The Calculating Stars

ONE

Do you remember where you were when the Meteor hit? I’ve never understood why people phrase it as a question, because of course you remember. I was in the mountains with Nathaniel. He had inherited this cabin from his father and we used to go up there for stargazing. By which I mean: sex. Oh, don’t pretend that you’re shocked. Nathaniel and I were a healthy young married couple, so most of the stars I saw were painted across the inside of my eyelids.

If I had known how long the stars were going to be hidden, I would have spent a lot more time outside with the telescope.

We were lying in the bed with the covers in a tangled mess around us. The morning light filtered through silver snowfall and did nothing to warm the room. We’d been awake for hours, but hadn’t gotten out of bed yet for obvious reasons. Nathaniel had his leg thrown over me and was snuggled up against my side, tracing a finger along my collarbone in time with the music on our little battery-powered transistor radio.

I stretched under his ministrations and patted his shoulder. “Well, well … my very own ‘Sixty Minute Man. ’”

He snorted, his warm breath tickling my neck. “Does that mean I get another fifteen minutes of kissing?”

“If you start a fire.”

“I thought I already did.” But he rolled up onto his elbow and got out of bed.

We were taking a much needed break after a long push to prepare for the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics’s launch. If I hadn’t also been at NACA doing computations, I wouldn’t have seen Nathaniel awake anytime during the past two months.

I pulled the covers up over myself and turned on my side to watch him. He was lean, and only his time in the Army during World War II kept him from being scrawny. I loved watching the muscles play under his skin as he pulled wood off the pile under the big picture window. The snow framed him beautifully, its silver light just catching in the strands of his blond hair.

And then the world outside lit up.

If you were anywhere within five hundred miles of Washington, D.C., at 9:53 a.m. on March 3rd, 1952, and facing a window, then you remember that light. Briefly red, and then so violently white that it washed out even the shadows. Nathaniel straightened, the log still in his hands.

“Elma! Cover your eyes!”

I did. That light. It must be an A-bomb. The Russians had been none too happy with us since President Dewey took office. God. The blast center must have been D.C. How long until it hit us? We’d both been at Trinity for the atom bomb tests, but all of the numbers had run out of my head. D.C. was far enough away that the heat wouldn’t hit us, but it would kick off the war we had all been dreading.

As I sat there with my eyes squeezed shut, the light faded.

Nothing happened. The music on the radio continued to play. If the radio was playing, then there wasn’t an electromagnetic pulse. I opened my eyes. “Right.” I hooked a thumb at the radio. “Clearly not an A-bomb.”

Nathaniel had spun away to get clear of the window, but he was still holding the log. He turned it over in his hands and glanced outside. “There hasn’t been any sound yet. How long has it been?”

The radio continued to play and it was still “Sixty Minute Man.” What had that light been? “I wasn’t counting. A little over a minute?” I shivered as I did the speed-of-sound calculations and the seconds ticked by. “Zero point two miles per second. So the center is at least twenty miles away?”

Nathaniel paused in the process of grabbing a sweater and the seconds continued to tick by. Thirty miles. Forty. Fifty. “That’s … that’s a big explosion to have been that bright.”

Taking a slow breath, I shook my head, more out of desire for it not to be true than out of conviction. “It wasn’t an A-bomb.”

“I’m open to other theories.” He hauled his sweater on, the wool turning his hair into a haystack of static.

The music changed to “Some Enchanted Evening.” I got out of bed and grabbed a bra and the trousers I’d taken off the day before. Outside, snow swirled past the window. “Well … they haven’t interrupted the broadcast, so it has to be something fairly benign, or at least localized. It could be one of the munitions plants.”

“Maybe a meteor.”

“Ah!” That idea had some merit and would explain why the broadcast hadn’t been interrupted. It was a localized thing. I let out a breath in relief. “And we could have been directly under the flight path. That would explain why there hasn’t been an explosion, if what we were seeing was just it burning up. All light and fury, signifying nothing.”

Nathaniel’s fingers brushed mine and he took the ends of the bra out of my hand. He hooked the strap and then he ran his hands up my shoulder blades to rest on my upper arms. His hands were hot against my skin. I leaned back into his touch, but I couldn’t quite stop thinking about that light. It had been so bright. He squeezed me a little, before releasing me. “Yes.”

“Yes, it was a meteor?”

“Yes, we should go back.”

I wanted to believe that it was just a fluke, but I had been able to see the light through my closed eyes. While we got dressed, the radio kept playing one cheerful tune after another. Maybe that was why I pulled on my hiking boots instead of loafers, because some part of my brain kept waiting for things to get worse. Neither of us commented on it, but every time a song ended, I looked at the radio, certain that this time someone would tell us what had happened.

The floor of the cabin shuddered.

At first I thought a heavy truck was rolling past, but we were in the middle of nowhere. The porcelain robin that sat on the bedside table danced along its surface and fell. You would think that, as a physicist, I would recognize an earthquake faster. But we were in the Poconos, which was geologically stable.

Nathaniel didn’t worry about that as much and grabbed my hand, pulling me into the doorway. The floor bucked and rolled under us. We clung to each other like in some sort of drunken foxtrot. The walls twisted and then … then the whole place came down. I’m pretty sure that I hollered.

When the earth stopped moving, the radio was still playing.

It buzzed as if a speaker were damaged, but somehow the battery kept it going. Nathaniel and I were lying, pressed together, in the remnants of the doorframe. Cold air swirled around us. I brushed the dust from his face.

My hands were shaking. “Okay?”

“Terrified.” His blue eyes were wide, but both pupils were the same size, so … that was good. “You?”

I paused before answering with the social “fine,” took a breath, and did an inventory of my body. I was filled with adrenaline, but I hadn’t wet myself. Wanted to, though. “I’ll be sore tomorrow, but I don’t think there’s any damage. To me, I mean.”

He nodded and craned his neck around, looking at the little cavity we were buried inside. Sunlight was visible through a gap where one of the plywood ceiling panels had fallen against the remnants of the doorframe. It took some doing, but we were able to push and pry the wreckage to crawl out of that space and clamber across the remains of the cabin.

If I had been alone … Well, if I had been alone, I wouldn’t have gotten into the doorway in time. I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered despite my sweater.

Nathaniel saw me shiver and squinted at the wreckage. “Might be able to get a blanket out.”

“Let’s just go to the car.” I turned, praying that nothing had fallen on it. Partly because it was the only way to the airfield where our plane was, but also because the car was borrowed. Thank heavens, it was sitting undamaged in the small parking area. “There’s no way we’ll find my purse in that mess. I can hot-wire it.”

“Four minutes?” He stumbled in the snow. “Between the flash and the quake.”

“Something like that.” I was running numbers and distances in my head, and I’m certain he was, too. My pulse was beating against all of my joints and I grabbed for the smooth certainty of mathematics. “So the explosion center is still in the three-hundred-mile range.”

“The airblast will be what … half an hour later? Give or take.” For all the calm in his words, Nathaniel’s hands shook as he opened the passenger door for me. “Which means we have another … fifteen minutes before it hits?”

The air burned cold in my lungs. Fifteen minutes. All of those years doing computations for rocket tests came into terrifying clarity. I could calculate the blast radius of a V2 or the potential of rocket propellant. But this … this was not numbers on a page. And I didn’t have enough information to make a solid calculation. All I knew for certain was that, as long as the radio was playing, it wasn’t an A-bomb. But whatever had exploded was huge.

“Let’s try to get as far down the mountain as we can before the airblast hits.” The light had come from the southeast. Thank God, we were on the western side of the mountain, but southeast of us was D.C. and Philly and Baltimore and hundreds of thousands of people.

Including my family.

I slid onto the cold vinyl seat and leaned across it to pull out wires from under the steering column. It was easier to focus on something concrete like hot-wiring a car than on whatever was happening.

Outside the car, the air hissed and crackled. Nathaniel leaned out the window. “Shit.”

“What?” I pulled my head out from under the dashboard and looked up, through the window, past the trees and the snow, and into the sky. Flame and smoke left contrails in the air. A meteor would have done some damage, exploding over the Earth’s surface. A meteorite, though? It had actually hit the Earth and ejected material through the hole it had torn in the atmosphere. Ejecta. We were seeing pieces of the planet raining back down on us as fire. My voice quavered, but I tried for a jaunty tone anyway. “Well … at least you were wrong about it being a meteor.”

I got the car running, and Nathaniel pulled out and headed down the mountain. There was no way we would make it to our plane before the airblast hit, but I had to hope that it would be protected enough in the barn. As for us … the more of the mountain we had between us and the airblast, the better. An explosion that bright, from three hundred miles away … the blast was not going to be gentle when it hit.

I turned on the radio, half-expecting it to be nothing but silence, but music came on immediately. I scrolled through the dial looking for something, anything that would tell us what was happening. There was just relentless music. As we drove, the car warmed up, but I couldn’t stop shaking.

Sliding across the seat, I snuggled up against Nathaniel. “I think I’m in shock.”

“Will you be able to fly?”

“Depends on how much ejecta there is when we get to the airfield.” I had flown under fairly strenuous conditions during the war, even though, officially, I had never flown combat. But that was only a technical specification to make the American public feel more secure about women in the military. Still, if I thought of ejecta as anti-aircraft fire, I at least had a frame of reference for what lay ahead of us. “I just need to keep my body temperature from dropping any more.”

He wrapped one arm around me, pulled the car over to the wrong side of the road, and tucked it into the lee of a craggy overhang. Between it and the mountain, we’d be shielded from the worst of the airblast. “This is probably the best shelter we can hope for until the blast hits.”

“Good thinking.” It was hard not to tense, waiting for the airblast. I rested my head against the scratchy wool of Nathaniel’s jacket. Panicking would do neither of us any good, and we might well be wrong about what was happening.

A song cut off abruptly. I don’t remember what it was; I just remember the sudden silence and then, finally, the announcer. Why had it taken them nearly half an hour to report on what was happening?

I had never heard Edward R. Murrow sound so shaken. “Ladies and gentlemen … Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this program to bring you some grave news. Shortly before ten this morning, what appears to have been a meteor entered the Earth’s atmosphere. The meteor has struck the ocean just off the coast of Maryland, causing a massive ball of fire, earthquakes, and other devastation. Coastal residents along the entire Eastern Seaboard are advised to evacuate inland because additional tidal waves are expected. All other citizens are asked to remain inside, to allow emergency responders to work without interruption.” He paused, and the static hiss of the radio seemed to reflect the collective nation holding our breath. “We go now to our correspondent Phillip Williams from our affiliate WCBO of Philadelphia, who is at the scene.”

Why would they have gone to a Philadelphia affiliate, instead of someone at the scene in D.C.? Or Baltimore?

At first, I thought the static had gotten worse, and then I realized that it was the sound of a massive fire. It took me a moment longer to understand. It had taken them this long to find a reporter who was still alive, and the closest one had been in Philadelphia.

