However, a train load of propane gas had the bad taste to derail near Galveston and there's a whole town that just might blow up.
Now I really hate to interrupt your meteoric career with something so plebeian as a legitimate story. Driving your car into water and claiming it wasn't your fault. You occupy your time with tips from people who never existed. You never seem to have enough time in your busy schedule to stoop so low as to cover a story. They cover mundane stories like wars and trials and hearings. They spend a lot of their time checking little things. The small fact that the man had been in a mental institution at the time never deterred you, not 'Scoop' Caulfield. Not by telling me they've located Patty Hearst three times like you did or that brilliant piece of investigative journalism you pulled off by finding an eye witness to the second gunman in the Kennedy assassination. Woodward and Bernstein were good reporters, that's how they did it. You think the way to get ahead is to come up with the scoop of the century.
Now, we're getting to what they call the moment of truth. What's 16 years? Your actual drop in the bucket! All right. Congress has its excuse, the President still has his desk, and we have no more program. So, all I have to do is report that and scrub the mission. You guys would all be dead in three weeks. We found out two months ago it won't work. Except they made a little bit too much profit. And guess what! We had a screw-up! A first-class, bona-fide, made-in-America screw-up! The good people from Con-Amalgamate delivered a life-support system cheap enough so they could make a profit on the deal. After all those hopes and ll that dreaming, he sits there, with those flags behind his chair, and tells me we can't afford a screw-up. You have my every good wish." His every good wish! I got his sanctimonious Vice-President! That's what I got! So, there we are. They're looking for a reason to cancel the program. He sat there two months ago and put his feet up on Woodrow Wilson's desk, and he said, "Jim. Was it really worth 20 billion to go to another planet? What about cancer? What about the slums? How much does it cost? How much does any dream cost, for Christ's sake? Since when is there an accountant for ideas? You know who was at the launch today? Not the President. After all, what's a walk on the Moon? But reruns! Oh, geez! And then suddenly everybody started talking about how much everything cost. Reruns, for Christ's sake! I could understand if it was the new Lucy show. You know when Apollo 17 landed on the Moon, people were calling up the networks and bitching because reruns of I Love Lucy were cancelled. I remember when Glenn made his first orbit in Mercury, they put up television sets in Grand Central Station, and tens of thousands of people missed their trains to watch. Both bright and talented wise-asses, looked at me in my wash-and-wear shirt carrying on this hot love affair with my slide-rule, and even you were caught up in what we'd done. Willis, you and Walker, you came in about then. And then Armstrong stepped out on the Moon, and we cried. Captain Terrific and the Mad Doctor, talking about reaching the stars, and the bartender telling us maybe we'd had enough.
You looked at me and said, "yes." I remember when you told me Kay was pregnant. I told everybody about this dream I had of conquering the new frontier, and they all looked at me like I was nuts. And me, all sweaty palm and deadly serious. You looked like you just walked out of a Wheaties box. Bru, how long have we known each other? Sixteen years. I have to start by saying that if there was any other way, if there was even a slight chance of another alternative, I would give anything not to be here with you now.
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