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Apollo 1, February 27, 1967
“Sour buttermilk.”
“Say again, Gus, comms are a bit glitchy today.”
“Something in the capsule smells like sour buttermilk, Wally. And get these comms working right. How are we supposed to go to the Moon if we can’t talk between two or three buildings?”
Ed White and Roger Chaffee, squeezed into their launch seats to Gus’s right, both smiled. The Boss was getting into one of his moods.
“We’re on it, Gus. Air sampling in progress, countdown on hold. Resuming hatch installation,” replied backup crew commander Wally Schirra.
“Thanks for hanging with us at the Cape, Wally,” said Gus through the static of his stuck-open microphone. “Can’t imagine Shea’s very happy about you not going back to Houston.”
“Yeah, he’s pretty pissed and off to Houston himself to narc on us, for sure. I doubt his next report to Deke is going to very favorable.”
“I been in the doghouse before, Wally, and Shea will do what he’s gotta do. You have a plan get us through this plugs-out in one piece?”
“Working on it, Gus. I think we still have electrical issues in the Block I. No way this static is just atmospherics. At the first sign of short-circuit, you call it. We found more wiring issues yesterday, and I still don’t like this oxygen over-pressure…”
The bangs and scrapes of the technicians and engineers dogging down the escape hatches temporarily drowned out Wally’s staticky response.
“Sounds like someone nailing a coffin shut,” said White under his breath.
“What was that, Ed? Couldn’t quite make out that last mumble.”
“Continuing with the checklist, Commander,” said Ed, immediately back into Brave NASA Astronaut mode. “Situation nominal, except for that smell no one else can smell.”
White smirked and Grissom frowned, wondering if this lemon of a ship was ever going to make it into space. Three minutes later, the air tests came back negative and the countdown to zero resumed.
Gus started to feel the mild euphoria that accompanied sea-level air being replaced by an over-pressure of pure oxygen to fully seal the ship. But if possible, the static over the comms became even worse, and Wally had to virtually shout his next message. “Gus! The electrics are getting worse. Gotta be a short somewhere. I’m heading up to the pad. Be ready…”
The next twenty minutes found Gus increasingly agitated. The pad techs were convinced that the communication problems were external to the Command Module. Gus was convinced that they were wrong and finally un-strapped himself from his launch couch, much to the consternation of White and Chafee.
“Gus, what the Hell are you doing?” said Ed and Roger, almost simultaneously.
“It’s got to be our wiring. This thrown-together piece of shit has got leaky seals and frayed insulation everywhere… Holy Hell, look at this…”
“AC Bus 2 over-voltage,” said White calmly, reaching up to the display to double-check the reading.
That was all Gus needed to hear. He stepped up through the crowded Command Module and opened the pressure release valve to start venting the damnable pure-oxygen atmosphere. The comms suddenly cleared enough for Gus to hear a newly indignant ground crew.
“What the hell, Gus. We’re seven hours into a plugs-out test, and you’re venting…”
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” Ed and Roger were yelling in unison as the spark Gus had seen by the Environmental Control Unit burst into flames.
“Ed, pull the hatch open! We’ll have pressure equalized in about twenty seconds!”
“It’s not budging, Gus!” Ed yelled as Roger joined him in trying to pull the plug-style hatch back into the ship. The exhaust vent was wide open, so Gus joined his crew in trying to pull the hatch open as the cabin of Apollo One filled with smoke.
“Wally! If you can hear me, kick this damned door open! Going south in here, don’t know…”
A pivot, a wedge, the tipping point between realities. Forgotten events from days and weeks ago echoed into the present, the difference between life and death. A solemn NASA team was soon confronting a difficult here and now.
Gus was walking along the gangway with a portable oxygen tank and mask, much to the consternation of the medics trailing behind him.
“Lucky thing you brought the sledgehammer, Walter, but that hatch ain’t never going to be right again,” said Gus, turning back to see smoke still floating out of the ruined escape hatch.
“We make our own luck, Virgil, but that was a close one,” said Wally, Ed and Roger following as the Apollo 1 crew walked back to their transport vehicle. “Number 1 is ruined, and the other Block I’s must be flawed too. No way we can launch next month.”
“Then get me a new spaceship, Walter,” said Gus, shooing off the med techs again. “Ed and Roger and I sure as shit ain’t walking to the Moon.”