“I am standing on the US-1, some seventy miles north of where the meteor struck. This is as close as we were able to get, even by plane, due to the tremendous heat. What lay under me as we flew was a scene of horrifying devastation. It is as if a hand had scooped away the capital and taken with it all of the men and women who resided there. As of yet, the condition of the president is unknown, but—” My heart clenched when his voice broke. I had listened to Williams report the Second World War without breaking stride. Later, when I saw where he had been standing, I was amazed that he was able to speak at all. “But of Washington itself, nothing remains.”

TWO

ANNOUNCER: This is the BBC World News for March 3, 1952. Here is the news and this is Robert Robinson. In the early hours of the morning a meteorite struck just outside the capital of the United States of America with a force greater than the bombs at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The resulting firestorm has swept out from Washington, D.C. for hundreds of miles.

I kept running the numbers in my head after the radio finally, finally reported the news. It was easier than thinking about the big picture. About the fact that we lived in D.C. That we knew people there. That my parents were—

From D.C., it would take a little over twenty-four minutes for the airblast to hit. I tapped the dashboard clock. “It should hit soon.”

“Yeah.” My husband covered his face with his hands and leaned forward against the steering wheel. “Were your parents…?”

“Home. Yes.” I could not stop shaking. The only breaths I could draw were too fast and too shallow. I clenched my jaw and held my breath for a moment, with my eyes squeezed shut.

The seat shifted as Nathaniel wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. He bowed his head over me so that I was sealed in a little cocoon of tweed and wool. His par ents had been older than mine and had passed away some years ago, so he knew what I needed, and just held me.

“I just thought … I mean, Grandma is a hundred and three. I thought Daddy was going to go forever.”

He made a sharp inhalation, as if he’d been stabbed.

“What?”

Nathaniel sighed and pulled me closer. “There were tidal wave warnings.”

“Oh God.” Grandma lived in Charleston. She wasn’t in a beach house, but still, the entire city was low-lying and right on the coast. And then there were my aunts and uncles and cousins and Margaret, who’d just had a baby. I tried to sit up, but Nathaniel’s arms were too tight around me. “When will it hit? The meteor struck a little before ten. But how big was it? And the water depth … I need a map and—”

“Elma.” Nathaniel squeezed me tighter. “Elma. Sh … You can’t solve for this.”

“But Grandma—”

“I know, sweetie. I know. When we get to the plane, we can radi—”

The shock of the explosion shattered the car windows. It roared on and on, vibrating through my chest like a rocket leaving a launchpad. The oscillations pressed against my skin, filling every part of my consciousness with roaring waves and then secondary and tertiary explosions. I clung to Nathaniel, and he clung to the steering wheel, as the car bucked and slid across the road.

The world groaned and roared and wind howled through the empty window frames.

When the sound died away, the car had moved halfway across the road. Around us, trees lay on the ground in tidy rows, as if some giant had arranged them. Not all of them were down, but the ones that remained standing had been stripped of snow and whatever leaves they had left.

The windshield was just gone. The driver’s side window lay on top of us in a laminated sheet of spiderwebbed safety glass. I pushed it up, and Nathaniel helped shove it out the door. Blood trickled from little scrapes on his face and hands.

He lifted a hand to my face. “You’re bleeding.” His voice sounded like he was underwater, and he frowned as he spoke.

“You too.” My own voice was muffled. “Ear damage?”

He nodded and rubbed his face, smearing the blood into a scarlet film. “At least we can’t hear the news.”

I laughed, because sometimes you have to, even when things aren’t funny. I reached over to turn the radio off and stopped with my hand on the dial.

There was no sound. This wasn’t a matter of being deafened by the blast; the radio was silent. “They must have lost their broadcast tower.”

“See if there’s another station.” He put the car into gear and we crept forward a few feet. “No. Wait. Sorry. We’re going to have to walk.”

Even if the car had been in pristine condition, there were too many trees down across the road to drive it very far. But it was only two miles to the airfield, and we hiked it in the summer sometimes. Maybe—maybe we could still make it to Charleston before the tidal wave hit. If the plane was okay. If the air was clear. If we had enough time. The odds were against all of those, but what else could I do except hope?

We got out of the car and started to walk.

Nathaniel helped me scramble over a tree trunk. I slipped in the slush as I stepped down, and if he hadn’t had my arm, I would have landed on my rump. I kept trying to hurry, but it wouldn’t do anyone any good if I broke my neck or even just an arm.

He grimaced at the melting snow. “Temperature is rising.”

“Maybe I should have packed a swimsuit.” I patted his arm as we kept going. I was being flippant in an effort to keep up a brave front, which would help Nathaniel worry less about me. In theory.

At least the exertion meant that I had stopped shaking. I hadn’t been hearing any birdsong, but I wasn’t sure if that was due to the hearing damage or because they weren’t singing. The road was blocked in most places, but it was easier to orient ourselves if we stayed along it than if we tried to go cross-country, and we couldn’t afford to get lost. It was slow going, and even with the warm air from the blast, we weren’t dressed for an extended stay outside.

“You don’t really think the plane will still be there?” The cuts on Nathaniel’s face had stopped bleeding, but the blood and dirt gave him an almost piratical appearance. If pirates wore tweed.

I picked my way around the crown of a tree. “All other factors being equal, the airfield is closer than town, and—”

There was an arm on the road. No body. Just a bare arm. It ended at a rough and bloody shoulder. The specimen had probably been an adult Caucasian male in his thirties. The fingers were curled delicately up to the sky.

“God.” Nathaniel stopped next to me.

Neither of us were squeamish, and the successive shocks had created a sort of numb haze. I stepped closer to the arm, and then looked up the hill. Only a few trees were standing, but their crowns, even denuded of leaves, masked the landscape in a tracery of branches. “Hello?”

Nathaniel cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered, “Hello! Is anyone there?”

Except for the wind rustling the branches, the hill was silent.

I’d seen worse things than a severed limb at the front when ducking in to pick up a plane and transport it. This wasn’t a war, but there would be that many deaths. Burying the arm seemed fruitless. Still, leaving it seemed … wrong.

I sought Nathaniel’s hand. “Baruch dayan ha’emet.”

His rough baritone joined mine. Our prayer was less for this unknown man, who probably wasn’t Jewish, and more for all the people he embodied. For my parents and all the thousands—the hundreds of thousands—of people who had died today.

That was when I finally began to weep.

It took us another four hours to make it to the airstrip. Understand that in the summer we often hiked that route in about an hour. The gentle Pennsylvania mountains were little more than hills.

This trip was … difficult.

The arm was not the worst thing we saw. We encountered no one living on our way down to the airfield. More trees were standing here, although anything with shallow roots was down. But I felt the first hope since the light of the blast, because we heard a car.

The purr of an automobile idling crept through the trees to meet us. Nathaniel met my gaze, and we started to run down the road, scrambling over trunks and fallen branches, skirting debris and dead animals, skidding in the slush and ash. All the while, the car got louder.

When we burst free of the last obstruction, we were across from the airstrip. It was really just a field, but Mr. Goldman had known Nathaniel since he was a kid, and kept a strip mowed for us. The barn was twisted at a weird angle, but standing. We’d gotten incredibly lucky.

The airstrip was just mowed grass, set between the trees on a gentle plateau. It ran roughly east to west and was enough in the direction of the airblast that most of the trees had been pushed down parallel to it, leaving it clear.

The road ran along the east end of the airstrip and then curved to follow it on the north side. There, partially obscured by the remaining trees, was the vehicle that we’d been hearing.

It was the red Ford pickup that Mr. Goldman drove. Nathaniel and I hurried down the road, and around the bend. The road was blocked by a tree here, and the truck was pressed up against it as if Mr. Goldman were trying to push it out of the way.

“Mr. Goldman!” Nathaniel hollered and waved his arms.

The windows of the truck were all gone and Mr. Goldman was slumped against the side of the door. I ran toward the car, hoping he was just unconscious. Nathaniel and I had at least had the benefit of expecting the airblast and had been braced and relatively sheltered when it hit.

But Mr. Goldman …

I slowed as I reached the truck. Nathaniel used to tell me stories about his childhood trips to the cabin and how Mr. Goldman had always had peppermint stick candy for him.

He was dead. I did not need to touch him or feel for a pulse. The tree branch that had been driven through his neck answered that question.

THREE

ANNOUNCER: This is the BBC World News for March 3, 1952. Here is the news and I’m Raymond Baxter. As fires continue to rage on the east coast of the United States, other countries are beginning to see the first effects of this morning’s meteorite strike. Tidal waves are reported in Morocco, Portugal, and Ireland.

As a Women Airforce Service Pilot during the Second World War, I often flew transport missions with planes that were barely airworthy. My little Cessna was more flyable than some of the planes I’d gotten off the ground as a WASP. Dusty and scuffed, yes, but after the most careful preflight check in the history of aviation, I got her airborne.

As soon as we were up, I made a left bank to turn us south toward Charleston. We both knew it was probably futile, but I had to try. As the plane swung around, what remained of my irrational hope died. The sky to the east was a long dark wall of dust and smoke, lit from beneath by an inferno. If you’ve seen forest fires, you know a little of what this was like. The current fire stretched to the curvature of the Earth, as if someone had peeled back the mantle and opened a gateway into Hell itself. Streaks of fire lit the sky as ejecta continued to fall to the Earth. Flying into that would be madness.

Everything to the east of the mountains had been flattened. The airblast had laid the trees out in weirdly neat rows. In the seat beside me, just audible over the roar of the engine, Nathaniel moaned.

I swallowed and swung the plane back around to the west. “We have about two hours of fuel. Suggestions?”

Like me, he tended to do better if he had something to focus on. When his mother died, he built a deck in our backyard, and my husband is not terribly handy with a hammer.

Nathaniel scrubbed his face and straightened. “Let’s see who’s out there?” He reached for the radio, which was still tuned to the Langley Tower. “Langley Tower, Cessna Four One Six Baker request VFR traffic advisories. Over.”

Static answered him.

“Any radio, Cessna Four One Six Baker request VFR traffic advisories. Over.”

He dialed through the entire radio frequency, listening for someone broadcasting. He repeated his call on each while I flew. “Try the UHF.” As a civilian pilot, I should have just had a VHF radio, but because Nathaniel worked with the NACA we had a UHF installed as well so he could listen directly to pilots who were on test flights. We never cluttered the military channels by broadcasting, but today…? Today I just wanted anyone to answer. As we made our way west, the devastation lessened, but only in comparison to what lay behind us. Trees and buildings had been knocked down by the blast. Some were on fire, with no one to put them out. What had it been like, to not understand what was coming?

“Unidentified Cessna, Sabre Two One, all nonessential air traffic is grounded.”

At the sound of a living human, I started to weep again, but this was not a time to indulge in compromised vision. I blinked my eyes to clear them and focused on the horizon.

“Roger, Sabre Two One, Cessna Four One Six Baker, request advice on clear landing areas. Heading two seven zero.”

“One Six Baker, copy that. I’m right above you. Where the hell are you coming from?” His voice had the telltale hiss and rattle of an oxygen mask, and behind that was the thin whine of a jet engine. Looking back and up, I could just make out the F-86, and his wingman farther back, gaining on us. They would have to circle, because their stall speed was faster than my little Cessna could fly.

“Hell seems pretty accurate.” Nathaniel rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “We were in the Poconos when the meteorite hit.”

