The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(67)

Don joined me in leaning on the counter. “You’re a natural at this.”

I barked a laugh. “There is nothing natural about television.”

“Heh. No, I suppose not.” He loosened his tie and beckoned me to walk off the set with him. “Still. You make math seem interesting.”

“Well, it is.” I shrugged. “Oh, I know it isn’t for most folks, but I think they’ve just been put off by people who taught them to be afraid of numbers.”

“That’s a nice perspective.” He held the door to the soundstage for me so we could head into the labyrinth of hallways back to the dressing rooms. “Did Nathaniel stick around?”

“He was watching from the control room.” He might still be there, in fact, watching them wind up the loose ends.

“If you ask me, the IAC could do worse than create a show with the two of you—like The Johns Hopkins Science Review, but for space.” Don paused at the door to his dressing room. “Say, how long are you two in town?”

“We’re flying home tomorrow.” I was not going to even remotely address his idea of me hosting a show. About the only comfort I could derive from the suggestion was that I was doing an adequate job masking my terror.

“Well, if you don’t have dinner plans, why don’t you join me and Maraleita?”

“That would be lovely, but we’ve got a date with Adler Planetarium.” I shrugged ruefully. When Nathaniel had manfully not suggested heading over to check in on the astronaut training program, I made the offer. “It’s supposed to be a mini-vacation, but we’re both working.”

“Next time, then.”

I kept the smile on my face as I said goodbye, and managed to make it down to my own dressing room before I started shaking. Next time. This was never going to stop. I shut the door and sat down on the little couch. Nothing bad had happened to me. I was fine. 3.14159 … Leaning forward, I rested my head on my knees and let the wool of my skirt cocoon my face.

My dear lady, your body is not supposed to react to stress in this way.

I needed to pull myself together before Nathaniel got back from the control room, or he would worry. I was not sick. I was fine. Deep breaths. Slow, deep breaths, pushing past the knot of tension in my abdomen. 2, 3, 5, 7, 11 … The show had gone well. Don was pleased. I hadn’t been eaten by bears.

Someone knocked on the door. I sat up fast enough that the room grayed a little at the edges of my sight. Wiping my eyes, I pasted on a smile. “Come in!”

Don opened the door. His face was tight, and worry pinched his brows together. “Elma … you’d better come with me. It looks like Nathaniel has gotten some bad news.”

The room went cold. I moved from sitting to standing at Don’s side without a transition. “What sort of bad news?”

“I don’t know for sure.” He led me down the hall. My hands were numb and I couldn’t feel the floor. I think I knew, even before he said it. “But on the radio, they’re saying that a rocket exploded.”





TWENTY-TWO





PROPANE IS URGED TO END BUS FUMES


Air Control Head to Ask City to Use “Bottled Gas”

CHICAGO, IL, Dec. 4, 1956—Dr. Leonard Greenburg, City Commissioner of Air Pollution Control, asserted yesterday that the use of propane gas, familiarly known as “bottled gas,” could eliminate noxious fumes from buses. These fumes are said to contribute to the alleged “greenhouse” effect caused by the Meteor. However, the mayor of Chicago questioned whether such an overhaul of the bus system was really necessary.

In the writer’s room, there was a long table with chairs for ten people. Nathaniel sat alone on one side of the table, hunched over the telephone. He had a hand pressed over his eyes as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. A broken pencil lay on the table in front of him.

When I came in, he didn’t look around. Don pulled the door shut behind me. My heels were unnaturally loud as I crossed the room, and still, Nathaniel kept his head down.

“Yeah … if you have the altitude, the computers should be able to tell you how much propellant was left.”

Pulling out a chair, I tried not to let it scrape against the linoleum. I sank into it with a rustle of crinoline. I lay a hand on Nathaniel’s back, to let him know that I was there, I guess. As if he hadn’t heard me. His back was rigid and soaked with a cold sweat.

“No, no—I understand. But—right. It will at least tell the firefighters how bad the burn is going to be.”

I could just barely hear the person on the other end of the line. Someone from the IAC, I presumed, and probably Director Clemons.

“Oh. Oh, I see.” He sighed and bent his head even farther down. “No. We can’t account for fuel on the farm itself.”

My heart stuttered. Farm? The flight path of the rockets was carefully calculated to not pass over any towns or farms. From what Don had said, I thought the rocket had exploded on the launchpad. That happened in tests, but not with proven rockets like the Jupiter class.

“Right. Yeah … Elma’s done, so we’ll head straight back.” He nodded, pulling the base of the phone closer. “Mm-hm. I understand.”

Then he hung up. He sat there staring at the table, or maybe with his eyes closed. I couldn’t tell which with his hand still shielding his eyes.