* * *
November 1, 1967
“Mission Control, this is Apollo 5. Re-entry checklist complete, all lights green, condition nominal,” said Gus, almost bored with the excellent performance of the new Block II Command Module on this mission.
“Roger, Gus, sit back and enjoy the ride,” replied Mission Control. The Kitty Hawk will pick you up in the sunny South Pacific in exactly…”
“Sorry to cut in, Control,” said Ed White, sounding much more nervous than usual. “Are you seeing other traffic on this flight path? I have visual contact with a vehicle less than a mile north of us.”
Gus immediately unstrapped from his seat and pushed up to the nearest viewport. “I have it too, Wally. It’s our service module, in a slow spin. Must be in a lower orbit. It’s slipping ahead of us… Geez, she’s starting to break up. Will try to put some distance between us.”
Gus strapped back in and activated the Reaction Control System, but the ship was already in a plasma cloud from re-entry. It was like trying to push through a thick porridge.
“Gus, the service module has gone into a tumble,” said Ed. “It’s shedding lots of debris. We’re gonna get…”
There was a series of loud thumps, first below them on the heat shield, then another near the access hatch, the third near the docking port at the apex of the cone-shaped Command Module. And the last was accompanied by the sickening sound of crunching metal.
“Control, this is Grissom. The other vehicle was definitely our Service Module. It’s now completely broken up, and we’ve sustained at least three impacts. No alarms on heat shield integrity, atmospheric pressure stable, but the last must have impacted the parachute compartment. Chute three is off-line.”
“Gus, we’re reviewing your telemetry, but you’re headed toward radio blackout. It’s going to be a rough one, prepare for…”
Wally’s voice faded to static as a wall of yellow-orange plasma enveloped the ship. There was nothing they could do or say for the next five minutes, but Gus couldn’t help glancing down every few seconds to see if the base of the ship was melting away.
The plasma envelope around the ship slowly disappeared, but comms were still dead. The view outside was of a dark blue sky, lightening rapidly, with a thin cloud deck below.
“Deploying chutes,” said Gus as he toggled several switches. Only one of their status lights went to green.
“Control, this is Apollo 5. We have only one chute deployed, Number Two. One and Three or their actuators must have been damaged by the Service Module debris. Control, do you copy?”
“Gus, we can’t survive an ocean impact on one chute.”
“Try to think positive, Roger. Maybe it’s just crushed spines or non-terminal brain damage… I’m going to try something.”
Gus again activated the port R.C.S. thruster, and then the starboard, but in opposite directions, both z- and x-axes.
“Gus, we’re twenty degrees off the horizon! And you’re putting us into a spin. You’ll tangle the chutes!”
“Hard to tangle a single chute, Ed. I’ll reverse if one of the others…”
Almost on cue, the crunch of metal bending and grinding came from the cone of the Command Module. The view outside the ship was spinning faster, almost a full rotation every fifteen seconds now, when the distinctive sound and shudder of a main chute deploying rumbled through the capsule. Gus immediately reversed the R.C.S., and the z-axis spin of the capsule was almost zero when Apollo 5 splashed down, a bit roughly, less than a mile from the Kitty Hawk. Or so it seemed.
Ten minutes later, while Gus was calmly working through the reentry checklist, banging and muffled yells came from the access hatch.
“Open the damn door, Virgil!”
“When I’m good and ready, Walter… Ed, open the damn door.”
Ed and Roger enthusiastically unstrapped and had the new escape hatch open within seconds. They walked out into the new Simulator Room, crowded with angled projection screens and pneumatic actuators, to the hoots and applause and backslaps of a scrum of technicians and engineers. Gus exited the capsule after a suitably dramatic pause and immediately clasped arms with his old friend, Wally Schirra.
“I thought we’d finally killed you with that one, Virgil.”
Gus slapped the side of the Command Module simulator. “The Block II is a tank, Walter. If they’d picked anyone but you to command Apollo 5… I’d have been indignant. Time to learn my punishment for showing up the Block I for the piece of shit that it was?”
“I’m afraid so, Gus. Deke is waiting for you.”
Ed and Roger and Wally were soon off to Houston to complete training for Apollo 5, the first manned flight of the Block II Apollo, some two weeks hence. Gus trudged along, like a man approaching the gallows, to meet with Deke Slayton, head of the Astronaut Office. Gus was more than a bit surprised to find his wife Betty waiting for him in Deke’s office.
