The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(73)

“How’s he doing?”



“Fairly well, all things considered.”



The actual answer was “poorly,” but if I was going to complain about him discussing me with my brother, I couldn’t very well go disclosing Nathaniel’s troubles.



Across the room, the jazz band struck up another tune.



I don’t remember what, because I could feel Hershel’s next question gathering.



“And you?”



His tone was too quiet.



He rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers, but he was staring at me.



I could blow off his question.



Answer it socially.



Lie.



But on the day of my nephew’s bar mitzvah, when I was sitting next to one of three blood relatives I had left in the world … I kept my gaze on the dancers, maintaining the placid smile Mama had taught me how to use.



“Remember

that semester at Stanford.”



“Yeah.”



Not needing me to specify which semester, he reached over and put a hand on my arm.



“God.



Elma.



I’m so sorry.



I’d wondered … when you talked about

Mr. Wizard.



I was hoping you were joking.”



“Twice.



Before the show.”



In this beautiful ballroom, with all of these smiling people, I couldn’t bring myself to say the word “vomit.”



My muscles were so tight they started to tremble.



I took a breath and tried letting it out again, trying to let the tension go with it.



“And before every interview.”



“And … has it—” He wet his lips.



Looking around us, in case anyone was going to approach, he leaned toward me.



“Have you tried—tried it again?”



I was already shaking my head to stop him.



“No.



I broke down, and that’s the worst Nathaniel has seen.



He knows that I had a breakdown in college and why, but not the details.



Please don’t tell him.



Please, please don’t tell him.”



“I won’t.”



He squeezed my arm.



“I won’t.



I promised I never would, and that’s going to my grave—even if that’s the worst possible metaphor I could have used.”



My own laugh surprised me.



It cut through the ballroom in a space between notes and bounced off the far wall.



Heads turned our way, but I think that all they saw was a brother and sister, sitting together while nervous giggles rocked them.



They certainly didn’t see the memory of the year that I tried to hang myself.





TWENTY-FOUR

SPEED IS KEY TO SUCCESS OF SPACE PROGRAM

By DR. NATHANIEL YORK Lead Engineer, International Aerospace Coalition, Feb. 4, 1957





TIME is the scarcest resource, and the most essential to humanity’s space efforts. Since there is no way to increase the supply of this resource, the only sane choice is to make the best use of the small and rapidly dwindling quantity available.


The contrast between the ballroom for Tommy’s bar mitzvah, which had been all baby blue plaster and gilding, and the congressional hearing rooms of the New Capitol could not have been stronger. The New Capitol stood as a testament to the austere and modern aesthetic of post-Meteor fashion, stainless steel framing squares of granite. I was there to support Nathaniel during the inquiry into the Orion 27 crash. When I got back from California, he’d requisitioned me from the computer department to help him prepare the data for the hearing. Other computers could have done the work, but I knew his shorthand.

In the two months since the crash, we had prepared exhaustive reports with a host of charts and indices, but if the congressmen asked for a number Nathaniel didn’t have, then I could supply it. At least, that was the plan.

On the second day of the hearings, Senator Mason from North Carolina scowled down from his bench. I almost expected him to have one of those ridiculous wigs judges wore in England. “Now, wait a minute, sir. Wait a minute. Am I to understand that the entire rocket program is so fragile—so fragile, sir, that a single symbol can undermine it?”

Director Clemons shuffled his papers. “No, sir. Although in this instance, it is true that we are looking at a transcription error.”

“I find that … yes, sir, I find that hard to believe, sir. I find that hard to believe.” If Mark Twain had been an idiot, this man might have been his embodiment. “I find that very hard to believe.”

One might think he found it hard to believe.

Senator Wargin, who was one of the few bright spots on the committee, cleared his throat. “Perhaps if we let them explain the equation in question.”