“Food is fuel.” I took a bite of greens and reached for my in-box.
I’d had one call while I was out. Kenneth’s chief of staff. My husband had arrived safely on the train and was in his office at the Kansas capital.
I let out a breath like a rocket venting. I am rarely grateful to be wrong, but this was a good example of such an instance. Of course, it made today’s activity worse, because that meant I had definitely had time to eat breakfast. I had assumed that Nathaniel hadn’t eaten anything at work, because, well … because I hadn’t and he looked like he’d been starving himself. I picked up a little bit of mashed potatoes, which, even in my current state, tasted infinitely superior to the dehydrated potato flakes on the Moon. They tasted fresh and earthy.
Earthy. It takes on a whole new meaning in the lunar colony.
Had Nathaniel eaten anything before arriving at our place? Grabbing the phone, I dialed the hospital and asked for Nathaniel’s room.
The phone rang three times, and then rattled against the cradle as if it were being dragged off. I had a moment of terror that I had woken him.
“Hello?” His voice, even in those two syllables, sounded stronger than earlier this morning.
“Nathaniel, hi. It’s Nicole. How are you feeling?”
“Like someone sliced me open and pulled my guts out.”
“That seems like a legitimate way to feel after someone slices you open and pulls your guts out.”
He snorted and then hissed. “This whole not laughing thing is a problem.”
He was making jokes, which was a good sign. But … he would still be groggy and out of it for days. The doctor had said not to stress him, which was making me second-guess my call. I stirred my mashed potatoes with my fork. “What did the doctor say?”
I’d structured that as an open-ended question and how he chose to answer it would tell me a lot. Nathaniel sighed. “You mean about the rat poison? Asked me if I came into contact with thallium at work.”
“Do you?”
“No.” Waiting for him to speak, I pressed the phone harder against my ear and heard his small sigh. “I just … I don’t understand why.”
“You’ve been the face of the program since President Brannan said we had to get off the planet. People are…” I caught myself before I made some sort of excuse for the person who had done this to him. “I don’t know. It’s awful.”
“No one has told Elma, have they?”
“Not to the best of my knowledge.” I hesitated, setting my fork down, and then picking it up again. “I think you should tell her.”
“It’s … It’s not a good time.”
I barked a laugh that bounced off the walls of my tiny office. “When is it ever a good time to hear that one’s husband has been poisoned and has a peptic ulcer?” I took a bite of potatoes and slid the phone receiver away from my mouth so the mic wouldn’t pick up the grotesque sound of chewing.
“Technically, I no longer have a peptic ulcer.” He sighed again. “I’ll tell her, just … just not now.”
“Listen … Nathaniel. Did you eat anything before coming to our apartment?”
“You’ve been talking to the FBI men.” The phone rustled as he shifted. “Coffee. Probably a donut at some point yesterday. I honestly don’t remember. The rocket … I was pretty focused.”
“Sure.”
“And to save you from asking the same questions they did, I take my coffee with a cube of sugar and a little cream.”
“Thanks.” I wet my lips and remembered my own sojourns in a hospital bed. “Do you need anything? I can run by your apartment if you’d like.”
“Actually … This is a silly thing, but would you mind stopping by the teletype room to see if there’s any mail from Elma?”
“That’s not silly.”
“The next part is. You know how the transmissions have garbage at both ends? Could you bring that, too? It’s … I know it’s ridiculous, but it starts transmitting as soon as she turns it on, and even if it’s garbage—it’s garbage she touched?”
Weird, but he was also understandably on a lot of drugs. “Sure. No problem.”
“And…” He swallowed audibly. “If it’s not too much to ask, there’s a copy of Just So Stories on my desk. Would you mind?”
I laughed. “When Clemons said you were trying to get people to bring you stuff from your office, I was expecting it to be schematics. A book? Gladly.”
“Oh, well, I wanted those, too, but he hung up on me before I finished getting the request out. I don’t suppose…”
“Don’t make me hang up on you.”