“Betty, what are you doing here?”
“Good to see you too, Gus, manners please. Deke and I have been having a lovely chat about your next assignment.”
“It must be pretty bad, Deke, for you to call in the cavalry. Okay, Boss, what punishment have you dished out for me?”
“It’s not punishment, Gus. Everyone gets a break from the flight line now and then. It’s just your turn for a dirt-side assignment.”
“Bullshit. Schirra is prepping for Apollo 5, and he’s been flying as long as I have.”
“Yeah, and he also didn’t say to the press that the Block I Apollo was a deathtrap, and that Joseph Shea and his low-bid contractors damn near killed the entire Apollo 1 crew. Did I get that about right?”
“Yeah, but I think I used the f-word more.”
“That’s our Gus,” said Betty with a nervous smile and clearly wanting to change the subject. “Deke, please tell Gus what you’ve lined up for him.”
“Gus, you are a lucky man. Despite your big mouth, Senator Robert Kennedy has requested that you join his new Space Exploration Panel. He wants a seasoned astronaut who the common man can relate to. Von Braun keeps coming off as an arrogant egghead. The ex-Nazi thing doesn’t help either.”
“Yeah, Von Braun is a prick, but Bobby Kennedy can kiss my big, hairy…”
“Gus! Language! This is a great assignment. You can help make sure that Apollo missions continue for years and that they don’t just cancel the whole thing once we finally land on the Moon.”
“I couldn’t have said it better myself, Betty,” said Deke. “A lot of congressmen just see Apollo as a Cold War stunt, Gus, a way to beat and humiliate the Soviets. They don’t give a damn about space exploration, and would not shed a tear if you never flew again.”
Gus sat still for a long time, and finally said, “Well, sometimes the best way through is around or over. What do you think, Betty? I know she’s not Jackie, but I hear Ethel Kennedy is a nice lady. Would you like to meet her?”
“I would, Gus, very much. I know you don’t like all the politics and publicity stuff, and you do need to watch your mouth, but people love you. You’re a hero, Gus. Folks want to see you fly again; kids want to join NASA because of you. If we do a good job of this, hundreds of them will get the chance.”
“Thanks, Betty, I’ll sure as shit need your help to do this right. Pays to marry up, doesn’t it, Deke? So, what’s next?”
* * *
June 5, 1968. The Ambassador Hotel
Wally Schirra was pumping Rosey Grier’s hand furiously. “It is a real pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grier. I’ve watched the Fearsome Foursome on TV and in person more times than I care to count.”
“Call me Rosey, Captain. And I’ve watched every one of your missions, Sigma 7 to Apollo 5, at least as much as CBS was covering.”
“It’s Wally… Rosey,” said Schirra. “And don’t bother calling this stiff Captain Grissom. Or Virgil, he’s Gus to all his friends.”
Gus just grunted, he’d gotten to know Rosey well these last six months working with Senator Kennedy and was doing the only thing that could possibly have caused him to be rude to a pair of his heroes. He was watching someone else’s space mission.
Walter Cronkite’s voice boomed over the PA of the crowded Colonial Room jammed with reporters and camera crews covering Apollo 7, the first manned mission to the Moon.
“The atmosphere here at Mission Control is tense. Frank Borman, Jim Lovell, and Bill Anders have been in the shadow of the Moon for almost an hour now. If their Lunar Orbit Insertion burn was too short, the ship has been thrown toward the outer reaches of the Solar System. If it was too long, they will crash on the surface of the Moon…”
Gus’s old friend Al Shepard was also idling in the wings of the Colonial Room, awaiting their meeting with the press. Assuming the Apollo 7 crew had survived. If not, other Important People would make suitably solemn statements.
“Relax, Gus, this crew is the best. Well, other than you and me and Wally, of course.”
“They should be out of shadow by now, Al. They’re the first humans completely cut off from the rest of humanity. No telling what could have happened back there on the farside…”
Wally walked up them after reluctantly peeling off from discussions with Rosey about the once-dominant LA Rams defensive line and the various foibles of the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo spacecraft. “C’mon, guys. I just got the nudge from the CBS guys. Columbiad is back over the horizon, all safe, but working on a big announcement.”
“I gotta bounce too,” said Rosey, about a head taller and a hundred pounds heavier than his astronaut friends as he leaned in to them. “They’ll be announcing the California primary results soon. Got to go back up to the suite to escort the Senator down for a victory speech. God willing, for all of us tonight.”
