HOUSTON—“Ah, Thirteen, Houston,” I said into the mic as the alarms blared and the screens on the wall showed an image of a badly damaged Apollo spacecraft floating slowly away into the void.

“Go ahead, Houston,” came the scratchy voice from the doomed command module.

“Ah, Thirteen, we’ve got some bad news and some good news,” I drawled, playing up my East Texas accent and trying to imitate the pure laconic coolness that I’d been hearing in tapes of air-to-space communication all my life.