David Crocker had been on the moon for three hundred and eighty-four days when he stopped talking. He’s been waiting, in silence, ever since. We don’t know why he’s gone quiet, or whether he’s kept himself sane in the three years since, but in half an hour I will be the man to find out.

We first met back in 1965. NASA was starting up the Gemini launch program, and both Crocker and I were in the reserve astronaut pool. It was hard for us guys, because we got to see our friends shoot up to the sky, and we had to wait in our own little social circle, separate from them. The mission places were completely assigned, and there seemed little chance we would be getting a flight. In addition, the pilots that had gained all this experience in space would be the most likely candidates for future lunar flights, which meant that we were looking at lower and lower possibilities for a flight. Then, the thing we all secretly feared most of all happened.

It was a beautiful blue-sky morning, on March 16, 1966, when we all watched the Gemini-8 spacecraft launch into the vast sky above. Within six hours it had made the first ever in-orbit docking, linking in space with a specially-designed target, but after the two craft had been docked for only twenty-seven minutes, a problem surfaced that forced the pilots to abort. A short-circuit in the manoeuvring system forced fuel to be thrown out through one of the capsule's thrusters. They didn’t know exactly what was wrong, but the effects were immediate. Just seconds after the malfunction, the mated spacecraft began spinning rapidly as a result of the pressure being released through the faulty thruster. The two craft were hastily undocked, but Gemini-8 began to spin even faster after undocking, till it spun every second.

The astronauts should have manually disabled the thrusters and activated the re-entry control system, do anything to stabilize the craft which was quickly spinning out of control, but they both immediately succumbed to severe motion sickness, and became totally disorientated. The mission managers listened in desperately to the increasingly faint signal, unable to make the changes that were needed. Somewhere on the craft, the momentum of the spin shook loose a piece of the thruster piping, and in a moment, the whole engine system vaporised as the entire fuel reserve exploded. Command Pilot Neil A. Armstrong, and Pilot David R. Scott were both killed instantaneously.

The entire US space program was thrown into disarray, and the Saturn V development program stalled completely, as the entire weight of NASA’s investigative power was thrown behind trying to improve the safety on the Gemini rockets, and it couldn’t have come at a worse time. Not only were the Russians ahead of us in the development of the large-scale rockets needed to launch a mission to the Moon, but they had also set every space record that had then been achieved.

Both Crocker and I were part of a set of the pilots in the reserve pool who were taken aside and put through exhaustive psychological profiling. For days on end we were locked in rooms alone, given no space, forced to eat repetitive food, drink stale water. Even the air was vapid and sour. We didn’t know what they were planning, but even if we had, I doubt any of us would have pulled away. We were the reserve pool – we had barely any chance of getting into space before the disaster, now it looked impossible. It quickly became clear that the Russians, seeing their advantage, were pushing ahead fully in their plan to land on the Moon. They had already test-fired their N-1 rocket four times, and in the last test, it had worked perfectly. They would launch the first manned test flight in less than a month, and were less than a year away from a full attempt at the reaching the moon. The US was nowhere close, was looking at the humiliation of another defeat in the space race, a sully on the memory of Jack Kennedy. We were their secret weapon.

They had always hoped to reach the Moon with a three-man team, two of whom would land on the surface, then return on a small craft that could make the descent back into Earth’s atmosphere, but this needed exactly the kind of rockets that only the Russians now had. The secret program that both Crocker and I were unaware we had been placed in was the desperate last throw of the dice to get us there first. There would be no return journey, and only one pilot. He would be launched on an adapted Gemini rocket, and fly solo to the moon, dig himself a hole in which to hide from the intense radiation, and wait for the continually launched re-supply ships to replenish his air, food and water, wait for the second-phase rockets to be designed, tested, built and flown, to bring him back home. We trained hard, kept away from the other astronauts, never knowing what they had planned for us.

The turning point came in 1968, when the Russians' three-stage rocket blasted clear into orbit, and made the first test of Earth re-entry in the command module. It was now clear that, barring a disaster in the Russian program, there would be no way for America to make the first return mission to the Moon. Our group was called into headquarters that very morning and told what we had been in training for all this time. One of us would be sent out. Crocker was the primary choice, I was their second, based on our responses to the psychological testing. There was so little time that we wouldn’t even make a manned test flight of the rocket. We had weeks before the Russians landed.

