The Astronaut Hall of Fame is dim and cool, reverent, sedated, quiet, unpopulated. Space suits are surprisingly small, fitted close over nondescript white plastic mannequins. The Gemini capsule sits tilted up, encased in thick clear plastic, the smallest of crafts in which to curl up and fly. The Apollo 14 Kitty Hawk craft is encased too, keeping me from rubbing my hands over its filthy underside. Although I am sure the light gray crust covering the rounded bottom is residual Houston dirt, I pretend it is moondust, stick my face close to the seams of the casing, breathe it in.