He laughed and hissed again. “There’s no rush, if you’re working—”
“I’m not.” I should be in a sim. “I’ll be right over. I just need to finish lunch.”
* * *
Picking up Elma’s most recent letter was easy. Not reading it took a valiant effort that most people would not appreciate. I stuck that teletype paper into an envelope and stuck the envelope in my purse and though it burned with the fire of the sun, I did not give in to my curiosity and read it.
I wish this were a thing to actually be proud of.
Letter in hand, I headed for Nathaniel’s office, which was one building over from Mission Control. There were a lot of black cars parked outside the engineering building. Some engineers milled around on the sidewalk, talking in small knots or shuffling papers in their hands. Periodically, one of them would glance toward the building, where a man in a plain black suit stood in front of the door.
As I walked up the sidewalk, the man held out his hand before I got to the door. Even behind the sunglasses, I could see him study the bandage under my chin and assign me to a lineup. He was obviously with the FBI, but I pretended not to notice his lack of subtlety. Instead, I stopped and raised an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow you entry to this building at this time.”
That explained the engineers milling about, but I wanted to know why. “I have ID. And I’m running an errand for Dr. York. Dr. Nathaniel York.”
There was a slight hitch to his shoulders when I said Nathaniel’s name. Enough to make it clear that my hunch was right. The FBI was searching his office.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t allow you in.” He spread his feet a little as if he were prepared to fight me.
This was not a man that I would be able to bluster past, so I skipped all of the tactics I might have deployed on him and went straight for escalating. “I understand. May I speak to Agent Boone then? He’ll understand the nature of my errand, I’m sure.”
“He’s not available.”
“Agent Whitaker?” Who would probably be as unyielding as this oaf, but he might be persuaded to at least fetch the book.
“He’s not available.”
I ground my teeth behind a smile. “Then perhaps you could tell me who is in charge.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m going to have to ask you to move on.” He tilted his head down and returned a smile as flat as my own. “I can’t allow you in at this time.”
“Well. I certainly thank you for your service. I’m sure everyone feels much safer knowing that you are on the job.”
Sarcasm is not always a useful response, and the man took a step toward me. “What is the nature of your business?”
“I was collecting a children’s book for a sick friend.” I turned on my heel and stalked away, because it suddenly occurred to me that I did not want to provoke this man into searching me, not while I had Elma’s letter to Nathaniel. These bastards would probably confiscate the letter for their investigation. Nathaniel had few enough comforts without losing that.
But my pride still fired a parting shot over my shoulder. “I’ll let Dr. York know that his book is not available at this time.”
NINE
THOUSANDS FLEE FLOODS
3 States Ravaged by Rain and Tornadoes Call on President for Aid
HARLAN, Ky., March 30, 1963—(AP)—Ra
in-swollen streams swirled out of the southeastern Kentucky mountains today, leavings thousands homeless and causing millions of dollars in property damage in a 20-county area. The increase in tornadoes and flooding has been blamed by meteorologists on climate change caused by the Meteor’s strike 11 years ago. The floods, which struck severely in neighboring Tennessee, Virginia, and West Virginia, came in the wake of tornadoes that left a trail of death and destruction in parts of Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia.
When I walked into Nathaniel’s hospital room, I thought he was asleep. I rose onto my toes, to keep my heels from clicking against the linoleum. I also paused for a moment and watched his chest to be certain he was breathing.
His jaw was slack and his head tilted to one side. Strands of his straw-blond hair straggled across his forehead. He didn’t look any better than he had before, but being asleep meant that some of the tension had ebbed out of his features.
The door snapped shut behind me and his eyes opened. They really were shockingly blue, the way the sky used to look on a clear day. Nathaniel smiled. “Hey.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Better.” He shifted on the bed, which was propped up a little. “I’m not sure if that’s the morphine or the surgery.”