Gus, Wally, and Al moved to take their seats at the big conference table next to one of the swank new projection screens. The CBS director was nodding his head “Yes” and also gesturing for Gus to stretch it out, so he launched in with one of his prepared addresses.
“Glad to report that Apollo 7 is heading home, but we’re still waiting on voice contact with the crew, and they have even more to share with the world. NASA and the Space Exploration Panel have been working with the Big Brains here at JPL and Cal Tech, and they built the new high-resolution telescope mounted on the Columbiad Service Module. The Apollo 7 crew has been mapping landing sites on both the nearside and farside and may have captured…”
The audio and video switched back to Cronkite, who was removing his glasses and wiping his brow. “We are now back live now, and mankind is reporting from the Moon for the first time.”
The audio switched over to the crackling voice of Commander Borman. “We’re back Control, after the loneliest hour humans have ever spent. Captain Lovell has a message prepared, and we are transmitting images captured by the new JPL telescope… There’s really nothing more I can say…”
The room and screen went dark, the audio now a low static. Then a series of images began to appear: color, high resolution, but taken a few seconds apart, now flashing up on the screen like an old silent movie being projected slowly. A rough lunar surface, illuminated but at a low angle, the rounded hills and crater rims casting long shadows over the gray-brown plains of dust and rock. And then something appeared on the horizon, as a new voice, Captain Lovell’s, came over the suddenly clear comms.
“In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
“And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness…”
And then they all saw it. At an unremarkable spot on the lunar horizon, a small wedge of blue rose higher with each subsequent image…
“And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it was so. And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together of the waters called he Seas: and God saw that it was good…”
It was the Earth as no human had ever seen it before: a surprisingly small circle of blue and white, rising above the gray horizon of an alien world. Gus stood up and walked over to the big screen as if in a trance and reached over to touch the image of Earth, stunning against the inky black of space.
“That’s all of us on that little blue marble, every person living or who ever lived, except for Frank and Jim and Bill, the first humans to travel to another world.”
The crowded room was eerily quiet until Al and Wally jumped to their feet and began to applaud. And the usually taciturn reporters followed suit, clapping, yelling, back-slapping, as a few poor radio jocks tried to describe the amazing news from the Moon over the roar of the room.
Wally finally walked over to Gus and said, “That was a nice touch, Gus. I didn’t know you could do profound and awe-inspiring.”
“I have my moments, Wally, but it was all Betty’s idea. She got into a huddle with some astronomers at JPL last year and they hatched the whole scheme. I just wanted some good cameras to map landing sites. They were the ones who realized what the Columbiad was going to see.”
A couple of reporters rushed up to the astronauts for exclusives on how the triumph of Apollo 7 was going to impact future space funding, when the CBS runner leaned over to Gus.
“Captain Grissom, Senator Kennedy is starting his victory speech soon. He’s won the California primary. His staff has asked for you to join him on the stage.”
Gus usually would have declined. He was a technical advisor not a campaign prop, but he was caught up in the excitement of the evening. He followed the runner without a word and was soon in a crowded kitchen pantry that led to the big Embassy ballroom. Gus immediately didn’t like it. There were too many people milling about, quite a few not in hotel livery, and the Senator was only a few yards away. He and the runner walked through double doors to the Embassy stage area, just as Kennedy was completing his brief address…
“So my thanks to all of you and on to Chicago and let’s win there!” The Senator was smiling broadly as Rosey Grier and the campaign staff stood just a few feet behind him on the stage. Gus made a bee-line for Rosey.
“Rosey, I need your help, buddy. And where is that damned maître d’?”
An annoyed-looking man at the edge of the crowd of staffers said, “I am the Ambassador’s maître d’hôtel. I am Karl Uecker.”
“Fine, Karl, maître d’hôtel. Do you know all the employees here?”
“Every one, by name,” said Uecker, looking quite pleased with himself.
“Good man, you’re on the team,” said Gus as he turned to Fred Dutton, Kennedy’s campaign aide. “Which way is the Senator going next?”
“Well, to the Colonial Room,” said Dutton. “The reporters are already there for the Apollo 7 coverage, and they’ve requested a press event before Bobby retires for the night.”
“I’ve just been that way. The pantry and kitchen are not secure,” said Gus. Kennedy’s head of security, Bill Barry, had just pushed through the thickening crowd on the stage. “Bill, you and Fred stick here with the Senator like white on rice until you get the all clear from me. Got it?”