And so we were launched into the media frenzy, and became the heroes we’d always dreamed of, overnight. We had a crazy week before the NASA organisation closed in around us, and swallowed us up in intense pre-flight training. By this point, as lead and reserve pilot, Crocker and I had been moved away from the rest of the boys, and put into our own quarters. I had an uneasy feeling of fear in the pit of my stomach, because I was only going to fly if Crocker’s rocket failed, and that meant that if I flew, it would be on a ship that had only flown once, and had died in the process. Crocker was a real talker back then, one of the untouchables. He hadn’t shown any fear at all; he had the advantage of knowing he would be flying on a ship with a 100% safety record. That’s why it took me by surprise on the evening before our flight out, when he looked up from his food and asked me a question.

“John, if I make it, and I get stuck up there, you’ll come and get me home, right?”

I was totally stunned. I nodded slowly, as my mind raced. “David, they’ll come. You’ll be out there for a time, but they’ll have to bring you home.”

“I don’t trust them. We’re reserve pilots, we’re even more expendable than the top guns. I want you to promise me. Even if they lose contact with me, even if I go silent, you’ll come for me.”

I paused, as he chewed his food. “If you go silent, I’ll be the next one up.”

“Not if I made it to the Moon. Once I’m there, the record is set. Promise me.”

There wasn’t anything else to say. “I’ll do everything I can to be the one they send to bring you home. I promise.”

We finished our meal in silence, and then went out to our separate bunkrooms. That was the last time I saw Crocker; he was moved out early to the launch pad, and I moved through to launch control to act as the CAPCOM, the primary communicator between Crocker and flight control once the rocket had achieved lift-off.

To the secret amazement of everyone involved in the mission, the launch was a complete success. The world stopped to watch as the slender rocket creaked and groaned its way into the sky. It flew straight and true, it flew with deliberate measure straight towards the Moon. I guided Crocker up there, my promise secretly whispering to me every time he spoke. For three days, I guided him to the Moon, and on the fourth day he arrived, and that was the last time I spoke to him, the last time we had any contact at all. Mission control took over for the descent, and I was shuffled off back to my quarters alone, to sit and wait, and hope beyond hope with mixed emotion, praying he would make it, while the whole time a treacherous piece of my black heart wished for him to fail, so I could make the journey myself. It was a day to be remembered, October 14, 1968. The day man reached the Moon, and settled in to live on the Sea of Tranquillity.

The faded pictures of his landing are remembered, no matter how blurry they were. There was no room on the flight for any advanced cameras, so the first steps were recorded on the landing altimeter. Crocker didn’t have time to play around; he had to start digging in. An unmanned rocket had already delivered a supply payload relatively close by, and he had to get into the position where he could start to transfer the essential resources into his main systems. It was the beginning of an arduous fight for survival, with only enough food and water for two weeks, and air for a month. He lived so close to the edge, there was no time to make pretty pictures, no time to do much of anything. The public were waiting for the excitement of a true American hero, but Crocker didn’t even have the time or equipment to say hello. The Russians were outraged that we had beaten them to the Moon in what they saw as such an underhanded way. They made sure that when their first attempt reached the Moon, they carried full-colour cameras, and a high-gain antenna. We all watched in awe as they danced in the dust, and very quickly, the American public began to forget who had made it to the Moon first, or that he was still there, slowly struggling himself an existence amongst the supply capsules that arrived every month.

Even once he’d managed to connect everything up, mission control kept him as busy as they could, coming up with scientific experiments and technical checks so that he wouldn’t be left to start thinking about his predicament. Weeks turned to months, and Crocker slowly, inextricably withdrew himself from the news and business of Earth. His responses became clipped, following orders but not showing any interest in the world beyond them. His banter had faded away, so that he rarely responded to anything with more than a grunt. Then, one day, he just stopped talking. The radio remained open, the systems still flickered with activity, but he never responded to any call sign. He stopped being David to us, and slowly developed his own identity as Crocker the crazy Moon man. Mission control tried anything that they could think of to try and get him to talk, but he stayed silent.

The years dragged on, as Russia landed with more missions, started to plan their first base. They even managed to land a crew on the far side of the moon, by having a relay-satellite to link the radio. Our research for the heavy-loader rockets was moved up the pace, an attempt to produce the Saturn V as it was originally planned, and to develop it further. The Moon had become an embarrassment to the government, but they couldn’t afford the potential backlash of cancelling it and abandoning Crocker; instead they had to justify the cost by pushing onwards. All eyes turned to Mars as the next target, and the Saturn VI super-heavy-loader was pushed into advanced production, in order to enable the US space program to gain what people would see as an honest victory.

