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 bébés 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 Amédée 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. “This is our stop.” The doors opened and I trotted down the steps to the street. “First, please stop calling me that; I’m not an astronaut.”
“That’s what the public calls you.” She hopped down next to me, coat pulled tight against the wind.
“Yes, but I haven’t been into space, and it’s disrespectful of the men who have.” I pulled the address out of my purse and steered us down the street.
“Whoa. Elma.” Betty put up her hands in mock surrender. “I thought you were the one who was all keen to get women into space.”
“I am, but that doesn’t mean I want a title I haven’t earned.” We were meeting the Girl Scouts in the common room at a Catholic church in a newer part of Kansas City I didn’t usually visit.
The broad streets had modern buildings with narrow windows and low, thick walls. Half of them probably had several stories below ground, in the fashion that had become popular right after the Meteor hit. Idiots. They were building for an impact that would never come. At least the floors below ground would be fairly easy to cool.
The church itself was easy to spot from several blocks away from its redbrick facade and the thrust of its bell tower. Given the number of cars parked outside, it clearly had some sort of event going on. Likely a wedding, which was nice.
Right after the Meteor, there’d been a trend toward free love as a sort of reaction to Doomsday. It was good that people were still getting married, since it meant that they weren’t as scared about the future.
On the other hand, if people were becoming complacent about the planet’s future, that was a different sort of problem.
“Don’t be mad.” Betty grabbed my arm. “Just smile. You’ve got a great smile.”
“What are you—?”
The sidewalk next to the church was filled with reporters. Sweat drenched my back and ran down my inner arms. If Betty hadn’t had a hold of my arm, I would have probably made a run for it. My stomach heaved and I had to swallow hard to keep from hurling on the spot.
“Smile, Elma.” She kept her grip on my arm and spoke through a fixed smile of her own. “We need this.”
“I didn’t even want a photographer, and you arranged this?” I wrenched my arm free, heart hitting my ribs like a punching bag. Any moment now I was going to cry, and that was monumentally unfair. I was angry, damn it. I turned my back on the reporters.
“You can’t walk away. Elma. Elma … the little girls are coming out. Elma, you can’t leave them. There’s an astronaut’s daughter here, and her daddy is in—”
“Damn it.” Mr. Lebourgeois’s daughter had asked me to come because her father was in space and she was scared. “Goddamn it.”
So I turned to face the cameras, and all the expectations, and—and eight little girls, all wearing cardboard-and-tinfoil space helmets.
“Elma … please don’t be mad.” Betty stayed by my side, talking through a smile. “Please. I knew you’d say no, and you’re so good on camera. Please don’t be mad.”