CHAPTER FIFTEEN
There was always a moment of disorientation in the limbo between slumber and wakefulness. Sometimes, in that moment, he was back in the Manhattan tenement, huddling in bed and listening to Momma and Papa arguing in the kitchen. Sometimes he was next to Stork Davis under the thin orphanage-issue blankets. Or in a hard bunk in the bowels of an aircraft carrier just hours from flying out on a hot mission. Or lying on a heap of dirt and dead leaves in the corner of an enemy hooch, with his hands tightly manacled behind his back and the mosquitoes feeding mercilessly on his torn and sunburned flesh. Or curled around Beth, which was worst of all.
Today he was in his narrow bed at the Academy. He could hear the soft whistling noises that Dave Heeley always made when he was dreaming. Al grinned lazily and opened his eyes.
When he realized that the sound was coming from a lissom, unclothed woman lying with her flame-colored head on his bare chest, he awoke with a start. She had to get out of here! He was on his last warning, as usual, and if the drill instructor caught him with a girl in the barracks it would be so long Calavicci!
Then he realized where and when he was, and he settled back with a contented sigh.
The dryad stirred a little and murmured something in her sleep. He stroked her hair, brushing it away from her face as his drowsy mind tried to recall how they had come to be in this position. What was her name, again?
The last bright tresses were pushed away, and he took in the familiar tanned face of Elsa Orsós. Now he remembered. She had come to bawl him out for resigning, and they had wound up in bed. Oh, boy, had they wound up in bed! He had had some wild nights in his time, and yesterday was right near the top of the list!
He grinned and brushed his lips along one of her exquisitely pruned eyebrows. Funny how the feminists were often the most cosmetically preoccupied. He glanced at the clock radio. It was not quite five-thirty. Of course, they had retired awfully early…
He wondered if she'd be interested in a little encore—and then decided against it. She'd probably want to start at square one, with the dance of hostility followed by the explosions of rage and the screaming and the attempts at violence. He didn't think he had the energy to go through all of that before breakfast.
His pride that he was aware of the fact that his stomach was snarling was quickly overshadowed by the guilty realization that he hadn't had any supper yesterday. Or much lunch, either, after that final humiliation in the cafeteria. Oh, well. It didn't matter anymore.
He slipped out from under Elsa and went into the bathroom, passing scattered bits of clothing along the way. He rubbed the back of his neck as he started up the shower. It had been great, but what was going to happen when she woke up?
While he washed, Al found himself reliving the argument that had culminated in the excessively impassioned encounter. Elsa had been furious because he'd resigned from NASA—why? Why did she care? Given their track record of animosity, Al would have expected her to be delighted by the news of his imminent departure.
Much more important than niggling questions about Elsa's motives, however, was the fact that she was right. Al couldn't give up. He had to fight. If he just walked away he would never forgive himself. He was finding it hard enough to pardon yesterday's weakness. Oh, well. Crawling to Yardley, eating his words and begging for his place back, would surely be penance enough.
The shame and despair of yesterday had fled with the exhaustion, and Al knew he couldn't give up. It was just like it had been over There. Quon could break you, make you wail and scream and beg for death, but when the torture was over and the agony abated a little you had to bounce back so that if he wanted to make you obey, or answer his questions, he would have to start all over again. That was how it worked. Sometimes you broke, like he had done yesterday, but you just had to bounce back. And he would. He was going to do whatever it took. If he had to bare his black soul to Mortmain, if he had to go grovelling to every administrator in the organization, if he had to eat six meals a day he would do it. He was going to qualify for Apollo 20. If he didn't make it, it wouldn't be because of anything he had failed to do.
Al turned off the shower, got out of the tub, and started to grapple with his hair. The mirror slowly lost its fog and his reflection melted into being in front of him. Damp, disobedient dark hair that grew tamer with each swipe of the blow-dryer. Brown eyes that were neither as bright nor as mirthful as they once had been. A face, still handsome but bony now, the cheekbones standing out against the skin and the temples faintly shadowed. No wonder Ana Fefner had recognized him and Mark Carpenter hadn't. He looked much more like the underfed, angular orphan than he did well-muscled, athletic Bingo.
His eyes travelled down to the prominent collarbones, once again mirror images of one another, and then to the ribs. They could still be easily counted, and he could watch his pulse in the twitching of his sunken stomach. Ugly scars marred the skin: some smooth, some puckered; some long, some broad, some short, some narrow, some faded to almost-invisible white, some still brilliantly tinged with red, some made by knives, some by whips, others by rubber or bamboo or nylon ropes, some even made by surgeon's scalpels. They were all hideous. Hideous.