Bill and Fred just nodded. This was not the first time Gus’s command persona had come to the fore during his time working with the Kennedy team. “Rosey, Karl, you’re with me.”
The mismatched trio pushed back through the double doors into the pantry. The kitchen staff were standing about and clapping, having just heard of Kennedy’s victory speech, and Gus pointed to each individual in turn.
“That one? That one? That one?” Gus pointed, and Uecker nodded and whispered a name. Until they walked past a large ice machine on their right. A thin, dark-haired man in street clothes was pressed against the wall, and Gus didn’t even bother to point.
“Who the hell are you?” The young man responded by raising his right arm, a .22 revolver tightly gripped in his hand, but he was glancing about the room as if not quite sure what to shoot at.
“Gun!” Rosey yelled and leaped at the man with surprising speed for a man his size. Gus was only a few feet away, but the gunshot he heard was muffled, as if fired under a mattress.
“You shot me, you son of bitch!” Rosey yelled as he raised a fist, which came down on the stranger’s cheek like a sledgehammer. The sound of his face getting smashed was almost as loud as the muffled gunshot.
The stranger fell to the floor, and a few seconds later, so did Rosey. He was on his back, a red spot slowly expanding around a neat hole in his white dress shirt. Gus immediately leaned over and started to apply direct pressure to the wound, when Rosey said, “Small gun, big guy, Gus. But that bastard isn’t out yet.”
Gus turned to see that the young man with the smashed face did indeed still have his revolver and was trying to stand. Gus lunged at him, grabbed the gun and the gunman’s wrist with both hands, but the stranger was still moving, pushing himself up and moving to face a certain set of double doors.
Gus turned that way, and to his horror saw them pushed open. Bill and Fred were leading the way, but Senator Kennedy was close behind them, toothy smile gone for the moment, but his bushy head of hair and slight slouch unmistakable.
Another pivot, a turning, a branch. Gus felt the sick churn in his stomach as he had while fighting the fire on Apollo 1. The demonically strong stranger was taking aim at the Senator, and fired. The shot smashed the drywall above the double doors, and Gus could not shift his lowering aim…
Until a boot came out of nowhere and sent the revolver skittering across the room. At this, the imperturbable stranger finally screamed out in pain. A second boot smashed his other cheek and reduced him to bloody silence.
Gus was panting so hard that thought he was going to hyperventilate. Then he looked up to see a big kid, or very young-looking man, simultaneously applying pressure to Rosey’s chest wound while putting another big hand on Gus’s forehead, as if calming a panicked child.
“Thanks, kid,” said Gus, getting to his feet a bit shakily. “Keep an eye on Rosey. I’ll get the medics.
Gus didn’t have to wait long. An ambulance crew was soon pushing through a side entrance as the Senator’s party, now joined by hotel security, moved quickly toward the relative safety of the Colonial Room. The credentialed reporters and broadcasters there were about to get the story of the year. Fred Dutton and Bill Barry flashed Gus big thumbs-up as the doors closed behind the Senator, who was greeted with cheers and applause.
Gus yelled out to the ambulance team, which was still working a gurney through the crowded kitchen and pantry. “He’s down here! Gunshot wound to the chest, we’ve got a kid applying…”
But when Gus looked down to Rosey, the kid was gone. He immediately resumed direct pressure. “Where did the kid go, Rosey?”
Rosey’s eyes were flickering. “Didn’t see a kid, Gus…”
And then his eyes went wide, and he grabbed Gus by the lapels and pulled him in close. “But I’ll tell what I did see, can still see now… It’s like watching a movie. I can see it in my mind’s eye! You weren’t here, Gus, and we let the Senator come into this shooting gallery ahead of us. The gunman jumped out of the shadows, same one we just beat near to death, but he lunged for the Senator, shot him in the head, point blank… They killed him, Gus. We let them kill Bobby.”
For a few seconds, Gus could see it too. Just like the other horrible images he had seen in the Apollo 1, the ones he’d never mentioned to anyone, not even Betty. Ed and Roger choking to death, their spacesuits melting in the flames and heat, his own flesh blistering and charring…
“We got him now, sir,” said a med tech, shoving Gus aside while another put an oxygen mask on Rosey. They had him on the gurney in seconds and were pushing out to the ambulance seconds after that, followed by most of the kitchen staff. A second ambulance team, with a phalanx of police officers, were somewhat slower attending to the still unconscious gunman.