“Jesus, One Six Baker. I just flew over that. How are you alive?”

“I’ve got no idea. So … where should we set down?”

“Give me a sec. I’ll check to see if I can escort you to Wright-Patterson.”

“Roger. Would it help to mention that I’m a retired Army captain and still work with the government?”

“With the government? Please tell me you’re a senator.”

Nathaniel laughed. “No. A rocket scientist with the NACA. Nathaniel York.”

“The satellites! That’s why you sounded familiar. I heard you on the radio. Major Eugene Lindholm, at your service.” The man on the other end of the line was silent for a couple of minutes. When it crackled back to life again, he said, “Got enough fuel to reach Wright-Patterson?”

I’d flown into that airbase multiple times, moving planes during the war. It was approximately one hundred and fifty miles from where we were. I nodded as I adjusted course to head us there.

Nathaniel nodded in acknowledgment and lifted the mic again. “We do.”

“Great. You’ll be there in time for dinner. Not that it’s much to look forward to.”

My stomach growled at the mention of food. We hadn’t eaten since dinner the night before, and I was suddenly ravenously hungry. Even water would be welcome.

When Nathaniel signed off, he leaned back in his seat with a sigh.

“Looks like you have a fan.”

He snorted. “We should have seen it.”

“What?”

“The meteorite. We should have seen it coming.”

“It wasn’t your job.”

“But we were looking for things that would interfere with the satellites. You’d think we’d spot a goddamn asteroid that was this close.”

“Low albedo. Trajectory that put it in line with the sun. Small—”

“We should have seen it!”

“And if you had, what could we have done?”

The sound of the engine vibrated the seat beneath me and underscored the hiss of air slicing past. One of Nathaniel’s knees bounced up and down with nervous energy. He sat forward and grabbed the charts. “Looks like you’ll need to lay a course southwest.”

I’d already done that, and we had an escort, but if giving me directions made Nathaniel feel useful, then by God he could guide me all the way there. Every streaking flare of ejecta in the sky just drove home how helpless we were. I could see them, but not in time to do anything about them, so I kept my hands on the yoke and flew.

The good thing about the constant pinch of hunger was that it countered the soothing drone of the airplane and kept me awake. Well, that and Nathaniel’s terrible baritone. My husband was many things, but a singer was not one of them. Oh, he could carry a tune—in a bucket filled with gravel.

Fortunately, he knew that, and leaned toward a comedic repertoire in his efforts to keep me awake. Bellowing with a vibrato like an amorous goat, Nathaniel stomped his foot on the floorboards of the airplane.

“Oh, do you remember Grandma’s Lye Soap?

Good for everything, everything in the place.

The pots and kettles, and for your hands, and for your face?”

Below us, the glorious sight of the Wright-Patterson airfield finally scrolled into view. Its identification light flashed green, then the double-white of a military field.

“Mrs. O’Malley, down in the valley

Suffered from ulcers, I understand—”

“Saved!” I adjusted altitude. “Let ’em know we’re coming in?”

Nathaniel grinned and grabbed the mic. “Sabre Two One, One Six Baker. So how’s the food on the base?”

The radio crackled and Major Lindholm laughed. “It’s everything you would expect. And more.”

“That bad, eh?”

“I did not say that, sir. But if you’re real nice, I might share my wife’s care package.”

I laughed along with Nathaniel, far more than the joke deserved.

Nathaniel switched the radio to the tower frequency, but before he could get the mic to his lips, another voice crackled out. “Aircraft on heading two six zero, eight thousand five hundred feet, this is Wright-Patterson Tower. Identify yourself.”

“Wright-Patterson Tower, this is Cessna Four One Six Baker at eight thousand five hundred, direct to the field.” Nathaniel had flown with me often enough that he had the routine down. He lowered the mic for a moment, then grinned and raised it again. “And Tower, we have Sabre Two One flight in tow.”

“Tower, Sabre Two One. We are escorting One Six Baker, request direct to the field.”

I snorted. It had to irk a fighter pilot to be trailing a scrubby little plane like my Cessna.

“One Six Baker and Sabre Two One, Tower copies. Approved direct to the field. Remain clear of One Six Baker. Be advised, we have reports of—”

Light streaked past the nose of the plane. A crack like a bomb going off. The entire plane bucked. I wrestled it level again—

And suddenly, I could see the propeller. The nearly invisible blur had become a stuttering, uneven bar. Part of it was just gone. It took me a moment to grasp what had happened. That streak of light had been a chunk of ejecta slamming into the nose of the plane, and it had taken part of my propeller with it.

The engine vibrations shook the yoke in my hand and slammed the seat against the base of my spine. This was only going to get worse. It could shake the engine right out of the plane. I slammed it into idle and began the sequence to secure the engine—by which I mean, shut it down.

Damn it. I wasn’t going to make the base. “I need a landing field. Now.”

At least we were in farm country, although the snow was going to mask the actual terrain. I pulled the throttle knob all the way out to idle and the engine shut off, leaving only the hiss of wind around us. What was left of the propeller windmilled as air rushed over it.

“What…?”

“Gliding.” If the ejecta had hit a wing, we’d be in much worse trouble, but the Cessna was a darn good glider. I just wouldn’t get a second chance at landing.

There was a road cutting between the fields, which might be a good bet, if it weren’t for the fences bordering it. Field it was. I banked to line up the approach.

In the corner of my eye, Nathaniel still clutched the microphone. As a WASP, I’d had engines cut out on me far too often. This was his first time. He brought the radio to his mouth and I was so proud of how steady his voice was. “Wright Tower, this is Cessna Four One Six Baker declaring an emergency. We’ve had an engine failure and are making a forced landing on a field … um…” He fumbled for the map.

“Cessna Four One Six Baker, Wright Tower. We have eyes on you. You just concentrate on landing. Sabre Two One, Wright Tower. Orbit to assist and pinpoint where they land.”

“Wright Tower, Sabre Two One. Already on it.” The roar of the jet passed overhead as Major Lindholm and his wingman did a wide sweep past us.

My pulse thrummed through my veins, taking the place of the engine noise. This was not my first unpowered landing, but it was the first time with my husband aboard. After everything else that had happened today, I would not be the cause of his death. I refused. “Buckled up?”

“Um. Yeah.” But he was fastening his seat belt as he spoke, so it was a good thing that I had asked. “Can I do … anything?”

“Brace.” I tucked in my chin and watched the altimeter.

“Anything else—”

“Don’t talk.” He just wanted to help, but I didn’t have time for that. I had to slow the plane down as much as possible before I touched down, but not so much that we landed short of the field. The ground rose up to meet us, changing from a smooth white expanse to a model train set of a snowy field, and then—without transition—full size and beneath us. I kept the nose up so that the tail wheel touched down first.

The snow grabbed at the wheel, slowing us further. As long as I could, I kept the nose tipped up. When the wing wheels finally touched, one of them snagged on the uneven rows beneath the snow. The plane jolted. I clutched the yoke to keep the wings level and worked the rudder pedals, trying to turn in the direction of the wind.

Our turn continued until we were facing the direction that we’d come. The plane stopped. Around us, the world was silent and still.

All the air in my lungs hissed out at once. I sagged against the seat.

A jet engine roared overhead and the radio crackled. Major Lindholm’s voice filled the cabin. “One Six Baker, nicely done! Are you two okay?”

Nathaniel sat up and reached for the mic. His hand was shaking. “We aren’t dead. So, yes.”

The congealed mass of kidney beans and utterly questionable meatloaf may have been the best things I had ever tasted. The beans had a sweet tang to them, and puckered the inside of my mouth with too much salt, but I closed my eyes and relaxed against the hard bench in the Air Force canteen. It was weirdly empty, since much of the base had been deployed to deal with relief efforts. Some crockery rattled against the table and brought with it the glorious scent of chocolate.

When I opened my eyes, Major Lindholm settled onto the bench across from us. The picture I’d built of him in my head had no bearing on reality. I’d expected an older man, Nordic blond and stocky.

The real Major Lindholm was black, and younger than I’d expected from his voice. He was a hale man in his late thirties, with dark hair still mashed down from his helmet. The red line of his face mask traced a triangle around his chin and nose. And he brought hot chocolate.

Nathaniel lowered his fork and eyed the three steaming mugs on the table. He swallowed. “Is that hot cocoa?”

“Yeah, but don’t thank me. It’s a bribe, so I can ask you questions about rockets.” Lindholm pushed two of the mugs across the table. “From the stash my wife sends to work with me, not the Air Force stuff.”

“If you weren’t already married…” My hand had closed around the warm mug before I realized what I’d said. I hoped he wasn’t offended.

He laughed, thank God. “I’ve got a brother…”

My heart clenched hard. I’d managed to put my family out of my mind in order to keep going, but my brother lived in California. Hershel must think I was dead. My breath shuddered as I inhaled, but I managed to find a smile somewhere and looked up. “Is there a phone I can use? Long distance?”

Nathaniel rested his palm against my back. “Her family was in D.C.”

“Oh, geez, ma’am. I’m so sorry.”

“But my brother—he’s in California.”

“You come with me, ma’am.” He glanced at Nathaniel. “Is there anyone you need to call, sir?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “Not urgently.”

I followed Major Lindholm, with Nathaniel at my back, through corridors that barely registered. What an inconsiderate brat I’d been. I’d taken comfort that Hershel and his family lived in California, but hadn’t once thought about the fact that to him, I was as good as dead. He had no reason to think that I wasn’t in D.C. when the meteorite struck.

The office Major Lindholm showed me to was small and military tidy. The only thing that marred the right angles was a framed photo of twin boys and a crayon-drawn map of the U.S. pinned to the wall. Nathaniel shut the door and stood outside with Lindholm.

A utilitarian black phone sat on the desk, but at least it had a rotary dial, so I wouldn’t have to speak with an operator. The receiver was warm and heavy. I dialed Hershel’s home, listening to the rattle of the rotary as it swept through the numbers. Each signal sent a pulse through the lines and gave me time to retreat into a mechanical calm.

All I got was the high, frantic hum of a busy circuit. It was hardly surprising that all the circuits would be busy, but I hung up and tried again immediately. My urgency beat in time with the busy signal.

I had barely hung up again when Nathaniel opened the door. “Company. You okay?”

“Circuit’s busy.” I wiped at my face, probably just smearing the dirt more. I would ask to send a telegram, but the military signalers would be tied up. “I’ll try later.”

There was a lot to be said for being alive and upright. I was a greasy, smoky, bleeding mess, but I was alive. My husband was alive. My brother and his family were alive. And if I needed a reminder that this was a blessing, all I had to do was remember how many people had died today.

Still, when an Air Force colonel strode into the room, I caught myself trying to brush my hair into place as I stood, as if it would make a difference. Then, I saw past the insignia to the man. Stetson Parker. Thank heavens I had enough dirt on my face that I didn’t have to worry about guarding my expression.

The jerk had been promoted. This was not remotely surprising, since he was a charmer to anyone who outranked him, or who he needed … as he proceeded to demonstrate now, with an outstretched hand toward Nathaniel. “Dr. York. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to know you’re safe.”