“In my experience, the morphine is pretty good.” I set down the bags I’d brought and pulled up a chair to sit next to him. If I weren’t scheduled to leave for Brazil and then the Moon, I might have waited, but there were things I needed to say to the man, and I needed to say them in person. And, frankly, if I had waited, I probably would have found a reason not to say anything. “Look … Nathaniel.”
“Uh-oh.”
I raised my eyebrows. “That transparent, am I?”
“You’re going to make me pay for having the carpet cleaned, aren’t you?”
“Worse.” I smiled, glad that he could joke. Then I sighed and slid my chair closer. “I stopped by your apartment on the way here, to pick up some things for you.”
“Thanks.” His brows came together. “How’d you get in?”
“Please. The day I can’t talk your landlord into unlocking a door as a favor is the day I have to turn in my socialite card. But honestly, your spare key is still under the brick in the courtyard.” I shrugged. “I remembered from when I was watering your window boxes.”
“So why am I in trouble?”
“Nathaniel … there’s no food in your apartment.”
He stopped moving, even his breath stilled for a moment. “You went through my kitchen?”
“I did and I won’t apologize for it.” He hadn’t even had canned beans on the shelf. “The only thing I found was a half-bottle of milk that looks as if it’s been there since Elma left and a packet of matzo crackers.”
He swallowed and looked out the window. There wasn’t anything to see except another building. “I just moved in.”
“Weeks ago.”
“It doesn’t make sense to cook for one. Especially not with the cafeteria at the IAC.”
“Your life feels out of control, doesn’t it. With her gone? You can’t do anything for her that you haven’t already done, so—”
“Do you have a point?”
I sighed and rubbed my hand across my face. A different angle was necessary, and this was a conversation I didn’t want to have. Ever. But I had to get him to hear me. “Abdominal surgery.”
“What?” He was curious enough to look at me.
“I had an emergency hysterectomy after my fifth miscarriage.” I wound my fingers together and stared at the wedding ring with the big diamond that Kenneth had given me all those years ago. “I was far enough along with that one that we thought I might actually come to term, so technically, she was a stillbirth. Evelyn Marie Wargin. I … I still looked pregnant. After. So I stopped eating.”
“I didn’t—”
“I hated my body and I hated feeling powerless and this gave me one thing—one tiny thing—that I had complete control over. Kenneth had to have me committed.” My fingers ached from clutching them. “After the Meteor, I did it again. There have been other times, but those two landed me in the hospital.”
Beyond the windows, a streetcar clanged past. In the hall, someone pushed a cart with a squeaking wheel. I swallowed and swallowed again before I could look up. His face wore the look of pity and horror that I dreaded.
I lifted my chin and took a breath. “You have to eat. You don’t have to like it, but you have to eat.”
“I do. I just … I just get busy.” He plucked at the edge of his blanket as if rearranging it would hide how thin he had gotten. “And I was poisoned, remember.”
“Sure.” The poison was not even remotely all that was going on. “So you won’t mind if Myrtle and I stock your pantry.”
“Yes. Actually. I would resent being treated like a child.”
I wet my lips and looked out the window at the wing of the hospital opposite us. The windows there reflected pale silver sky. Pushing him would do exactly as much good as pushing me did. I flipped on my hostess mask and bent down to my bag with a smile. “I picked up Elma’s letter for you. And the garbage! Silly boy.”
“Thank you.” He rose on an elbow to take it. “And the book?”
I shook my head, digging into my bag. “The FBI wouldn’t let me into your office building, so I grabbed the one sitting on the coffee table in the living room.”
Nathaniel took the paperback of The Mile-Long Spaceship by Kate Wilhelm and his face fell. “Thanks. I was just … Do you think if I called, they might let you have it?”
“Ah-ha!” With a flourish, I produced a copy of Just So Stories from my bag. “I also stopped at a bookstore on my way here. Ta-da!”
His shoulders slumped and I didn’t believe his smile for a second. “Thank you. That’s … that’s very kind.”