After an evening of crowds and noise and violence and gunfire, Gus suddenly found himself almost alone in the blood-soaked pantry after the last of the medics had confirmed that he was not seriously wounded. But Gus was so disoriented about what had and hadn’t occurred in the last few minutes he walked over to Colonial Room and was nodded in by two uniformed officers, one of whom whispered, “Nice work tonight, Gus, good thing you were here.”
The Senator was speaking from the same press conference table that Gus and Al and Wally had been sitting at less than an hour before, though to Gus it felt like years.
“…and our fervent prayers for a rapid recovery go out to Mr. Roosevelt Grier, a true friend and every bit the hero on the firing line that he was on the defensive line…”
The room erupted in cheers again, but Al and Wally had finally noticed Gus standing by the door and pushed over to him through the cheering crowd.
“You look like holy hell, Gus. Sure you’re okay?” asked Wally as Gus looked down and noticed for the first time that he was covered in blood.
“Yeah, I’m fine, Wally. You should see the other guy,” said Gus, a favorite old joke unusually pertinent this evening.
Al leaned in to speak over the rising ruckus. “The press guys are buzzing, Gus. You and Rosey are famous, even more so than usual. I’m a monkey’s uncle if you aren’t back on the flight line tomorrow. Deke might even have to give you Apollo 10.”
“First man on the Moon…” said Gus absently. “But I tell you, boys, I’d take anything. It all feels like a gift now. I gotta be the luckiest…”
The doors burst open again, a cordon of uniformed officers surrounding more of the Senator’s staff and family and guiding them into the crowded room. Gus could just make out Ethel Kennedy with two of the older children, when he saw Betty push her way through the scrum. The officers didn’t seem to mind. She grabbed Gus and held on tight, whispering in his ear. “We thought you were dead.” And then she pulled back. “I sure hope that’s other people’s blood, Gus, otherwise you’re gonna be.”
“Still dodging the bullets for now, Betty. How are you doing? And Mrs. Kennedy? It’s been a scary night.”
“Ethel is a saint, Gus, what she’s been through, what she might have gone through. What I might have gone through! Always gotta be the hero, don’t you, leaping in where angels fear to tread? What am I going to do with you?”
“No telling, Betty, but at least we get to do it together. How about we just try being stupidly famous for the rest of the evening?”
Betty smiled broadly and grabbed Gus’s hand. They walked up to the front of the now ridiculously crowded Colonial Room, to the hugs and handshakes of Kennedys and astronauts and reporters and well-wishers. Gus and Betty did get to be stupidly famous together, and not just for the rest of the evening.
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AUTHOR BIO:
Zachary Taylor Branch is the pen name of a semi-retired scientist and consultant, enjoying the good life with his wife Nancy in Lorena, TX. He is also supporting community resilience, food ministry, and immigrant support efforts in and around Waco. His short story “The Nerine Seven” was published in Alien Dimensions Anthology Series #26, https://aliendimensions.com/, “The Gateway” is included in the B Cubed Press Southern Truths anthology, https://bcubedpress.wordpress.com, “Little House on the Ecliptic” is included in the Oddity Prodigy Bright Mirror anthology, https://www.oddityprodigy.com/, “Mrs. Brown’s Day” appears in the Harvey Duckman Presents anthology On A Different Tuesday, https://harvey-duckman-is-alive.ghost.io/happy-harvey-tuesday/, and “Fermi’s Cat” was published in Blue Planet Press Far Futures Book Four, https://blueplanetpress.net/far-futures. His grown kids David and Elise are too far away, pursuing careers in art therapy and medicine. Gory details on his fiction writing, and some pending sales, are included on his blog, www.zacharytaylorbranch.com.
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WHY WE CHOSE TO PUBLISH “Our Gus”:
Author Zachary Taylor Branch presented us with an interesting what-if story combined with an alternate history. What if Gus Grissom hadn’t died in the fateful Apollo I fire? What might he go on to accomplish as a result?
In this well-researched piece, the author takes an imaginative dive into one possible outcome beyond saving his life and those of his fellow astronauts. What makes this story work for us is that it not only delivers a satisfactory ending, but it also leaves the reader wondering where it could go next based on already changed events. Is this the foundation of a novel?