Even with Lindholm’s earlier enthusiasm about rockets, it was easy to forget that Nathaniel had become a celebrity because of the satellite launch. We’d managed to beat the Russians to getting a satellite into orbit not once, but with three different launches. My husband, being unreasonably attractive and charming—a fact about which I am not biased—had become the face of the NACA space program.

“Well, Major Lindholm has been taking good care of us. We appreciate the welcome, Colonel…?” The man had a name tag on, but still … an introduction was appropriate.

“Where are my manners? I’m just so awestruck to have you here.” Parker gave a shit-eating grin. “Colonel Stetson Parker, Base Commander. Although … with affairs being what they are, I appear to be in charge of more than just this base.”

Of course he would get that in, to make it clear how important he was. I stepped forward and stuck out my hand. “Good to see you again, Colonel Parker.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I’m sorry, ma’am, you have the better of me.”

“Oh, when you knew me, I was still Elma Wexler. One of the WASP pilots.”

His face stiffened a little. “Ah. The general’s daughter. Yes, I remember you.”

“Congratulations on your promotion.” I smiled the best “bless your heart” smile I could. “You must have worked very hard for it.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He grinned again, clapping Nathaniel on the shoulder. “And I guess the little lady got a promotion, eh, becoming Mrs. York?”

My teeth hurt from grinding, but I kept smiling. “You mentioned not knowing who your superior is. What can you tell us about the current situation?”

“Ah…” He sobered, and the mood change might even have been real. He gestured to the seats on the other side of the desk. “Sit down, please.”

Parker took the chair behind the desk, and only now did I notice his nameplate set front and center. I was surprised he had twins. I wonder who’d married him. He steepled his fingers together and sighed again. “An explosion—”

“A meteorite.”

“That’s what the news reported. But given that Washington was wiped out? I place my money on the Russians.”

Nathaniel cocked his head. “Is there radioactivity?”

“We haven’t gotten anyone close enough to the blast area to check.”

Idiot. I spelled things out for him. “There’s ejecta falling all around, which, first of all, you could just test for radioactivity. Second, that’s not something that happens with an A-bomb. It occurs when a meteorite punches a hole in the atmosphere and the blast material is sucked into space, then falls back to Earth.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then know this. The United States Congress was in session, both the House and the Senate. Our federal government was nearly entirely wiped out. The Pentagon, Langley … So even if this was an act of God, do you honestly think the Russians won’t try to take advantage of it?”

That … that was a terrifyingly good point. I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms over my chest to ward off the sudden chill in the air.

Nathaniel filled in the gap. “So, the military is planning a defense?”

He didn’t quite emphasize “military,” but did make it clear enough that whatever happened, a colonel was not going to be running the show.

“It’s the prudent thing to do. Dr. York…” He paused, but the hesitation was so blatantly calculated that you could almost see him counting the seconds. “You worked on the Manhattan Project, am I correct?”

Nathaniel stiffened next to me. The Manhattan Project had been exciting from a scientific standpoint, but horrific in every other respect. “I did, but I’m focused on space exploration these days.”

Parker waved that away. “I hate to do this to you after your arduous morning, but may I pull you into a meeting?”

“I’m not sure that I really have anything to offer.”

“You’re the top scientist in rocketry right now.”

Neither of us needed a reminder of how many people at the NACA were likely dead. I rested my hand on Nathaniel’s knee, to steady him as he had steadied me. The NACA, however, was not the only rocketry program. “Not to undervalue my husband’s work, but Wernher von Braun is at the Sunflower Project in Kansas.”

Parker snorted and gave me a pained smile. He’d hated being polite to me during the war, when he had to because of my father; and now he hated being polite to Dr. York’s wife. “Ma’am, it’s nice that you want to help, but I hope you understand that I can’t involve a former Nazi like von Braun in questions of national security.” And then he was looking at Nathaniel again, ignoring me completely. “What do you say, Dr. York? We just want to understand what our options are for keeping America safe.”

Nathaniel sighed and picked at a loose thread on his trousers. “All right. But I’m not promising to be bright today.”

As he stood, I straightened my legs to join him. Parker held his hand up and shook his head. “No need, ma’am. You can just rest here in my office, while Major Lindholm arranges quarters for you.”

The major said, “We have some empty rooms at our place—if you want to avoid the TLFs?”

I was flattered—not that he’d offered a place to stay, but that he used the acronym for temporary living facilities instead of translating for a civilian. “That’s very kind. If your wife doesn’t mind, Major.”

“I’m sure she won’t, ma’am.”

Parker’s smile was unexpectedly warm. “You’re in good hands. His wife makes darn fine pie.”

I’ll admit that I was surprised to see what appeared to be genuine camaraderie between the two men. My own experiences with Parker had been less than ideal. I hoped that didn’t mean that Major Lindholm would turn out to be charming but unpleasant too. “Thank you. Now that that’s sorted, we can go on to the meeting.” Not that I had any desire to go to a meeting, but I would give a lot to feel like I could be of some use.

“Ah … I’m sorry, ma’am.” Parker tugged at his tie. “What I should have said was that Dr. York already has the necessary clearance levels from the Manhattan Project. You understand.”

Clearance, my ass. From what he was saying, there was no hierarchy at all, much less clearance. But if I voiced any of that, nothing useful would follow, so I settled back in my chair. “Well, bless your heart. Of course I understand. I’ll just sit here and wait.”

Nathaniel raised his brows at that. He knew me well enough to know I was good and angry, if not exactly why. I shook my head at him, reassuring him that I was fine. I smiled, folded my hands demurely in my lap, and settled back. Like a good little girl, I would sit and wait, let my husband do the work, and pray to God that this mishegas wasn’t going to start a nuclear war.

FOUR

90 DIE IN IRAN EARTHQUAKE

TEHERAN, Iran, March 3, 1952—(Reuters)—Ninety persons were killed and 180 injured in earthquakes in LaRistan and Bastak in southern Iran. Teheran Radio announced today that the earthquakes are believed to have been triggered by the Meteor impact in North America.

The sun had set in a vivid vermilion, with copper and streaks of dark gold. We might well have been transported to Mars based on the red sky arching over us. The ruddy light stained everything, so that even the white picket fence of Major Lindholm’s house looked as if it had been dipped in blood.

Normally, I’d hate to impose on anyone, but Parker had irked me. And, truly, I was too tired to think, and grateful to have someone tell me where to go. Besides, they’d be needing the TLFs for refugee housing.

Nathaniel was still tied up with his meeting. He’d come out long enough to encourage me to go, and I really didn’t have any excuse for staying on base—aside from the absolute certainty that if I left, I would never see him again. These are not things that one voices aloud. Not on a day like today.

As I got out of the jeep, the stains on my clothes seemed to deepen. I could almost hear my mother saying, “Elma! What will people think?”

I clutched the door of the jeep and bit down on the grief. At least I’d washed my face. Straightening, I followed Major Lindholm through the fence and up the tidy walk to the front porch. The door opened as we were climbing the steps, and a plump woman in a powder-blue dress stepped out.

Her skin was no darker than Nathaniel gets in the summer, and her features were soft and rounded. I realized, with a little bit of a shock, that I’d never been to the home of a black person before. Mrs. Lindholm’s curls had been teased into a bouffant hairdo that framed the curve of her light brown cheeks. Behind her glasses, her eyes were rimmed red and tight with worry.

She pulled the door open wider, and pressed a hand to her bosom. “Oh my poor dear. You come right in.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” The floor inside was a pristine faux brick linoleum. My shoes were so dirty that the original color was gone. “Just let me take my boots off.”

“Don’t you worry about that.”

I sat on the steps to pull them off. Mama would have been ashamed of me if I had carried this much grime into anyone’s home. “My husband will track in enough dirt for both us when he arrives.”

She laughed. “Aren’t husbands just all alike?”

“I’m right here.” Major Lindholm paused on the steps next to me. “But you let us know if you need anything. Anything at all. And I’ll make sure Dr. York gets back here safe and sound.”

“Thank you.” If I had to see another look of kindness, I would come completely apart. I concentrated on the other boot. Even my stockings were filthy, and my feet weren’t much better.

Mrs. Lindholm took a few steps out onto the porch. “I raised three sons. Believe me, a little dirt is not a problem.”

No tears. Not yet. A shallow breath kept the worst of it from flooding out. I swallowed the salt. Grabbing the railing, I pulled myself up to my bare feet. “I really can’t thank you enough.”

“Oh, I haven’t done anything yet.” She put her hand near my back, not quite touching me, and guided me into her home. “Now … I suspect that the first thing you’ll want is a nice hot bath.”

“I would take a cold shower at this point.”

The front door had opened directly into her living room. All the furniture sat at neat right angles, and even the tchotchkes had been squared with the edges of their shelves and tables. The air smelled of lemon furniture cleaner and cinnamon.

“For a cold shower, you could have stayed in the barracks.” Mrs. Lindholm bustled down the hall off the living room and opened the first door on the right. Most of the floor in the bathroom was given over to a claw-foot tub. “I have bubble bath. Lavender and rose.”

“I should probably shower first.”

She adjusted her glasses, taking in the dirt that caked my clothing and visible skin. “Hm … all right. But after that, you soak, you hear me? Else you’ll be all over aches and pains tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She wasn’t wrong. Given everything, I’d be surprised if I could even get out of bed tomorrow.

“Now. Here are your towels, and a set of my oldest son’s pj’s.” She put her hand on a set of red flannel pajamas. “My nightgowns would just fall off you. Just set your clothes on the counter, and I’ll get them washed.”

As she bustled out of the room I nodded, hoping she would take it as thanks.

She had to wash my clothes, because otherwise I would have nothing to wear. Not in the despairing debutante way, but a literal fact. We were refugees. Our home. Our jobs. Our bank. Our friends. Everything had been destroyed when the meteorite hit.

And if Nathaniel had not been a rocket scientist—if Parker hadn’t needed him—where would we be? I had thought about people like Mr. Goldman, but not about the people who lived. What were all the other hundreds and thousands of people who were on the edges of the destruction to do?

A cloud of steam preceded me out of the bathroom. I crept down the hall in my borrowed flannel pajamas. The trousers were fine, since I have long legs, but the sleeves hung down to my fingers. I rolled them up as I walked, and the myriad nicks on my fingers snagged against the soft fabric. My mind seemed empty of thought.

I think I was still in shock, which was to be expected, I suppose, but at least it wasn’t manifesting with tremors anymore. It just seemed as if everything had been swathed in cotton.

In the living room, the television was on but turned down low. Mrs. Lindholm had pulled her chair close to the screen. She hunched forward, staring at the news, with her hands balled in fists around a handkerchief.

Rendered in flickering black and white, Edward R. Murrow sat at his news desk with his cigarette, and spoke about the events of the day.

“… The latest total of known dead in the wake of the Meteor that struck today was seventy thousand, although that estimate is expected to rise. Five hundred thousand persons have been reported homeless in the states of Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, New York, New Jersey, Virginia, and into Canada, and as far down the Eastern Seaboard as Florida. These images were taken by airplane some five hours after the disaster. What you are looking at, ladies and gentlemen, was formerly the site of our nation’s capital.”

