Harold had a minor heart attack last Tuesday.

He’s going to be fine, the doctors say. He’s 56, slightly overweight, doesn’t exercise enough — all the predictable risk factors, none of which Harold has ever been interested in addressing. He’s in the hospital for a week, then at home recovering for six weeks, then back to his life. The cardiologist expects a full recovery.

I went to see him on Thursday. He was in a hospital bed looking annoyed at the tubes and the schedule and the food. Edna was sitting next to him, working on a crossword, clearly having resigned herself to being present for his annoyance.

Harold asked me, after the usual pleasantries, if anything important happened with the space program while he was in the hospital.

I thought about it for a moment. Skylab 2 launched successfully in May, I said. The parasol repair worked. The crew is conducting solar observations and doing well.

He nodded slowly. “That’s the one with the broken wing,” he said.

Yes, I said.

“Good,” he said. “Glad they fixed it.”

He closed his eyes and was quiet for a moment.

“Andrews,” he said, without opening his eyes. “You’ve been watching this thing for sixteen years.”

Fifteen and a half, I said.

“You think it was worth it?”

I said I did, without hesitation.

“Why?” he said.

I said: because they went. Because twelve men walked on the Moon and came home. Because the pictures showed us the Earth from the outside and it looks like something worth taking care of. Because the whole enterprise showed that when you commit to something hard and work at it honestly, you can do impossible things.

Harold was quiet for a while. Then he said, “Okay,” and went to sleep.

Get well, Harold. I need you for whatever comes next.