Al finished with his hair as quickly as possible, and left the bathroom. It held the only mirror in the apartment, and once he was out of there he didn't have to look at himself. He went back into the bedroom, pausing to admire the rise and fall of Elsa's shoulders. Her tan was surprisingly even, without any garment lines, at least on her torso. The amusing image of the straight-laced programmer on a topless beach was quickly supplanted by the logical deduction that she was a regular at a local tanning salon.
He got out a fresh duty uniform and donned it, from the soft cotton Navy-issue undergarments to the crisply-pressed khaki shirt. He would have preferred something a little more colorful, but it was clean and whole, and smelled faintly of detergent. He felt more confident the second he put it on.
It was by now almost six-thirty. He would have to be at the base by eight if he wanted to catch Yardley before he got embroiled in the business of the day. Hopefully before he set anything in motion with regards to Al's reassignment. That still gave him time to whip up a good breakfast for Elsa and himself. In his experience women loved it when a guy cooked them breakfast the morning after a romantic liaison.
He dug out the skillet and set about making crepes. This particular recipe he had learned from Beth's mother. Beth had always said he was the only person on the planet who could hold a candle to her mother's crepes…
But he was going to forget about Beth, and he was going to move on. He ransacked the fridge looking for toppings, but berries were out of season and he would never have though t to buy them anyway. Berries were escape food, a brief respite from cold, glutinous, weevil-infested rice before Quon's cronies found you and hauled you back to face the music. There had been a woman tracker with a nose like a wolf and the instincts of a tiger. If it hadn't been for her, Al reflected, he might actually have got away that one time…
Never underestimate a woman. A Hungarian curse sounded in the bedroom. Al abandoned his hunt and his black thoughts to follow the noise.
Elsa was awake, sitting in the middle of the dishevelled bed and staring around her in horror. Al grinned.
"Good morning!" he said.
She whirled, startled and momentarily frozen, and then gathered the sheets up to her chin, tugging them around her body. "Elmenni!" she cried. "Menj a francba!"
"Signora, she no speak-a the Engalish?" Al asked, putting on the thickest parody of an Italian accent that he could muster.
"Go away!" Elsa snapped. "Go to hell!"
He laughed. "Sure. The bathroom's through that door. Breakfast in twenty minutes."
"Bazd meg!" she cried. "Mars ki innen!"
"You really will get better results if I can understand what you're saying," Al said mildly.
"Out!" she shrieked.
Banished from his own bedroom, Al returned to the kitchen, chuckling softly to himself. This was a new one. The girls he'd been spending time with lately had all had a very easygoing attitude towards the whole thing. He hadn't had a morning show like this since his Academy days. Maybe even before that.
He settled on apples and cinnamon for the crepes, and started slicing the fruit into fine slivers. He was just putting the finishing touches on the two plates when Elsa came out of the bedroom, fully-clothed and dry-haired, her arms crossed defensively over her abdomen.
"Should we try it again?" Al asked. "Good morning."
She glared at him and muttered something under her breath in Hungarian.
"Didn't catch that, sorry," Al said. "Breakfast." He held up the plates for inspection, then set them on the table. "How do you like your coffee?"
"I said, you are a horrible person. You put a spell on me."
"I put a—you were the aggressor! Don't even try to deny it!" Al reigned himself in and smirked. "Having some morning-after regrets?"
She gestured helplessly, anger clear in her bearing and her voice. "I have never done such a thing before! I said I never would—you are the son of the Devil!"
Al gaped. "What, you've never…"
She waved him off. "Of course I have!" she said. "Of course! But not with someone I work with—what have I done? Now everyone will know, no one will respect me—"
Al chuckled. "I'm not going to tell anyone," he said. "If that's what you're worried about."
"And you will act as if I am just a—a—a—" She stamped one foot in frustration. "I don't know how to say it in English!" she exclaimed.
Al had a sneaking suspicion he knew what word she was groping for, but he wasn't about to let her know that he was anywhere near such a thought. "Just another woman, instead of a professional and an expert in her field?" he asked.
"That too!" Elsa cried. "Oh, I am a fool!"
She turned to flee, but Al caught her arm. "Hey, hang on," he said, turning her towards him. "There's nothing wrong with a one-night stand. We can both keep going just like it didn't happen. Besides," he said, leaning in and kissing her cheek; "I thought I was leaving NASA, wasn't I?"