The screen showed a pool of water, bubbling like a geyser. I inhaled sharply as the camera panned to show the horizon, and the scale became clear. The border of dark soil was a ring of scorched earth hundreds of miles in diameter. At the coast, the Chesapeake Bay had not simply flooded its banks. The banks had ceased to exist. I was looking at the sea.

And it was steaming.

I sucked in breath as if someone had punched me in the gut.

Mrs. Lindholm turned in her chair, and I could almost see her folding her own shock and grief away into neat squares so she could be a good hostess. “Oh! You look like you’re feeling a little better.”

“I—yes…” I took a step closer to the television, horrified and fascinated in equal measure.

“A state of emergency has been declared across the Eastern Seaboard. The Army, Navy, Air Force, and Red Cross have mobilized, and are providing aid to refugees in need.”

The camera cut to footage from the ground of aid workers gathering refugees. In the background, a little girl with burns on her arms toddled next to her mother. Another cut to what had been an elementary school. The children’s bodies … it must have been morning recess when the meteorite struck. I had thought that anything I could imagine would be worse than the reality. I was wrong.

Mrs. Lindholm turned off the television. “There now. You don’t need to be watching that. What you need is some dinner.”

“Oh, I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Nonsense. I wouldn’t have told Eugene to bring you if you were going to be a bother.” She tucked her handkerchief into the waistband of her skirt as she stood. “Come into the kitchen and let me get a little food into you.”

“I—thank you.” My etiquette instincts about being an unplanned-for guest warred with the simple reality that I should eat, even if I wasn’t hungry. Plus, if she was anything like my mother—I brushed the back of my hand over my eyes—if she was anything like my mother, then turning down food would be inhospitable.

Under my bare feet, the kitchen’s linoleum floor was cool. The walls had been painted mint green, and there were crisp white cabinets above pristine counters. Had she cleaned when they said I was coming, or was her house always this tidy? As she opened the refrigerator, I suspected the latter.

She must have a friend that sold Tupperware, or maybe she did. The food was all in matching pastel containers. If I hadn’t seen that moment of shock and grief as she watched the television, she might have stepped out of an advertisement for GE. “Now … how about a ham and cheese sandwich?”

“Oh … maybe just cheese?”

“After the day you’ve had? You need to have some protein.”

Mama said it was always better to get the conversation over with. “We’re Jewish.”

She straightened, brows rising. “Are you really? Well … I’d never have known to look at you.”

It was kindly meant. I know it was. I had to believe it was, because I was a guest in her home and had nowhere else to go. I swallowed and smiled. “So, just cheese would be fine.”

“What about tuna fish?”

“That sounds lovely, if it’s not too much trouble.” Neither of us came from families that had kept kosher, but after the war began, I’d stopped eating pork and shellfish. The discipline, if nothing else, helped me remember who I was, and why that was important.

“Not a bit.” She pulled a pale pink container from the fridge. “Eugene always has tuna fish for lunch, so I keep some made up for him.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Just sit down.” Another container, this one green, followed the first. “It would be harder to explain where everything was than to just do it.”

On the wall by the refrigerator hung a dull brown wall phone. Somehow, the sight of it hit me with guilt like a brick. “May I … I hate to impose, but may I borrow your phone? It would be a long-distance call, but…” I trailed off, uncertain of when I could repay her.

“Of course. You want me to step out?”

“No. It’s fine.” That was a lie. I desperately wanted the privacy, but I didn’t want to impose on her any more than I already had. “Thank you.”

She slid the sandwich fixings over on the counter and gestured to the phone. “It’s not a party line, so you shouldn’t have to worry about anyone listening in. One of the benefits of staying in a major’s house, hm?”

I crossed to the phone, wishing it was in another room in the house, or that I had the guts to tell her the truth. After I dialed, I got that damnable circuit busy sound. I managed not to curse. Well … not aloud, at any rate.

I tried again, and the phone rang.

The relief sapped my strength and left me leaning against the wall. With each ring of the phone, I prayed: Please let them be home. Please let them be home. Please—

“Hello? Wexler residence.” My brother’s voice was calm and professional.

Mine cracked. “Hershel? It’s Elma.”

A ragged gasp, and then just the crackle of a long-distance line.

“Hershel?”

I have never heard my brother sob before. Not even when he split his knee open to the bone.

In the background, I could hear Doris, his wife, asking a question—probably “What’s wrong?”

“Elma. No—no. She’s alive. Oh, praise God. She’s alive.” His voice came back to the microphone. “We saw the news. What … what about Mom and Pops?”

“No.” I pressed my hand over my eyes and leaned my forehead against the wall. Behind me, Mrs. Lindholm made the sandwich with unnatural quiet. I had to press the words out of my throat. “Nathaniel and I were out of town. Mama and Daddy were home.”

His breath shuddered in my ear. “But you and Nathaniel are alive.”

“Do you know … how did Charleston fare?”

“The city was hit by tidal waves, but a lot of people were able to evacuate.” Then he answered the question I was actually asking. “We haven’t heard from Grandma, or any of the aunts.”

“Well … I had a time getting a clear circuit through.”

Doris said something, and Hershel’s voice muffled for a moment. “What? Yes … yes, I’ll ask.”

His wife had always been the more organized of the two, even while they were courting. I smiled, picturing the list that she was probably making right now.

“Where are you? What do you need? Are you hurt?”

“We’re at the Wright-Patterson base in Ohio. Well, actually, we’re at the home of the Lindholms, who have taken us in tonight. So, don’t worry. I’m well taken care of.” I glanced over my shoulder. Mrs. Lindholm had cut the sandwich into neat quarters and trimmed the crust off. “In fact, I should probably go, since I’m calling on her phone.”

“Next time, call me collect.”

“I’ll call tomorrow, if the circuits aren’t busy. Give my love to Doris and the children.”

When I hung up, I stood with my head against the wall, as if the mint green paint could cool my forehead. I think it was only a moment.

One of the chairs creaked as if Mrs. Lindholm had sat down, so I gathered myself and straightened. Daddy had always said that deportment was important for an officer and a lady. “Thank you. My brother has been very worried.”

“I’m sure I would be too.” She had set the sandwich on a bright teal plate and then centered it in the middle of a placemat. Next to the plate stood a glass of water with beads of condensation on its side.

The mundanity of the kitchen, the ticking clock on the wall, the hum of the refrigerator, and this kind woman with her sandwiches, placemats, and flannel pajamas seemed completely separate from the world I had been in all day. The images of the burned children on the television might as well have been on Mars for all the connection they had to here.

The chair creaked as I sat, and my joints ached with frustration. As I’d been taught, I put the napkin in my lap, and picked up the first quarter of the sandwich. I was lucky. We had owned a plane and a way to get out.

“Is the sandwich all right?”

I had eaten a quarter of it and not noticed. My mouth tasted of dying fish and rotting pickles. I smiled for my hostess. “Delicious.”

FIVE

TIDAL WAVE STRIKES VENEZUELA

CARACAS, Venezuela, March 4, 1952—(AP)—A tidal wave, believed to be caused by the meteorite which struck off the coast of North America, hit the port of Vela de Coro, inflicting heavy damages, reports to the Government said today. Ships anchored in the western Venezuela port were destroyed, and many houses along the waterfront were flattened, the reports said. The extent of the casualties is not yet known.

At some point, I must have fallen asleep on the couch. I woke up to Nathaniel’s touch on my forehead. The light from the kitchen streamed into the dark living room and caught on the white dress shirt he wore. He was clean and had showered, and for a disorienting moment, I thought that I had dreamed it all.

“Hey…” He smiled and brushed the hair back from my forehead again. “Do you want to sleep out here, or go to the bedroom?”

“When did you get ho—back?” I sat up, stretching the crick out of my neck. One of Mrs. Lindholm’s afghans had been pulled up over my shoulder, and the television was a dark ghost in the corner.

“Just now. Major Lindholm brought me.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “He’s making a sandwich.”

“Did you get something to eat?”

He nodded. “They fed us in the meeting.”

Nathaniel offered his hand and helped me to my feet. All of the cuts and aches and bruises that I had acquired during the day found me in the dark. The backs of my calves burned with each step. Even my arms protested, as I folded the afghan. Was it too soon to take another aspirin? “What time is it?”

“Nearly midnight.”

If he was only just now getting back, the situation was not good. In the dim light his features were too blurred to read. In the kitchen, Major Lindholm scraped his knife across a plate. I set the afghan down. “Let’s go back to the bedroom.”

He followed me down the dimly lit hall to the room that Mrs. Lindholm had put us in. It had belonged to her eldest son, Alfred, who was off at Caltech getting a degree in engineering. While there was a “Leopards” pennant from his high school, the partially assembled Erector set and the Jules Verne collection might have come out of my childhood room. Everything else was plaid or red, which I suspected was his mother’s touch.

When the door was closed, Nathaniel reached for the light, but I stopped him. For a little while longer, I wanted to be in the safety of the night. Here, with just the two of us, and no radio to remind us, we might just be visiting someone. My husband pulled me into his arms and I leaned against him, nestling my cheek into the contour of his chest.

Nathaniel rested his chin against my head and ran his hands through my still-damp hair. He smelled of an unfamiliar minty soap.

I nestled against him. “You showered on base?”

His chin rubbed the back of my head as he nodded. “I fell asleep at the table, so they took a break. I showered to wake up.”

Pulling back, I looked up at him. The shadows seemed deeper around his eyes. Those bastards. After everything he’d been through today, they kept him awake? “They didn’t just send you home?”

“They offered.” He squeezed my shoulders before releasing me. Unbuttoning his shirt, he meandered toward the bed. “I was afraid that, if I left, Colonel Parker would do something stupid. He still might.”

“He’s a schmuck.”

Nathaniel stopped undressing with his shirt halfway down his arms. “You mentioned knowing him.”

“He was a pilot in the war. Commanded a squadron, and haaaaaated having women fly his planes. Hated it. And he was grabby.”

In hindsight, I should not have mentioned that last bit to my husband. Not when he was exhausted. He straightened so fast, I thought he was going to rip his shirt. “What.”

Trying to soothe him, I held up my hands. “Not with me. And not with any of the women in my squad.” Well, not after I had a talk with Daddy. I shrugged. “Benefits of being a general’s daughter.”

He snorted and went back to sliding his shirt off. “That explains a lot.” Scrapes and bruises mottled his back. “I think I have him convinced that it wasn’t an A-bomb, but he’s certain that the Russians aimed the meteor.”

“They haven’t even gotten off the planet yet.”

“I pointed that out.” He sighed. “The good news is that the chain of command is not as broken as he would like us to believe. General Eisenhower is flying back from Europe. Should be here tomorrow morning, in fact.”

I took Nathaniel’s shirt from him and hung it on the back of a chair. “Here? As in Wright-Patterson, or as in America?”

“Here. It’s the closest intact base.”

The numbers sat quietly between us. We were more than five hundred miles from the impact site.

In the morning, I had my first glimpse of what we would be like as old people. Nathaniel could barely get out of bed on his own. During the earthquake, most of the debris had hit him. His back was a collection of hematomas and contusions that would have been better suited to one of Mama’s medical textbooks than a living man.

