The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(19)

“Ugh.” I gestured toward the kitchen, where the Lindholms had left the lights on. “There’s some chicken and potatoes, if you haven’t eaten.”

“You are a goddess.”

“You really are a terrible Jew.” I laughed and pulled him into the kitchen.

He dropped into one of the chairs with a groan, sliding forward to rest his head on the table. “Elma, I don’t know how much longer I can survive these meetings. I keep saying the same thing over and over. Thank God that the UN’s been called in, or there’s no telling where we would be now.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I pulled the refrigerator door open and found the plate I’d prepared for him.

He straightened. “Actually … yes. If you have time.”

“In abundance.”

“Do you think you could calculate the size of the meteorite?” His voice broke a little as he asked, and he had to pause to stare at the table.

Normally, a question like this would have gone to his colleagues at Langley. I pretended to busy myself with the plate to give him time to recover. We both tended to break at odd moments, and the tears were exhausting. Sometimes the best course was to pretend it wasn’t happening.

Nathaniel pressed his lips together in a dry grimace that tried to masquerade as a smile, and cleared his throat. “I figure if I know that, I can show that there’s no possible way the Russians could have moved it.”

I put the plate in front of him and kissed the back of his neck. “Yes. I’m presuming you can get me government charts.”

“Just tell me what you need.”

It’s funny. I’d been helping Myrtle with refugees all week, but since they kept coming, and each group was in worse shape than the last, it had felt like nothing had changed—like I made no difference in the world. I kept wondering why I had survived. Why me? Why not someone more useful?

I know. I know that’s not logical or reasonable, and clearly I was helping people, but … but the jobs I was doing could have belonged to anyone. I was an interchangeable cog.

Calculations? This pure abstraction of numbers belonged to me. This, I could do.





SEVEN





CIVIL DEFENSE TO USE “HAM” RADIOS


PHILADELPHIA, PA, March 17, 1952—To coordinate relief efforts after the Meteor strike, civil defense agencies are using various types of emergency communications equipment to transmit messages in the disaster area. In addition to the customary telephone, officials are employing portable radio transmitting sets, “walkie-talkies,” Army field telephone equipment, and amateur “ham” radio sets. These will be carried in cars manned by volunteer operators who will set up a secondary means of communication.

I worked on Nathaniel’s calculations in the evenings. It helped to have the solace of numbers to retreat to after helping with the refugees during the day. Today I had served soup to a group of Girl Scouts and their scout masters. They had been on a camping trip when the Meteor hit, and by sheer luck had been spelunking in the Crystal Caves. They’d felt the earthquake and thought it was disaster enough. Then they’d come up and everything was just gone.

So, numbers. Numbers were a solace. There was logic and order in the calculations. I could take disparate events and wring sense from them.

The other place where I found order amid the chaos was in the kitchen. It had taken a week before Myrtle would trust me in the kitchen, and another couple of days before I convinced her to let me make dinner. Now we took turns.

Was the kitchen kosher? Not even a little. Ask me if I cared. I opened the drawer next to the sink and rummaged through it until I found the measuring cups. Tonight I was making chicken potpie.

The filling simmered on the stove, scenting the air with the savory aroma of butter and thyme. In some ways, making pastry was like mathematics. Everything needed to be in proportion in order for the mass to come together.

I walked over to the refrigerator, glancing into the living room. Myrtle sat on the couch with her feet up on Eugene’s lap. He was rubbing them while she sipped from a glass of wine.

“… nothing you can do?”

“I’m sorry, baby. I’ve tried.” He grimaced and bent his head as he rubbed a thumb into the ball of her foot. “But I can’t go where they don’t send me.”

“It’s just … plane after plane of white folks. Where are our people? Who’s rescuing them?”

How had I not noticed that? I stopped with a hand on the refrigerator and ran through the refugees in my head, willing myself to see one spot of color amid the masses.

“You know what would happen, even if the brass were to send us to our peoples’ neighborhoods. Say we pick them up, and then what? Our people would be put in different camps.”

She sighed. “I know … I know. I’ll bring it up in church. See if we can get a relief effort going ourselves.”

Measuring cup still in my hand, I walked over to the kitchen door. “Excuse me.”

Myrtle looked around, and as she did, it was like a mask had slipped over her features. She smiled. “Do you need help finding something?”

“Oh—no. I just … I couldn’t help overhearing. Do you—do you want Nathaniel to talk to someone?”

Eugene and Myrtle exchanged a glance that I couldn’t begin to understand, and then he shook his head. “Thank you, ma’am. I think we’ve got this.”