You, Me, We Are All Mistakes

3. INSIDE THE 1927 NASA ENVELOPE

CHAPTER 3
INSIDE THE 1927 NASA ENVELOPE

In his north London studio-flat Nelson sat with his back to the sun-drenched window as the T-shirt was dry sealing itself to his back once more.

He had used his thumb to gently open the envelope, which despite its age had loosely resealed itself. Pulling cautiously at the old glue to lift the seal, he teased out a yellowing paper containing a typed memo topped by the same faded NASA logo. He flattened the letter across his small kitchen tabletop before him and shut out thoughts of looming deadlines. He then reached for his spoon and scraped the sugary flakes from his bowl.

Behind him an over-excited competition winner begged the radio DJ to play Poison Arrow by ABC. The DJ was pleased with the choice and talked for too long over the intro as the song was cued up from the vault.

If I were to say to you...

Nelson remembered Duke had been an ABC superfan. No, no, Duke is an ABC superfan.

As Martin Fry sang this question to his radio audience about keeping secrets, Nelson leaned slightly forward and read the letter once more.

TOP SECRET 09/20/27

To: Oswald Grimaldi M.Phil, D.Sc.
Flat 2³, 22 Compayne Gardens
London NW6 3DZ
United Kingdom

September 20th, 1927

Dear Dog'2G,

I enquire as ever for our mutual amusement about the weather in London. Here in Texas, on the surface it is sunny, as it was yesterday, and will be tomorrow. And I'm sure it's the same at your home in Corsica. So, to more mundane matters. Your proposed cluster of five engines in each of the first two rocket stages has been checked, verified, and once again you are right on the mark. The utilization of high-performance liquid hydrogen fuel for the upper separation stages has also been adopted, as per your recommendation. Together they will deliver the 7.5 million pounds of thrust required to leave the Earth and deliver Hans & Greta moonward.

We need your final figures for the Command Module and LEM by the end of October to stay on-track for the May '29 target. Just twenty months to go!

Take care Dr. Dog. Love to Agnes.  Yours as ever,

Shu'6J
J. Schuger, Chief Scientific Officer
Space Center, Houston
1601 (W) NASA Pkwy

The DJ followed on with David Bowie's Changes and Nelson cleaned out his breakfast bowl, rinsing it briskly under the cold tap. He smiled, knowing that Duke would have been singing out loud with Bowie as to how time could change him, but he could never trace time.

Nelson returned to the letter.

From his childhood memory he surmised these typed words described the Saturn V rocket that had taken men to the moon in 1969. Yet the date that appeared on this letter, neatly typed twice using the American format, was September 20th, 1927.

1927!

Forty-two years before the first human stepped on the Moon.

It's a mistake. Or a bad typist. Or a fake.

Resting his chin on his thumb and biting the softer flesh on his lower forefinger, he grabbed a corner of the letter and fanned it loosely backwards and forwards.

But Duke must have fallen for it. Or discovered more. Oh I miss that guy.

Nelson then blurted out to the gas cooker:

"Duke, where the hell are you?"

Unsurprisingly no response was forthcoming from any kitchen appliance and Nelson sighed deeply.

So, who are Hans and Greta? And what's all this Dog'2G and Shu'6J? Jesus!

He could ignore the letter and envelope: name, date, address, and collectible stamps. Drop them in the bin with his empty Frosties carton and start typing his damned article for Clive. And yet they were also addressed to Compayne Gardens, London NW6, and this wonderful coincidence mildly excited Nelson since he rented his studio just a few roads away.

Did Duke know more than just this letter?

Nelson reflected back to June earlier in the year. As Duke's missing days had worn on, Nelson began to worry. Duke's father was gone, and Nelson possessed no way of reaching Duke's mother, and so tried visiting his friend's flat on random days, each time finding it dark and empty. Duke had simply disappeared.

Nelson had eaten dinner in their favourite Pizza Express, only to finish his Fiorentina each time in solitude. Finally, he called his friend's workplace – the Natural History Museum in South Kensington. A museum HR representative announced to him that Duke had quit with no notice, leaving only a brief message on their answering machine.

In desperation, Nelson's thoughts had raced towards calling the police, until he suddenly received a postcard from Cyprus, and immediately recognised Duke's handwriting. Briefly extolling the virtues of quitting everything for the Cypriot lifestyle, the card was signed off:

"See you one day, buddy."

Once again, the hairs on Nelson's arms stood up.

You're my best friend Duke, but in all these years you've never called me buddy. You hated American appropriation. Where are you? And what was that phrase you used... SETI? If only there was some easy way to look up what SETI means. Is it a word, a company, an acronym? Could it lead me to you?

Choosing to ignore this letter and his friend's last moments, instinctively struck Nelson as misguided and ran against all his inclinations. For whatever reason, Duke had entrusted this missive to him. Reading the typed address again a thought struck Nelson. He visualised a local meeting with a much older Dr. Grimaldi and proffering him the return of his long-lost letter.

If there were the remotest chance of meeting a scientist involved in the Moon landings, Nelson knew he had to leap at the prospect. He smiled as the duo of Bowie hits ended with Heroes.

I can be a Hero, just for one day.

Nelson took his cue. The shine was already dimming on his speculative journalistic career and any Monday deadlines were slipping to a fading horizon. He had been truly excited and flattered to be offered the job and accepted it in a heartbeat, without negotiation. Yet now, the only fact that Nelson was sure about himself, was he really did not like hard work. He could look on the bright side. Journalism extended him the unique opportunity to work outside of any office constraints, and the only need to wear a tie was at the weekly editorial briefings. There were even rumours Apple II computers might start to appear at his workplace. So why was he beginning to detest his boss Clive?

Beyond all of this, Nelson really missed his pal, Duke. A walk would clear his head and lighten the mood. And if he were unsuccessful in finding Doctor Grimaldi, he could always treat himself to lunch at the new McDonalds in Swiss Cottage #2.

"...Let's go!"

Nelson departed the tiny flat immediately and impulsively. Twelve seconds later he was lucky to walk back through the gently closing door to wash, shave and put on the rest of his clothes.

_____
#2 In the midst's of time, London gentry installed a toll gate, complete with keeper's cottage, on the main road leading from the City to the expanding village of Finchley. In 1806, as beer consumption began to generate far greater income than passing stagecoach tariffs, the gate was demolished and replaced by a tavern, constructed to mimic Swiss chalets of the era. The imbibing cognoscente flocked in, and the area became known by the portmanteau Swiss Cottage, partly from Londoners' imaginative apathy, and partly from their fondness towards misleading foreign visitors.