I was not much better. The only time I recalled feeling worse was the summer I’d had influenza. Still, I could get up, and I was fairly certain that once I was moving around, I’d be in better shape.

Nathaniel took two tries to push himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.

“You should rest.”

He shook his head. “Can’t. Don’t want General Eisenhower to be swayed by Parker.”

My foolish husband held out a hand, and I pulled him to his feet. “General Eisenhower does not strike me as the sort of man to be swayed by an idiot.”

“Even geniuses can be stupid when they’re scared.” He grunted as he stood, which did not fill me with anything like confidence. But I know my husband, and he’s the sort of man who will work until his death. He reached for his shirt and winced.

I picked up the bathrobe he’d been loaned and held it out. “Do you want to shower first? Might loosen you up.”

He nodded and let me help him into the bathrobe, then shuffled down the hall. I went to the kitchen to find Mrs. Lindholm. The unmistakable aroma of bacon met me before I was through the door.

I braced myself to have that conversation with every meal. They were kind people, and we’d be sleeping in a field if not for them. Well … maybe that was a little melodramatic. We would have slept in the plane, but still. And then I heard what they were talking about, and the bacon became insignificant.

“… keep thinking about the girls I went to school with. Pearl was in Baltimore.” Mrs. Lindholm’s voice broke.

“There now…”

“Sorry—I’m being such a goose. You want raspberry or strawberry jam with your toast?”

I rounded the corner while the topic was innocuous. Mrs. Lindholm bustled at the counter, with her back to me. She wiped a hand under her eyes.

Major Lindholm sat at the kitchen table. Coffee steamed in a cup held loosely in his right hand. He had a newspaper in the left, but was frowning over it at his wife.

As I entered, he looked around and put a smile on like a mask. “Hope we didn’t wake you last night.”

“Nathaniel did, which was just as well, or I would have woken with the worst crick in my neck.” We went through the requisite pleasantries while he supplied me with a cup of coffee.

Do I have to explain the glories of a fresh cup of coffee? The deep redolent steam rising from the cup woke me before the first gloriously bitter drop even touched my lips. Not just bitter, but caressing waves of dark alertness. I sighed and relaxed into my chair. “Thank you.”

“What about breakfast? Eggs? Bacon? Toast?” Mrs. Lindholm pulled a plate out of the cupboard. Her eyes were only a little red. “I have some grapefruit.”

How far inland had Florida’s citrus groves been? “Eggs and toast would be lovely, thank you.”

Major Lindholm folded his paper and pushed it away from him. “That’s right. Myrtle mentioned that you were Jews. Come over during the war?”

“No, sir. Oh—” I looked up as Mrs. Lindholm set a plate with eggs and toast in front of me. The eggs had been fried in the bacon grease. They smelled very good. Damn it. I used the act of buttering my toast to collect my thoughts. “My family came over in the 1700s and settled in Charleston.”

“Is that so?” He sipped his coffee. “I never met a Jew before the war.”

“Oh, you probably did, but they had their horns hidden.”

“Ha!” He slapped his knee. “Fair point.”

“Actually, my grandmother…” The toast and butter required all of my attention. “My grandmother and her sisters still spoke Yiddish in the home.”

Mrs. Lindholm settled in the chair next to me and watched, as if I were an exhibition at the museum. “Well, I never.” A little frown deepened the creases in her forehead. “And did they … well, you said Charleston, did they have Southern accents?”

I turned up the accent, which I’d learned to tone down in Washington. “Y’all want to come over for Rosh Hashanah? Well, mazel tov, y’all!”

They laughed until tears streamed down their faces as I went through the Yiddish I knew, with the Charleston accent turned on high. It hadn’t sounded strange when I was growing up. I’d just thought that was the way Yiddish was pronounced, until we started going to synagogue in D.C.

Nathaniel appeared in the doorway, moving with a little more ease. “Something smells good.”

Mrs. Lindholm jumped up and fixed a plate for him. The major talked genially about nothing. We were all pre tending so desperately that nothing was out of place. But the newspaper lying on the table showed a picture of New York City, transformed into a misshapen Venice, where the streets were watery canals framed by windowless skyscrapers.

Finally, Major Lindholm looked at the wall clock, which read ten till nine. He pushed back from the table. “Well. We should be getting on.”

Nathaniel jumped to his feet. “Thank you for breakfast, Mrs. Lindholm.”

“My pleasure.” She kissed her husband on the cheek. “It’s nice to have someone to talk to instead of the back side of a newspaper.”

He laughed, and it was easy to see why she’d fallen in love with him. “What do you ladies have planned for the day?”

“Well…” She picked up his plate and Nathaniel’s. “I thought I’d take Mrs. York in town to go shopping.”

“Shopping?” I picked up the other plates, following her to the counter. “I’d been planning on going in with Nathaniel.”

She tilted her head and stared at me as if I’d suddenly spoken Greek. “But you both need new clothes. I washed yours, but they really can’t be salvaged for anything, except maybe yard work.”

Nathaniel must have seen my stricken look, but didn’t understand it. I wasn’t worried about money. The world had just ended and I was being sent shopping. “It’s all right, Elma. Colonel Parker gave us a clothing allowance until we get my employment status sorted. So take the day and go shopping. There’s nothing you can do at the base, anyway.”

And that was the problem. There was nothing I could do.

Mrs. Lindholm pulled her Oldsmobile to a stop in front of a store in downtown Dayton. The awning over the storefront had a rip in it, and the windows of the shop had a thin grit coating them. They framed a display of smart dresses in vivid jewel tones. I got out of the car and looked down the street at the people going about their lives, as if nothing had happened yesterday.

No—that wasn’t quite true. The little clusters of people in conversation seemed to stand closer to each other than might be normal. The flag over the barbershop next door stood at half-mast. And the same grit that clung to the store window dusted everything. I shivered and looked up at the odd ochre haze in the sky.

Mrs. Lindholm saw my shiver and misinterpreted it. “Let’s get inside before you catch your death.”

“Oh, I’m getting good at outrunning death.”

Mrs. Lindholm’s face blanched. “I’m so sorry! I forgot about what you went through.”

Sometimes my humor doesn’t work to diffuse a situation. This was one of those cases. “No, really. It’s fine. It’s just … I’m the one who should apologize. That joke was in poor taste.”

“No, it’s my fault.”

“Really—no. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I was being thoughtless.”

“I—” I stopped and narrowed my gaze. “I should remind you that I’m Southern, and you’ll never win a politeness battle with me.”

She laughed, and people down the sidewalk turned to glare as if she had begun cursing in public. “Truce?”

“Absolutely.” I gestured to the door. “Shall we go in?”

Still laughing, she pushed the door open and set the shop bells to tinkling. The saleslady, a black woman in her late sixties with pristine white hair, stood next to a radio, listening intently. At the sound of the bells, she looked around, though her gaze lingered on the radio.

“… the fires from the Meteor strike yesterday have spread to cover three hundred and fifty square miles…”

She smiled, as if she’d just remembered how to do it. “May I help you?” Then her gaze rested on me. Her frown was not obvious—just a tensing of her smile.

All the ground-in dirt that no amount of washing could remove from my sweater grew to cover me. I must look homeless. Mama would be ashamed of me. I swallowed. I wanted to go back out to the car, but that would inconvenience Mrs. Lindholm, so I just stood, paralyzed, by the door.

Mrs. Lindholm gestured to me. “My friend was in the East yesterday.”

In the East. At the euphemism, the saleslady’s eyes widened and her brows peaked with pity. “Oh—you poor dear.” And then curiosity followed, like a predator drawn to blood. “Where were you?”

“The Poconos.”

Mrs. Lindholm pulled out a navy blue dress from the rack and held it up. “She doesn’t have anything except the clothes on her back.”

A middle-aged white woman appeared from between the racks of clothing. “You were really there? You saw the meteor?”

“Meteorite. A meteor breaks up before impact.” As if anyone cared about scientific accuracy. I think this might have been the last time I corrected someone. “Meteorite,” for whatever quirk of the English language, sounded almost cute. “But no, we were three hundred miles away.”

She stared at my face as if the cuts and bruises would give her a map to my specific location. “I have family back east.”

“So did I.” I snatched a dress from the rack and fled to the changing room. The louvered door shut behind me, shielding me from their view, but not from their hearing. I sank onto the little padded bench and pressed both hands over my mouth. Every breath hurt, fighting to be given sound. 3.14159265 …

“She and her husband flew in last night. Lost everyone except a brother, I understand.”

“That’s horrible.”

… 35897932384 … Everyone would know someone “back east.” I was not the only person who had lost family.

The saleslady said, “I heard on the news that we should expect a lot more meteor refugees, on account of Wright-Patterson.”

Meteor refugee. That’s what I was. It’s just that I was the first refugee that anyone had seen here. Of all the times for the tears to finally hit, it had to happen in a dress store?

“That’s what my husband was saying.” Mrs. Lindholm seemed to be just outside the door to my dressing room. “I’m going to go by the base hospital to volunteer later today.”

“That’s so good of you.”

Volunteer. I could do that. I could volunteer to fly refugees back from the East, or wrap bandages, or something. I’d done it during the war, and there was no reason not to pull myself together and do it again.

“Is that the CBS you’ve got on the radio now?”

I wiped my eyes and stood, reaching for the dress I’d snatched. It was a polka-dot number in a size better suited for a pencil than for me.

“Mm-hm … They were just saying that they’d found a surviving cabinet member. Let me turn it up, if you ladies don’t mind.”

In the mirror, it looked as though a ghoul had come to shop. I’d thought I looked homeless, but really, I looked as if I hadn’t truly survived the impact. Both of my eyes were blackened. I had tiny cuts all over my face and arms. Something had hit me, right below my hairline, and left a scrape. But I was alive.

“… and those tidal waves have also swamped the Caribbean, leaving many nations there without water or electricity. The devastation is said to number in the hundreds of thousands…”

I opened the door of the dressing room and tried to tune out the radio. “Silly me. It’s the wrong size.”

The saleslady came over to help me and we consulted on sizes and current fashion while the news continued in the background. It was like playing the fiddle while Rome burned around us.

SIX

INDIANS OFFER AID TO MRS. ROOSEVELT

Questions by Press Underscore the Growing Friendship for U.S.

The Times.

NEW DELHI, India, 4 March 1952—Questions put to Mrs. Franklin D. Roosevelt by Indian newspapermen at a Delhi press association luncheon for the former president’s widow today underscored the significant wide and growing devastation in the United States after a meteorite struck earlier this week. Initially intended as a hospitality meeting, talks focused on offers of aid for the United States.

The sky was a high, silver overcast, as Mrs. Lindholm dropped me off at HQ. “Are you sure you don’t want to go home and rest, dear?”

“Thank you, but I really do feel better when I’m active.”

Her mouth turned down in disappointment, but, to her credit, she didn’t argue with me anymore. “Well, I’ll be over at the base hospital, if you need me. Don’t forget to eat something.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I waved as she drove off. Shopping was all well and good—and, yes, I’ll grant that I felt better with clean clothes and makeup to hide the worst of the bruising, but I’d spent the entire time we were out feeling like I was playing make-believe. In every store, a radio or television had been tuned to the news. Delaware basically didn’t exist anymore, and the only surviving cabinet member they’d found so far was the secretary of agriculture.

