The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(52)

I blinked a couple of times before I found my voice. “Me?”

“Yeah, they formed a ‘Lady Astronaut’ club. I figured they would want an actual astronaut, but … girls, huh? Kinda adorable that they want to talk to you.” He grinned, showing his dimples, as if that helped. “You’ll do it, right?”

There is no possible way to say “no” to an astronaut who is sitting atop what is, essentially, a giant bomb. Even if I spoke French and could rip the microphone off of Parker, I couldn’t decline. I smiled. “Sure. I’d be happy to do that. Just tell me when.”

Parker turned back to the mic and rattled off more French, “ Elle va le faire, mais Dieu sait ce qu’elle va parler. Les b é b é s dans l’espace, probablement. Les femmes, eh?” Then he listened for a moment before he turned back to me. “His wife is watching from the roof. If you could go chat with her after the launch, he’d appreciate it. It’ll distract his daughter while he’s in space.”

“Sure. Gladly.” The thing was that I didn’t resent Lebourgeois’s wife or his daughter, or even him for that matter. If it were me, I would be thinking of everything I could possibly do to distract Nathaniel and make him more comfortable. It was just Parker and his shit-eating smugness. Yes. Yes. He was the first man into space. Yes. He was a damn good pilot and, in fact, very brave. But he was also a self-serving schmuck. “Soon as I’m finished, I’ll head up to the family area.”

“Great.” He grinned again, all dazzling white teeth. “See if that husband of yours will tell you what’s holding us up.”

“I’m sure he’ll tell us as soon as we’re clear.” I glanced at Nathaniel, who had begun massaging his right temple. That was not a good sign. “And how’s your wife?”

Parker looked down and rolled the ball along the table. “Better. Thank you.”

That was not … that was not the response that I had expected. “I was sorry that she couldn’t make the Wargin dinner.”

“Well. Maybe next time, hm?” He cleared his throat. “You were going to check with your husband? About the launch?”

“Of course.” That was not my job. Of course, my actual job required a rocket to be launched, so I had something to track and compute. I brushed off my skirt and swung away, heading toward Nathaniel. If nothing else, it gave me an excuse to talk to him.

My husband had stopped writing anything but still gripped the pencil in one hand hard enough that his knuckles had turned white. His jaw was set. He stared at the desk while Clemons paced behind him.

Clemons saw me approach and snatched the cigar from his mouth. “What?”

“Colonel Parker had some questions for you, Director Clemons.” It was at best tangential to the truth, but he’d be better able to answer Parker’s questions about the launch than Nathaniel would. Clemons stalked off in response without actually acknowledging me.

My poor husband seemed in danger of stabbing himself with his pencil. And I couldn’t touch him. Not at work, without making everything more complicated for both of us. I stood for a moment, wishing I could rub the tension out of his neck as he nodded and grunted in response to whoever was on the other end of the line.

Taking a breath, I turned and walked back to my station. There was nothing I could do for Nathaniel, and under the circumstances, I was a distraction.

Carmouche was putting his chess pieces back into their case. He looked up as I rejoined the table and leaned in close. In a hushed voice, he said, “That Colonel Parker … he does not like you very much.”

“I know.” I tucked my skirts under me as I sat. “Helen? I’ll come to the 99s this weekend if—if you’ll promise to fly with me so I don’t have to share the Cessna with someone I don’t know.”

“ āiyō, āiyō!” Her grin of triumph did the translation, and I couldn’t help smiling back.

“Ha!” Nathaniel straightened. “We’ve worked around the automatic cutoff. Start the clock again and tell Malouf his prayers worked. Let’s light this candle.”





EIGHTEEN



ALGERIAN FRENCH KILL THREE IN RIOT



By MICHAEL CLARK



Special to The National Times.





ALGIERS, Algeria, Aug. 22, 1956—Riots flared in Algiers today as thousands of Frenchmen demonstrated during the funeral of Am


éd

ée Froger, chairman of the Algerian Mayors Federation.



He was assassinated by an anti-space terrorist yesterday.



Betty volunteered to come with me to meet the Girl Scout troop that Lebourgeois’s daughter belonged to, which was great, because I was scared senseless.



Betty was thrilled about the “Great Publicity,” and had been gushing since we’d met at my place, imagining headlines with her hands spread wide like she was cupping the words.



“Lady Astronaut Meets Astronaut’s Daughter!”



She laughed and swung on the streetcar’s pole.



“I wish you’d let me bring a photographer.”



I reached for the pull cord on the streetcar.