Fresh anger flashed in her eyes. "You're not leaving! Today you will go and tell Yardley that you did not mean it!"
Al felt a flush of pride at having her so well cased. "He might not listen," he warned.
"He will listen!" Elsa snapped. "And you will stay. And tell everyone…" She slapped her forehead with the heal of her hand.
"I'm not going to tell anybody what happened last night. Even if I was that kind of guy—which I'm not—you've seen things I don't want you to tell anyone."
She nodded knowingly. "Christmas," she said. "So now we are even?"
"Exactly. I swear on my sacred honor, I will never talk about last night again." Al stroked her hair with his knuckles. "Now, would you join me for breakfast, Miss Orsós?"
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWM
They ate over a provisional truce, and then Elsa left. Al tidied up the apartment, erasing all evidence of what had transpired. Then he steeled his courage, climbed into his car, and made his way to the base.
It was weird: Yardley's secretary sent him through without so much as a question, almost as if he was expected. The Associate Administrator was poring over some kind of schematic, making notes on it with a pencil and a compass. Al stood watching him for a moment, then cleared his throat when it became plain that he hadn't been noticed.
Yardley looked up and smiled. "Calavicci," he said. "Good morning."
"Good morning, sir," Al said. "Sir, yesterday—"
"Close the door, please, Calavicci," Yardley said. "Gossip travels quickly enough around here without giving it a leg up."
Al closed the door, then took the chair that Yardley was indicating he should. "Sir, when I called you—"
"You were at the end of a difficult day, and didn't mean what you said?" Yardley asked.
Al's brows furrowed in confusion. "Exactly…"
"I know. Furthermore, you don't think it's fair that I disallow your participation in the space program just because of an isolated incident in the simulator."
"I… everyone should have a second chance, sir. Innocent until proven guilty, and I didn't have any trouble up until that point—" At least, not any trouble that anyone else had noticed.
"Calavicci, I'll be straight with you. I don't think you have what it takes, as much as I wish that you did. But you're right. Everyone should have a second chance, and fortunately for you, you aren't the only person who feels that you have the potential to qualify for space flight."
Al had been expecting a lot more opposition, and he stared blankly at the other man. "So it isn't to late to take back what I said?"
Yardley shook his head. "When you called I was all set to get the reassignment in motion. As luck would have it, however, the other participant in the meeting you interrupted felt that I should wait."
"Carpenter?"
"No. As a matter of fact, Carpenter seems to think you need very serious psychotherapy. 'Help', he called it. He's gone back to Kings Bay to file his report."
Al flinched. He couldn't blame Stacker for thinking he was crazy, but it still hurt. One more friend he had lost forever. After yesterday they were going to have a hard time looking each other in the eye, much less actually relaxing and having fun together again.
"It would stand you in good stead if you started sessions with Doctor Mortmain at once," Yardley said. "In fact, if you don't seek treatment for your claustrophobia I'm not going to be able to condone keeping you with us, no matter how many chances a man should get. It isn't going to be easy to stay, Calavicci. You're going to have to work for it."
"I can work for it," Al said fiercely. "I'm not going to wash out."
Yardley smiled. "I respect that," he said. "Determination is half the battle."
"I excel at determination."
"Unfortunately, the rest of the battle involves Doctor Mortmain," Yardley said. "From what Doctor Wagner has told me you aren't very amenable to the idea of seeing a psychiatrist."
"I've seen just about every psychiatrist in the country," Al said dryly. "The routine gets a little old after a while."
"You've sought treatment before?"
"No, I've had treatment foisted on me. Treatment for problems I don't even have. But I am a little claustrophobic, I admit that. If I have to see Mortmain, I will. I want this, sir."
"Glad to hear it," Yardley said. "And I won't be the only one."
Al spared a puzzled thought for this remark, but he had a more pressing question. "Sir?" he said. "Who stood up for me?"
"One of the programmers," Yardley said. "Told me she watched the astronauts every day, and she had been watching you. Said you were quicker than any of them, brave, dedicated. In fact, she called you the best man we've had in the program since Aldrin. She really laid it on thick. I've seen professional yes-men with less conviction. Then after you phoned she told me you had had a difficult day and didn't know what you were talking about, and she promised that you'd be in this morning to take it all back, so I should just pretend the conversation hadn't happened."