But there were still refugees that needed to be transported. I knew how to fly. So, I brushed off my new polka-dotted navy blue dress, straightened its bright red belt, and headed inside to find Colonel Parker. He would not have been my first choice, mind you, but at least he knew my record of flying.

I knocked on his door, which stood open. He sat at his desk, head bent over a memo. I swear his lips moved as he read. He’d developed a bald spot at the back of his head about the size of a half-dollar. Wonder if he knew about it yet.

He looked up, but didn’t stand. “Mrs. York?”

“I saw on the news that the Air Force was mobilizing to deal with refugees.” I came in and sat down without being asked. I mean, I didn’t want to make him look bad about leaving a lady standing.

“That’s right. But don’t worry, your husband won’t be sent out.”

“Since he’s not active service and was never Air Force, this does not surprise me.” I breathed out, trying to let my irritation go with it. “But I was wondering if I might help. With so many of our men still in Korea, I thought having an extra pilot might be useful.”

“Well, now. … that’s very kind of you, but this really isn’t the place for a lady.”

“There are plenty of women among the refugees. And since I have firsthand experience—”

He held up his hand to stop me. “I appreciate your zeal, but it isn’t necessary. General Eisenhower is recalling our troops, and there’s an influx of UN aide.”

“What about Korea?”

“Cease-fire.” He shuffled the papers on his desk. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Still, until they are home, you’ll have a shortage of pilots.”

“Are you proposing to join the Air Force? Because, if not, I can’t let you fly one of our planes.” He made a mockery of regret. “And since your plane was damaged … I’m afraid there’s really nothing for you to do here.”

“Well.” I stood. He did not. “Thank you for your time.”

“Of course.” He looked back down at the memo. “You might try nursing. I understand that’s a good occupation for women.”

“Aren’t you just so clever. Thank you ever so much, Colonel Parker.” What truly aggravated me was that he was right. I wanted to help, but the skills I had were largely useless. Without a plane, what was I supposed to do? Math the problem to death?

My timing, when I arrived at the base hospital, couldn’t have been worse—or better, depending on how you looked at it. A plane of refugees had just landed and swamped the hospital. Tents had been set up as a waiting area, filled with people who had been outside for the last two days. Burns, dehydration, lacerations, broken bones, and simple shock.

I was handed a tray of paper cups filled with electrolytes and told to distribute them. It wasn’t much, but it was something useful.

“Thank you, ma’am.” The blond woman took a paper cup and looked down the rows of chairs to the doctors. “Do you know what’s going to happen to us next?”

The elderly man next to her shifted in his seat. His blackened eye was swollen nearly shut, and the blood crusted around his nose made it clear that he’d had a doozy of a nose bleed at some point. “Send us to camps, I reckon. I would’ve been better off staying where I was than sitting here.”

Camps had a grisly connotation, and that sort of talk was not going to help anyone. I held my tray of paper cups out to the old man. “Drink, sir? It will help restore some strength.” God. That was my mother’s doctor voice. Kind and brisk.

He snorted and crossed his arms, but he winced when he did. “You’re not a nurse. Not in that getup.”

He had a point. Still, I smiled at him. “You’re right. I’m just helping out.”

He snorted, and blood bubbled in one nostril. Then a gusher started. “Oh, hell.”

“Tilt your head back.” I looked around for something to use to stop the blood. The young woman took the tray of water. “Pinch the bridge of you—”

“I know. Ain’t my first one.” But he still did as I said.

A pasty man across the aisle, in tattered business attire, pulled his tie off and handed it to me. The lens of his glasses was cracked, and his eyes were more than a little glazed.

“Thank you.” I pressed the silk against the old man’s nose. “This is the finest bandage I’ve ever had the pleasure of using.”

The old man took it from me and glared at the ceiling. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“That I am.” I leaned forward to examine his eyes. “What would you like to talk about?”

He pursed his lips. “You been here … so you must know things. How bad is it?”

“I think…” I looked around at the battered people surrounding us. “I think that this is perhaps not the best time for that discussion. I’ll just say that you are in a better position than many. Another topic?”

“All right.” He grinned a little, and I got the sense that he was enjoying his cantankerous role. “What do you think of Charles F. Brannan?”

“Who?”

“Secretary of agriculture.” He turned the tie to a clean spot. “Way I hear it, he was in Kansas on a farm tour when the Meteor hit. Unless they find someone else in the line of succession, looks like he’s the new president.”

The businessman who’d given us the tie said, “Acting president.”

“Well, now that’s a subject for debate, isn’t it.” The old man was still glaring at the ceiling. “Constitutional scholars spend a whole heckuva lot of time talking about what exactly that means.”

Under all of that grime, the old man was wearing a tweed jacket, complete with bona fide leather patches at the elbows. “Where did you teach?”

“The Citadel.”

“Charleston?” My voice was too loud. People had turned to stare. I swallowed and tried again. “You were in Charleston?”

The old man lowered his head a little and studied me out of his good eye. “You got people there?”

“Hometown.”

“I’m sorry…” He shook his head. “I was out on a hike with cadets. Way inland. When we got back … well. I’m real sorry.”

I nodded, clenching my jaw against the truth of what I already knew. The blast radius of the meteorite, followed by the tidal waves, meant there’d been little chance. But if I didn’t know, then I could still hope. And hope would kill me.

It took walking up the stairs of the synagogue to realize that entering that door meant admitting that my family was dead.

The thought stopped me on the stairs, and I gripped the dusty metal railing. My family was dead. I had come to the synagogue because I needed to begin the mourning rites.

Daddy was never going to pick up his trumpet again. Mama’s giant cross-stitched bedspread would never be finished, and was so much ash.

My eyes closed of their own volition, blocking out the brick exterior and the scrubby little yew trees that flanked the stairs. Beneath the dark shield of my lids, my eyes burned. The grit under my hands was the same ash that drifted through most of the town. Ejecta from D.C.

“Are you all right?” An older man’s voice, with a hint of German to it, came from slightly behind me.

I opened my eyes and turned with a smile, even though my eyes must be red. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to block the way.”

The man, who stood a step down, was not older than I was, or if he was, it wasn’t by much. His face, though, had a remnant of gauntness to it that I recognized. A Holocaust survivor.

“You … had family?”

God. Spare me from the kindness of strangers. I stared at the horizon, an amber haze over the Ohio plains. “Yes. So—I need to go in to talk to the rabbi.”

He nodded and slipped past me to hold the door. “I, myself, am here for the same reason.”

“Oh—oh. I am so sorry.” I was such a self-centered schlub. I was hardly the only one with Jewish family in Charleston. And the damage to New York sounded extensive, and then D.C., and … How many of us had died leaving no one behind to light the yahrzeit candles and recite the Kaddish prayer?

His shrug was small and sad as he gestured me through the door. I stepped into the foyer. Through the open doors I could just make out the comforting light of the eternal flame hanging in front of the ark as a reminder.

This man … he must have escaped Germany, only to have this happen when he thought he was safe. And yet, he had survived. As had I.

That’s what we did. We survived.

And we remembered.

It is hard to sit shiva in a gentile’s home. I compromised with myself and called our bedroom “home” because I did not feel up to explaining to Mrs. Lindholm why I wanted to sit on low stools, or cover the mirrors.

Nathaniel walked in to find me sitting on the floor of our bedroom, pinning a torn ribbon to my shirt. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to tear the shirt itself, not because the grief wasn’t there, but to avoid the conversation about why I’d torn something we had just bought.

He stopped, and his gaze went to the jagged tear in the ribbon. His shoulders sagged, as if the fact that I had performed kriah alone let all the grief back in.

My husband came over to sit on the floor beside me, pulling me into an embrace. The custom against speaking to someone in mourning until they spoke first had never made so much sense. I could not have spoken if I had tried. And, I suspect, neither could he.

When the week of shiva passed, I called every mechanic in the phone book. None of them had the parts or time to repair my plane. But I had to do something.

I had survived, and there must be some reason for that. Some purpose or meaning or … something. I took to going to the hospital with Mrs. Lindholm every day to roll bandages, clean bed pans, and serve soup to plane after plane after plane of refugees.

They kept coming. I called the mechanics again. And then again.

One of them made vague promises about maybe looking into ordering a propeller, if he had time. If Nathaniel were home during the day, I would have asked him to make the call for me.

But each night he came home even later than I did. Friday night, two weeks after the Meteor, he came home well after sundown. Mind you, we had never been terribly religious about keeping the Sabbath before the meteorite, but somehow after it … I needed something. Some continuity.

I met Nathaniel at the door and took his coat from him. Major Lindholm—Eugene—and Myrtle had gone to a prayer meeting at their church, so we had the house to ourselves. “You aren’t supposed to work after sundown.”

“I’m a terrible Jew.” He leaned down to kiss me. “But I was occupied with convincing generals that no, the Russians could not have dropped the Meteor on us.”

“Still?” I hung his coat on a peg by the door.

“The problem is that Parker had mentioned it to … someone … probably several someones … and now it’s spread through the military as, ‘I heard there was a possibility that this was an offensive action by the Russians. ’”

“Ugh.” I gestured toward the kitchen, where the Lindholms had left the lights on. “There’s some chicken and potatoes, if you haven’t eaten.”

“You are a goddess.”

“You really are a terrible Jew.” I laughed and pulled him into the kitchen.

He dropped into one of the chairs with a groan, sliding forward to rest his head on the table. “Elma, I don’t know how much longer I can survive these meetings. I keep saying the same thing over and over. Thank God that the UN’s been called in, or there’s no telling where we would be now.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I pulled the refrigerator door open and found the plate I’d prepared for him.

He straightened. “Actually … yes. If you have time.”

“In abundance.”

“Do you think you could calculate the size of the meteorite?” His voice broke a little as he asked, and he had to pause to stare at the table.

Normally, a question like this would have gone to his colleagues at Langley. I pretended to busy myself with the plate to give him time to recover. We both tended to break at odd moments, and the tears were exhausting. Sometimes the best course was to pretend it wasn’t happening.

Nathaniel pressed his lips together in a dry grimace that tried to masquerade as a smile, and cleared his throat. “I figure if I know that, I can show that there’s no possible way the Russians could have moved it.”

I put the plate in front of him and kissed the back of his neck. “Yes. I’m presuming you can get me government charts.”

“Just tell me what you need.”

It’s funny. I’d been helping Myrtle with refugees all week, but since they kept coming, and each group was in worse shape than the last, it had felt like nothing had changed—like I made no difference in the world. I kept wondering why I had survived. Why me? Why not someone more useful?

I know. I know that’s not logical or reasonable, and clearly I was helping people, but … but the jobs I was doing could have belonged to anyone. I was an interchangeable cog.

Calculations? This pure abstraction of numbers belonged to me. This, I could do.

SEVEN

CIVIL DEFENSE TO USE “HAM” RADIOS

PHILADELPHIA, PA, March 17, 1952—To coordinate relief efforts after the Meteor strike, civil defense agencies are using various types of emergency communications equipment to transmit messages in the disaster area. In addition to the customary telephone, officials are employing portable radio transmitting sets, “walkie-talkies,” Army field telephone equipment, and amateur “ham” radio sets. These will be carried in cars manned by volunteer operators who will set up a secondary means of communication.

