The reporter was calling long distance and said he was taking a survey of journalists. His question caught me completely off guard.
”Are you going to apply to be one of the newsmen to go on a spaceflight?”
Go on a what?
”A spaceflight. They are going to be making applications available in a few weeks. And I`m surveying journalists in different parts of the country to see if they are going to apply.”
You mean getting in a rocket and going to outer space?
”Yes. The newsmen are going to be selected from five regions of the country.”
Well, I haven`t given it much thought. But as long as you mention it, I`ll check my schedule. If the spaceflight doesn`t conflict with a Cubs-Mets series, I`m sure I`ll apply.
”Traveling through space wouldn`t be a problem to you?”
Not at all, I said, concluding the interview.
Later, I mentioned the call to someone I`ve worked with for many years. He laughed and asked, ”Why did you lie to him?”
I didn`t lie.
”But you don`t fly. You have a phobia about flying. You`ve written about it many times.”
That`s not entirely true. I flew from Washington, D.C., to Chicago as recently as 1976.
”Sure, after somebody took you to the National Press Club, fed you 10 martinis and poured you on the plane.”
An exaggeration. It was only eight. And they weren`t martinis. Just plain vodka on the rocks, with a lemon twist for my sunshine vitamins.
”Whatever. But that`s the only time I`ve known you to fly.”
Also untrue. In 1959 I rode a helicopter to cover a story. In my youth, I rode the Bobs in Riverview six straight times without getting off. And I recently went to the 95th floor of the Hancock for lunch.
”That doesn`t exactly make you Chuck Yeager. C`mon, you`re deathly afraid of flying.”
Another misconception. I have never been afraid of flying. Flying is perfectly safe. It`s the thought of crashing that`s restricted my air time.
”I don`t see the distinction.”
It`s obvious. It doesn`t happen often, but airplanes do occasionally run into mountains, bridges, power lines, or miss runways and land in rivers, swamps, harbors or on somebody`s roof. And while I accept that we all have to go sometime, I`ve always looked ahead to passing on quietly and peacefully, in my bed, surrounded by my children and grandchildren, dabbing their eyes and looking mournful in hopes that I left them a little something in my will.
”But spaceships take off and land too.”
Ah, but they go straight up. Whoosh and they`re on their way. And they land in remote wastelands where the runways are about 90 miles long and there`s nothing to hit but a few lizards.
”Yes, but you`re going so far up, beyond gravity.”
Exactly. And what`s out there to hit? No power lines. No mountains. No bridges. No dumb birds to fly into the whatchamacallit. No tiny private planes getting in your way like a bunch of gnats. No lightning, no storms, no gusts of wind. And if a rivet falls off, it just floats there. The mechanic will just drift out, pluck it from the nothingness and screw it back on. As far as I can tell, the only thing to worry about up there might be a strange spaceship carrying alien creatures who look like calamary.
”But the question is, why would you want to do it?”
Wanderlust. Curiosity. The desire to see what few others have ever seen. I`ve been to the Wisconsin Dells. I`ve been to the Fontainebleau in Miami Beach. So what`s left?
”I believe you`re serious.”
You can bet on it. And when the applications become available, mine will be one of the first they`ll receive.
”But are you sure that when the time comes to put on the spacesuit and actually climb aboard the spaceship, you will really have the Right Stuff?”
The question is whether the people running the operation will have the right stuff.
”What do you mean?”
About eight fast ones on the rocks, with a twist of lemon.
