Context for readers of this chapter:

In 1969, three men landed on the moon and returned to celebrate with humanity. After being picked up out of the Pacific Ocean and sailed all the way to Houston, they were scheduled to spend three weeks in strict quarantine. At the time, science fiction writers were excited about the possibility of space plagues, and public sentiment leaned towards consciousness. Thus, the Lunar Receiving Lab and Mobile Quarantine Facility were born. In the quarantine room were five people: Neil Armstrong, a passionate leader, Buzz Aldrin, a wicked smart astronaut, Michael Collins, a hot-rod pilot, William Carpentier, the wise, old head mission doctor, and John Hirasaki, a humble engineer there to fix things and stay out of the way. The five characters get along fairly well at first— Aldrin even knew Carpentier prior to the mission— but the stress of being public figures takes a toll on them. Their first two weeks of quarantine pass uneventfully, meeting government officials, writing reports, and getting to know each other. But then Aldrin gets ill, and in an abundance of caution, Carpentier makes a tough call…

* * *

"You're big blind," I tell Buzz to get him to look up from his drink. He throws his chips toward the center without looking up. 

"Listen, if you're pissed at me, just tell me," I say.

Buzz slowly turns his chair to look in my direction. "I'm not pissed at you. I'm not. But two more weeks in here? You know as well as I do we're not sick. I just want to go home to my wife."

I sigh. "Have you read The Andromeda Strain, perchance?" I raise Buzz's ante. "An extraterrestrial virus comes to earth, kills a town, and can't be contained by the world's top scientists and endless funding."

"You forget he's also a doctor, doctor," John says as he calls. "We've all read it." 

"Then you know the risks involved. Until we can positively confirm that your cold is just that, Buzz, we're all staying in here. Believe me; I don't take this decision lightly. I want to see my family as much as any of you. But the pride I'll feel in my son's hug when I return as the scientist who protected humanity will feel a lot better than seeing him in a hospital bed. Besides, it's not too bad. As much as I love the press, there's only so much World's Favorite Doctor talk I can take. You will have plenty of time for parades. I wouldn't be surprised if they put John in a spacesuit and shove him in front of a town." 

John nods but doesn't respond. I think he's the happiest of all of us to be here. You get a special feeling when you can't wait to get to the next stage of your life, but you know this is what you live for. I haven't felt that way since high school. John, on the other hand, is fully aware this is what he'll go down for. There were four engineers who offered themselves to stay in quarantine with us. It was sheer luck that made John draw the short straw.

Neil folds two kings and leans back in his chair. "Gentlemen, I'm going to get some sleep. Y'all are taking this like champs, and personally, I'm excited to see what we'll do with our extra time together. That said, I have a bit of a headache, and we have three interviews slated for tomorrow."

"Now, now, Neil, you can't just drop a headache on me and not expect me to examine you."

Mike and Buzz call as Neil walks over to my side of the table. 

"How long has this headache been happening?" 

"It just started about an hour ago." 

"Are you drinking enough water?"

"I'm not sure. I drank three glasses today."

"Respectfully, man, what do you think he has?" Buzz asks.

"I think he has your same cold. It's possible, though, that he's infected with a moon-related disease."

"Out of curiosity, doc, what could you do if he was 'infected'?" Mike asks forcefully.

"First of all, observe him. Any disease can be solved with enough will. Take polio. For years, people thought it was a fact of life until medical science cracked the code. I have the best scientists in the world sitting three rooms over. Now, where were we? Oh, right, the flop."

"Not to get too Apollo 1 in here, but we can't leave. It'll take years for the guys out there to figure out how to cure anything we might have. For now, they can just take notes as we burn."

"Shut up, Collins," Buzz says. "The first rule of being an astronaut is don't joke about Apollo 1. You know that. Besides, you signed up for this." 

"I'm just tired of the good doctor acting like he's helping by postponing our return to society. Maybe Neil's right, maybe it's time for be—"

"All in," I say. Mike stares at me, then down to his cards.

"You know we're playing with real money? That's five hundred dollars right there. Of course, I'll call."

"Well, I fold," Johns chimes in as he leans into the action.

"Alrighty, then. You know what, how about this: if you win, keep the five hundred. If I win, though, you'll finally trust my judgment."

"If I win, call the guys outside the glass and tell them you're withdrawing the quarantine extension. I know you have them on speed dial."

"Deal." I'm a scientist by trade but a gentleman by kind. Some people only know how to listen to thrill. Reason yields to the power of a NASA astronaut. Mike offers his hand, and I shake it firmly, as a gentleman would.  

"Full house," Mike exclaims as he puts down his cards. "Let's see 'em."

Before I have time to reveal my cards, Neil falls to the ground suddenly. Mike managed to grab his head on the way to break his fall, but he's still gone down hard. 

"Neil, can you hear me? You're going to be ok." I open my radio to the medical assistance crew.

"Armstrong took a fall. He's unresponsive. I need a crew in BIG suits, stat. Starting CPR."

"Copy," I hear through the radio's fuzzy speaker, "we're sending in a team." 

* * *

"What is this thing?" A medical tech says.

Through the double-paned glass, I see a photograph of a cell. It’s a blurry black-and-white image, and that’s all we’ll get until we can incubate whatever brought Neil down. 

“More importantly, how did it not appear on any of our tests? A two-week incubation period is unheard of,” someone else comments.

"So we have reason to believe it's not terrestrial," I break to them. "Does anyone disagree?"

Silence rings out across the room.

“In that case," I say, "we can't make any assumptions about this thing. We don’t even know if it’s bacterial, viral, or something we've never seen before."

"It might not even be biochemical."  

"So then, how come only Neil was affected?" I'm a bit concerned that this singular fact is our biggest lead, but I try to stay composed. Any disease can be identified, and a clue is better than nothing. "I'll go try to wake him."

Buzz follows me down the corridor to the operating room. "It's safe to assume I'm next, isn't it? I've seen your reports, William; I know my cold test came back negative." His grim expression haunts my vision as we walk.

"Buzz, we have more questions than answers right now. For now, you're still conscious, and that's all I know."

A nurse runs into me as I reach the door. He flusteredly mumbles something about coming to find me before taking a deep breath. "Sir, there's been a development with Armstrong's condition."

* * * 

I have an office in the quarantine facility. It's a far cry from my office back at home, only containing a file cabinet full of medical briefs, a notebook, and three telephones. The first of the phones is to the quarantine management crew. I was using it earlier to talk to my support team of hand-picked doctors and epidemiologists. The second phone is my personal connection to my family and colleagues. Everyone in here has one of those. The third phone I was never supposed to touch; it routes to D.C., NASA headquarters. The handset is strangely shaped to fit around the mask of a Biological Isolation Garment. Every piece of the facility was meticulously designed over the years in case of any failure. For now, my bare face greets the Director of NASA through the line. There’s no good way to tell the world that Neil Armstrong, the American Hero, is in a coma.