The Easter Bunny

I’m not a perennial optimist; I think I’m more the fatalist – what’s written is written and I don’t know what it is. On the other hand, there’s nothing wrong in acting as if things will work out. I mean, if I tell my wife I believe in the Easter bunny – well, why not? Either he exists or he doesn’t and I choose to believe. I think that is much more pleasant. But if you really cornered me, I’d have to admit reluctantly that there is no Easter bunny.

Michael Collins, p. 174 First on the Moon

“Bernie.”

“Yeah?”

“Ever listen to those old recordings?”

“Which ones?”

“Apollo.”

“The Moon landing? Yeah.”

The Hermit of Iapetus shifted in his seat and sneezed. A fine dust dribbled from a crack in the ceiling, particles floating in the Brownian motion of the chill refuge. “Not the Moon landing. That’s too dramatic. I mean the bits in between the excitement.”

“Can’t say that I have,” Bernie replied.

“You should. Did you know their air pressure was too low for them to whistle? Wally Schirra had enough air to play the harmonica, but Aldrin – he couldn’t whistle.”

“No whistling on the way to the Moon. Tragic.”

“We take it for granted,” the hermit said. He took a sharp breath – more dust shook from the crack in the ceiling – and whistled a long, sharp note.

Bernie, in the Mars/Titan express above, had to remove his headphones as the note blasted through space like an iron rock. “Mission Control probably did that on purpose,” he muttered. “You almost cost me an eardrum.”

“We’ve never met, Bernie.”

“That’s true. I don’t even know your name.”

They both laughed. Saturn joined in, buffeting their radio frequency with a burst of static.

“How do you know I exist?”

“I hear you just fine,” Bernie said.

“That can’t be enough. I could be a figment of your imagination.”

“No,” Bernie said. “My imagination isn’t this dull.”

“A charlatan.”

“Come again?”

“I could be spoofing you, Bernie. I say I’m on Iapetus, but I could be –“

“No, you couldn’t,” Bernie said. “Because when we talk – at least on this part of my milk run – there’s no delay. Communication with Earth, the Moon – there’s a delay. Noticeable, but bearable. A little less of a delay with Mars. But with you, when Saturn’s big in my window, there’s no delay. Maybe you’re not on Iapetus, but you’re clearly in the neighborhood.”

The Hermit paused.

“Clever,” Bernie said. “But you’ll never be consistent enough. I have an ear for it.”

The Hermit laughed. “Charlatans could do it,” he said.

“That I don’t doubt. But why?”

“Does a charlatan need a reason?”

“I guess not. But there is other evidence.”

All quiet on the radio.

“I have a telescope here. Just for fun,” Bernie said. “For looking at things. Sometimes when I’m close enough to a moon, the rings, or whatever, I watch. I’ve been close enough to Iapetus to see.”

The Hermit looked up at his cracked ceiling.

“Tracks?”

“Greypeace is pretty upset about it. You’re a menace to Iapetean wilderness.”

“And how do they know?”

“They’re pretty anxious to buy the pictures I take.”

“Thanks for that, brother.”

“Hey, I do what I can. I tell them you don’t actually exist.”

“You do?”

“Sure. Because I’ve never actually seen you. You hide well.”

“And the tracks?”

“Aw, they could be anything.”

There was only one path he followed regularly. The one out to the plana. The one out to Her. He balled his fist and pounded the table lightly, making the microphone dance. “How much do you get per picture?”

This time, Bernie paused.

“Bernie?”

The only sound: Iapetus itself, where the moonquakes make the sound of fresh cheese curds.

“Bernie?”

Silence. Suddenly silent as the Easter bunny.

“Sorry. Talking with Titan,” Bernie said.

The Hermit jumped at the sound.

“What was your question?”

“Never mind,” the Hermit said.