Al was stunned. Someone had actually bothered to take his side. And not just any someone. "A programmer?" he said. "Elsa Orsós?"
"That's the one," Yardley said absently, turning back to his schematic.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMElsa's mind was not on her work. She was thinking of Calavicci, and of what had happened last night. She was ashamed of her lack of control, angry at herself for behaving as she had, but honestly was the Hungarian way, and she could not say that she was sorry that she had slept with him. Now that it was done she realized how she had wanted to do it almost since they had met. They were both so strong-willed, so bold, so arrogant. She had not been able to help imaging what it would be like to lie with a man as stubborn and defiant as herself, and now she had to admit that the reality had been everything the dream was and more.
This morning, however, had not fit at all with her expectations. There had been five men before Calavicci—over a span of fourteen years. Andrew had always loved to wake her with a gentle kiss, and then they would sit in bed together, petting and talking, teaching one another their respective languages with English as a bridge. Her first partner had been partial to early-morning reprises. Two had made a habit of thanking her. The most recent one had not lasted past the first catastrophic night: when Elsa had finally awakened he had been gone to work, not even bothering to leave a note. He had tried to woo her back, but she wasn't stupid.
To awaken to find the man that you had spent the night with cooking breakfast for you, however? Despite her hard words, which were born of shock and embarrassment, Elsa had been shocked and touched by Calavicci's consideration. It had been almost like having a husband.
Elsa banished that thought angrily. She didn't need a husband: she was self-sufficient, strong and capable. She didn't need any man to take care of her, and certainly not to command her.
Another part of her brain whispered that there was more to marriage than that. There was companionship, coming home to more than an empty apartment and a bowl full of tropical fish and supper for one. There was needing someone, and knowing that someone needed you. There were children—
No, she didn't want children! Children tied you down. If the husband didn't turn you into a domestic slave, the children would. Still, there was the soft, milky smell of a small baby, the way a toddler twined her fingers in your hair as she hugged your neck, the battle-cry of a little boy racing across the lawn… No. No, she didn't want children.
"Miss Orsós?"
She turned at the soft address. Calavicci stood a little behind her, hands behind his back and feet together, looking at once respectful and mocking.
"What do you want?" she demanded.
"I've just come from talking to Yardley," he said.
"And?"
"And he's willing to give me another shot at the program," he told her, shrugging a little.
She smiled triumphantly. "I told you so!"
He scowled, and she knew he wasn't pleased that she was right.
"But you are glad," she said. "It is what you want: to go into space."
"Yes," he said, and there was something vacant and yet almost fierce about his expression as he spoke. "Yes, it's what I want."
There was an awkward pause.
"He also told me you went to see him yesterday," Calavicci said at last. "That you stood up for me and told him to give me another chance."
"I told you that yesterday!"
"Yeah, well, we weren't exactly listening to each other yesterday, now were we?" he asked.
"Hah! You heard what you wanted to!"
"So did you!" he rejoined.
"And you got what you wanted too!" she cried, unable to help herself.
His eyes went studiously blank and his lip curled into a furtive smile. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. She remembered abruptly that he had said he was never going to talk about last night again.
"You keep your promises," she said. "Maybe I was wrong."
"The sign is nigh! The four Horsemen of the Apocalypse approach! Elsa Ildiko Orsós admits she was wrong!" he cried melodramatically. Then he sobered, suddenly looking more like a nervous and self-conscious youth than a stubborn, arrogant astronaut. "Listen, Elsa… Miss Orsós, I just wanted to say thanks," he murmured. "If you hadn't interfered, I'd… I'd be on my way to Georgia now on a full psyche workup order. I really want to go into space, you know."
She let her eyes soften. "I know," she said. "You just needed to realize it."
He nodded, his lips working soundlessly. Then he blinked resolutely. "Anyway," he said; "thanks."
"What are colleagues for?" she asked.
"Yeah, exactly," he said, grinning and regaining his air of confidence. "So what are you working on?"
She gestured at the console she had been fiddling with. "The computer," she said. "You know nothing about computers."
"You could teach me," he suggested.
She shook her head firmly. "You don't need to know how to fix them, just how to work them. And before you'll really need to know that you have to qualify for a mission."
He smirked. "That's a no?" he said.
"That's a no," she confirmed.
He shrugged. "Worth a try," he said. "See you around?"
She shrugged back at him, and turned to her work. He watched her for a minute, then moved off. It seemed to Elsa that there was more spring in his heavy step than she had ever seen there before.