We’ll have Tech Services wipe the machines within the hour. I need everything contained.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“It’s gotta go up, doesn’t it? Director. NASA HQ. Then probably the White House.”

“The White House? But the guy doesn’t even believe in science.”

“No, he doesn’t. But about forty-nine percent of the electorate does. And that’s who we have to keep this away from.”

“The other fifty-one doesn’t bother you?” Smith scratched his bald pate.

“They’re mostly conspiracy theorists, Phil. Non-thinkers. Hmm.”

“Alan?”

“Just go. Get everything sorted out with your team. Quick as you can.”

Smith quickly slipped away. Talcott grabbed the files and settled back at his desk, told Jesse to get Blenski on the line, and reviewed the materials. Fossilized human remains. GPIR imaging of a million year old graveyard. On Mars. All of it on Mars. He paused in front of the El Greco print.

“Not sure if you’re irrelevant or what,” he said to Christ, who looked upward, blood trickling down his forehead and neck. Talcott waited. “Yeah, didn’t think you’d answer.”

Weeks later, when the anticipated leak on Blenski’s team occurred, Public Relations solved it the best way possible. They reposted it on social media from multiple fake accounts alongside articles and images from the old moon landing hoax, Area 51 rumors, and the Roswell incident. That Roswell was celebrating its UFO centennial only made it easier for the public to buy. 

Soon the journalists stopped asking for statements. The President and the Pope ignored requests for comment. Only the tabloids carried it—to NASA’s advantage.

Talcott watched it unfold from his office. Once a day he would stop in front of the El Greco. He kept a mahogany box on the cabinet beneath it. The box contained a signed mission photograph from the ill-fated Artemis Colony I, his wedding ring, and the data Smith and Blenski had collected. A trove of painful reminders. Blenski’s image analyst hadn’t been the only loss on the mission.

“Phil?”

Talcott caught up with his former lead scientist in the hallway, trudging out with a box full of personal effects. “How are you?”

Smith wore a blank stare. “Fine,” he said. “Just fine.”

“Want to stop by my office?”

“No, no,” Smith insisted. “I’ve got to get home. Things… to do. Gardening, you know. I just want to grow things. Tomatoes. Cucumbers. Lettuce. Lettuce is predictable.

Talcott pulled him aside. “You don’t have to do this, Phil. We need you.”

Smith shook his head. “No. No. I signed the NDA long ago. It’s alright. I’m just going to garden now. Take care of yourself, Alan.”

The mission director watched the defeated man disappear around the corner, then made his way to the newly-emptied office. Everything had been removed save a rosary, the cross left face down on the desk.