“Was … was I wrong? It was Kipling, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” He accepted the book and flipped through the pages. “It’s just a different edition. I—I liked the illustrations in ours.”
Disparate pieces came together in my head. Garbage from a teletype. Specific edition. Disappointment. “Are you and Elma sending messages with a book code?”
Nathaniel fumbled the copy of Just So Stories and it fell off the side of the bed. Honestly, I don’t know how he survived poker night. “That’s—I mean. Shit.” He dropped his head back to the pillow and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Yes. Please don’t tell Clemons.”
“Darling. I think that’s brilliant.”
He laughed and pressed a hand to his side. “How did you know?”
“I dated a fellow in intelligence during the war.” More than one, actually, but that was beside the point. “So, you can’t read the stuff in the garbage without that copy?”
“I can brute force it.” Nathaniel squinted at the page. “Usually.”
“But a book code…” I trailed off, because the garbage had been mostly letters and a book code would have had numbers. Page, line, and word.
“It’s not a true book code. It’s a keyed Caesar.” He rubbed his forehead, staring at the paper, and lines etched themselves back into his skin as I watched. “We use the book to pick a different keyword each time. So the letters of the alphabet are jumbled to put the keyword at the front of—”
“I know how keyed Caesars work, Nathaniel.” I stood and reached for the paper. “Give me that.”
“What?”
I waggled my fingers. “I’ll crack it for you.”
His face turned red, which was good since that meant he had enough blood for blushing. “Oh. Um. These are … they’re kinda personal.”
“Believe it or not, your wife and I talk about a good number of things. I hope you don’t think I am so delicate as to be shocked or offended by innuendo involving rockets, thrusters, or orbital insertions.” I straightened my arm. “Or do you really think that you’re able to crack a code while on morphine the day after being poisoned and after having major surgery?”
&n
bsp; Nathaniel cleared his throat. “I … um.”
“Will Elma notice if you don’t write back and refer to the contents in the ‘garbage’?”
Nathaniel made an aggravated sigh and handed the letter to me. “But if you breathe a word of this to anyone…”
“You’ll die of mortification. I know.” I sat down in my chair and pulled a pencil out of my bag. “Men can be such delicate wilting flowers.”
(In answer to your question, I read your last letter in the garden module. While your hands were occupied with attaining maximum thrust back at home, I was concerned with calculating the appropriate angle of entry. I look forward to comparing these figures with you upon my return. Go for landing cannot come soon enough.)
Dear Nathaniel,
It’s hard to believe that we’re halfway to Mars. My biggest problem is that every time someone says that we’re “halfway” I think for a moment that it means we’re halfway through the mission, but it’s still years before I get to see you. Everything here is going as well as can be expected.
Terrazas is making noises about doing another radio play just for something to break the routine. It’s funny how much I miss hearing the radio broadcasts from Earth. Florence thinks that on a future mission we could potentially create a large array by linking the three ships in some way. It would still have the delay, of course, but it would be nice to be able to hear voices from home.
I miss you.
Love,
Elma
(I continue to be worried about Florence and Leonard. All I can see when Parker posts a duty roster is that they only get cleaning and maintenance shifts. That’s not strictly true, I suppose, since Florence does have comms, but it’s been ages since either of them rotated to any of the science parts of the mission. I would chalk it up to the FBI still causing problems for Leonard, except it’s affecting Florence, too. She wasn’t on the Cygnus with us, but they’re both members of the NAACP. What on Earth—literally—is the FBI thinking?)
When I finished cracking the code, the key appeared to be “armadillo.” I handed the translated letter to Nathaniel without a word. His face went beet red at the first part, as well it should. Not because of the content, but honestly their rocketry innuendo was embarrassing. They were married. Just say “dick” and “masturbate” like an adult. Poor innocent dears. I remember when I showed Elma my vibrator on the Moon and I thought she’d melt her spacesuit with the heat of her embarrassment. She’s adorable.
The Relentless Moon Page 8