Most of the astronauts in the primary field were transferred to the psychological training and testing the reserve pool had undergone years before. It put us all in a primary position – we were now the best-trained astronauts in NASA’s fleet, ready to face the ultimate goal of reaching Mars, and the months of isolation that go with it. All except me. I hadn’t forgotten my promise, given without thought, which now checked me. I had prime position for the Mars flight, and I had to turn it down. It made the perfect trading card, that I would give up my place on the trip, the chance to be the first man to stand on another planet. It hurt me, but as much as everyone tried to convince me otherwise, as crazy as Crocker had become in our minds, his promise called to me, ensnared me. I would be the man to command the first, and perhaps the last Saturn V flight to the Moon. Another one-man mission, but this time with a lander that could launch and return to Earth with an extra passenger.

And so, I have finally gotten to fly out into space, caught by an old promise in a capsule four days from Earth, running the technical stats through my lunar module control console one last time. The Moon is huge, ranged beneath me, its cratered surface slowly changing from the limits of a definite object to the faded horizon. My head is running the show, making my fingers flick all the switches in time, but my heart keeps turning over the journey that has brought me here.

The Sea of Fertility sails beneath me, and I can see the crater forms that mark out my landing space beneath me. The guiding system kicks in, the module computer correcting to aim me to a designated land site only a couple of hundred meters from the original touchdown site. The monitor flickers, and then the engines slowly fire, starting my gentle turn towards landing. I turn to check my suit, and ready myself for walking out. Mission control expects me to take my time, but there’s no way I’m sitting there like a dead duck, so I’ve already linked up my external suit. The limited space I have is cramped, but I’m almost ready.

I feel the engine buck and look out. I hadn’t realised how close I’d gotten to landing, the Sea of Tranquillity and fields of craters lost beneath the rim of a large crater. I check my straps, then the landing computer. Everything is in order. I silently count down in my head. Six, five, engines fire full, three, two, brace.

Contact. I feel the wind crushed out of me by the force of the impact. I look up, out the window at the grey dusty ground. I confirm my arrival to mission control, and briefly wonder how few people witnessed my landing, compared with Crocker’s, compared with the Russians. I seal my helmet, pull on my gloves, and switch to the suit's systems. The pressure-lock seals behind me, opens in front, and there in its glorious beauty lies the Moon. I look over the nearest ridge, and see the metal stacks created from the multiple supply canisters. I jump down, and move slowly towards it. I’m shocked at the extent to which Crocker had developed the base. Each ship flown out had been designed to lock together, in case they were needed, but the designers had envisaged three or four interlocked. I can see at least twenty of the modules all connected, some half buried, some completely covered in grey dirt. Some of them have been twisted and contorted into bizarre shapes, some have jagged symbols cut into them; a giant set of sculptures and art. I walk slowly around, looking for an entrance, looking for some sign of life. I call up Mission Control, and they direct me to the original lander, which shows signs of continued presence. It looks worn, battered, even though in the airless lunar environment it should have remained pristine.

I find the air lock, activate the mechanism, and squeeze my way in. I feel the door closing and sealing behind me, and wait for the air to pump in around me. After a couple of minutes, the door in front of me opens, and I walk through into the small galley. I can hear a rustling noise coming from the far end of the capsule. I check the atmospheric conditions, and break the seal on my helmet, pulling it off.

“David? This is John Friel. I’ve come to take you home.”

A figure emerges from the corner. His hair’s long, his beard matted; his eyes look tired, and somehow cold. He approaches me carefully along the short corridor, coming up close. I can barely recognise my old colleague hidden in this shell. He looks at me quizzically, his brow furrowed. He blinks, then closes his eyes. As if all his strength has been drained, he slumps to his knees in front of me. He leans forward, and reaches around my legs, hugging me. I can hear him sobbing, as I pull off my gloves to comfort him. What can I say to a man so broken? I just run my fingers through his hair, trying to calm him. He looks up into my eyes again, tears streaming down his face, trying to speak, trying to form words that have long stopped coming. I smile, out of sadness, but also out of joy, because deep in this moment, I can see the spark of David Crocker, buried, trying to get out.

“David, I’ve come to take you home.”