I worked on Nathaniel’s calculations in the evenings. It helped to have the solace of numbers to retreat to after helping with the refugees during the day. Today I had served soup to a group of Girl Scouts and their scout masters. They had been on a camping trip when the Meteor hit, and by sheer luck had been spelunking in the Crystal Caves. They’d felt the earthquake and thought it was disaster enough. Then they’d come up and everything was just gone.

So, numbers. Numbers were a solace. There was logic and order in the calculations. I could take disparate events and wring sense from them.

The other place where I found order amid the chaos was in the kitchen. It had taken a week before Myrtle would trust me in the kitchen, and another couple of days before I convinced her to let me make dinner. Now we took turns.

Was the kitchen kosher? Not even a little. Ask me if I cared. I opened the drawer next to the sink and rummaged through it until I found the measuring cups. Tonight I was making chicken potpie.

The filling simmered on the stove, scenting the air with the savory aroma of butter and thyme. In some ways, making pastry was like mathematics. Everything needed to be in proportion in order for the mass to come together.

I walked over to the refrigerator, glancing into the living room. Myrtle sat on the couch with her feet up on Eugene’s lap. He was rubbing them while she sipped from a glass of wine.

“… nothing you can do?”

“I’m sorry, baby. I’ve tried.” He grimaced and bent his head as he rubbed a thumb into the ball of her foot. “But I can’t go where they don’t send me.”

“It’s just … plane after plane of white folks. Where are our people? Who’s rescuing them?”

How had I not noticed that? I stopped with a hand on the refrigerator and ran through the refugees in my head, willing myself to see one spot of color amid the masses.

“You know what would happen, even if the brass were to send us to our peoples’ neighborhoods. Say we pick them up, and then what? Our people would be put in different camps.”

She sighed. “I know … I know. I’ll bring it up in church. See if we can get a relief effort going ourselves.”

Measuring cup still in my hand, I walked over to the kitchen door. “Excuse me.”

Myrtle looked around, and as she did, it was like a mask had slipped over her features. She smiled. “Do you need help finding something?”

“Oh—no. I just … I couldn’t help overhearing. Do you—do you want Nathaniel to talk to someone?”

Eugene and Myrtle exchanged a glance that I couldn’t begin to understand, and then he shook his head. “Thank you, ma’am. I think we’ve got this.”

After dinner, I retreated to the Lindholms’ study. I had strewn papers all over the desk as I tried to pull the data points together into the order I needed. Opening the drawer, I pulled out the little notepad we were using as a log book and jotted down the time so I could pay them back for the long-distance call. Then I picked up the receiver and dialed my brother’s work number.

“United States Weather Bureau, Hershel Wexler speaking.”

“Hey, it’s Elma. Got a minute for a weather question?”

“That is the literal definition of my job. What’s up?” Paper rustled on the other end of the line. “Planning a picnic?”

“Heh. No.” I pulled the equations I’d been working on closer. “I’m helping Nathaniel figure out how big the meteorite was, and composition and … The Chesapeake was steaming for three days. I could sort it out on my own, but … I thought there might be an existing equation for figuring out what temperature it would take to make a body of water that big steam.”

“Interesting … Give me a sec.” Beyond him, I could hear the Teletype bringing in reports from weather stations around the world. “You’ve got the depth and volume of water, I assume?”

“Average depth twenty-one feet. Eighteen trillion gallons.”

“Okay. So … during March, the Chesapeake Bay is around forty-four degrees. So we’d need a temperature change of 199.4…” A drawer opened, and the timbre of his voice changed. I could picture him with the phone pressed between cheek and shoulder, brows creased as he worked the slide rule. His crutches would be leaning against the edge of his desk. His glasses would be down at the tip of his nose to help him focus better, and he’d have the corner of his lower lip tucked between his teeth, humming between muttered phrases. “… divided by water’s molar mass … and that gives me 1.54E20 J of energy … hm-hmmm … Adding the two energies together … hmmm … 1.84E20 J of energy. You’d need … It would need to be approximately 518 degrees.”

“Thanks.” I swallowed at the number and tried not to betray how much it frightened me. “You could’ve just given me the formula.”

“What? And admit that my kid sister is better at math than I am?” He snorted. “Please. I have an ego.”

I could now plug the temperature into an equation that took the approximate angle of entry into account, and that should tell me generally what sort of composition we were looking at, based on what would heat to 518 degrees during passage through the air. It wouldn’t be precise, but it would be good enough for Nathaniel’s purposes.

“You said you were figuring out what the Meteor was?” The timbre changed again as he brought the receiver closer to his mouth.

“Yeah. Based on the size of the crater—eighteen miles—and the initial water displacement, I have a pretty good estimate of the meteor ite’s size.” I started noodling with the numbers that he’d given me. “At some point, they’ll get divers down to find out its actual composition, but every one is focused on the refugee and recovery efforts…” And that made me think of Eugene and Myrtle.

“Maybe you can answer a question for me.”

“I’m not doing your math homework.”

He snorted. “How’s Nathaniel doing?”

“Oh…” I sighed and checked the door to make sure it was shut. “He’s exhausted and frustrated and a bunch of it is classified, so … I keep thinking it’ll be better when everything is over, but…”

“But it’s not going to be over.”

“No.” I rubbed my forehead. “How is it out there?”

“We’re just starting to see refugees, but mostly it’s business as usual.” He sighed. “That’s going to change when the weather patterns start to shift.”

“Shift how?”

“I’m not sure exactly, but that’s what I’m working on. That much sediment and smoke in the air?” I could imagine him pulling his glasses off as he sighed. “Maybe you can answer another question for me.”

“I’m still not doing your math homework for you.”

“Yes, you are, actually. What was the water displacement?”

“I’ll be able to give you an approximate value once I know how big the thing was. Why?”

“Because you kick that much water up into the air, and it’s going to have an impact on the weather. I want to see if we can predict what the hurricane season is going to be like because of this.”

I smiled at the wall, as if Hershel were sitting opposite me. “Okay. Fine. I’ll do your math homework, but you know the deal.”

“Yes.” He laughed. “You can read my comic books, but that is going to require coming to visit.”

“As soon as we’re finished here.” Once Nathaniel was finished with his meetings, I’d talk to him about maybe moving to California.

I shoved the calculations away from me and rested my head on my hands. Crap. It had taken me two evenings to get all the variables lined up. And now? I’d gone through the numbers three times, and if there was a mistake, I wasn’t finding it. I had called Hershel, but it was after work hours, and they were out for the evening. Goodness knows what their babysitter made of my message.

Pushing back from the desk, I stood and paced around the study. A casserole sat congealing on the table next to me. Myrtle had brought it in at some point. Part of it was gone and the fork was dirty, but I had no memory of eating anything.

An ache ran from my right eye and over the top of my head. I needed Nathaniel. I gathered the pages together, both my original calculations about the meteorite impact, and the tidier sheets where I’d reworked them. He would still be at HQ. I could … what? Pull him out of a meeting? Nothing on these pages would change if I waited for him to come home.

But I needed my husband, and I needed him now. Rubbing the ache above my eye eased it a little. If my math wasn’t wrong, then some of the original data must be. One of the reports probably exaggerated numbers. I must be wrong.

I snatched the plate off the table and carried it into the kitchen. The house was dark, except for the light over the stove. Nathaniel needed to come home. And he would, probably in not too much longer. I could be patient.

I scraped the rest of the casserole into the garbage then stood at the kitchen sink to wash the dish. The Lindholms had a shiny new dishwasher, but the water running over my hands calmed me. After I put the dish in the rack, I stood for a moment and let the water trickle through my fingers.

The front door opened. Thank God. I wiped my hands on the dish towel and ran to meet Nathaniel. He smiled when he saw me, and leaned in for a kiss. “Hello, beautiful.”

“I need to show you something.” I winced. “Sorry. I mean, how was your day? Convince them that the Russians aren’t after us yet?”

“Not quite. And now President Brannan wants to restart NACA and have us look for other asteroids.” He loosened his tie. “What did you want to show me?”

“It can wait until morning.” This was me trying to be a good wife despite my anxiety, because, truly, showing him tonight would accomplish nothing beyond making him as sleepless as me.

“Elma. No. I don’t want to be kicked all night.”

“Kicked?”

“Yeah. When you’re this worked up, you toss and kick in your sleep.”

“I—” How do you argue about what you do when you’re asleep? “Do I hurt you?”

“Let’s just say that I’d like to see whatever it is.”

Really, I needed no convincing at all. I grabbed his hand and pulled him into the study. “I was trying to calculate how much energy it would take to move the Meteor to prove that there was no way the Russians could have done it.”

He stopped in the doorway. “Please don’t tell me that they could have done it.”

“No.” In a way, that would have been better. I stood next to the desk and looked at the pages covered with calculations. “No, but I think this could be an extinction event.”

EIGHT

FEED GRAINS PRICES CRASH

CHICAGO, March 26, 1952—(AP)—Feed grains dropped significantly on the Board of Trade today in a continuation of the preceding session’s crash. Brokers thought the downturn, both today and yesterday, was based largely on the fact that export of corn and oats were blocked due to harbor damage on the East Coast ports.

God help me, I wanted to be wrong. Nathaniel sat at the desk in the Lindholms’ study and worked his slide rule, double-checking my calculations. The desk was scattered with encyclopedias, almanacs, atlases, and newspapers from the last week with reports of where damage was showing.

I leaned against the wall next to the window, chewing on the inside of my lip. The night outside had started to turn silver, and if I had any more coffee, I would vibrate through the ceiling.

He hadn’t asked me any questions for the last hour. Every time his pencil scratched against the paper, I hoped it was an error, that I’d forgotten to invert a differential or square a root or something. Anything.

Finally, he set the slide rule on the desk and rested his head on his fingertips. He stared at the last page. “We have to get off this fucking planet.”

“Nathaniel!” Why I was chiding him about language, I couldn’t tell you.

“Sorry.” He sighed, sliding his hands over his head until his face was hidden between his arms. His voice was muffled against the table. “I really wanted you to be wrong.”

“My starting numbers might be off.”

“If they’re that far off, someone at Encyclopedia Americana should be fired.” He sat up, still scrubbing his face and squinting. “I thought we had gotten lucky that the meteorite was a water strike.”

“It’s the steam that’s the problem.” I crossed the room to sit on the desk, but Nathaniel caught my wrist and pulled me down onto his lap. I leaned against him and rested my head on his. “Things are going to get cold for a bit, and then all that water vapor in the air…”

He nodded. “I’ll see if I can get you a meeting with the president.”

“The president?” Heart kicking sideways, I straightened a bit. “It’s just … I mean, a lot of this involves stuff that’s not in my field of study and … maybe we should talk to other scientists.”

“Sure. But … right now, they’ve got me and Wernher von Braun working on a program to spot other potential asteroids and blow them up with rockets.” He leaned back in the chair and scratched one of the scabs on his chin. “You know military bureaucracy as well as I do.”

“Once a program starts, it’s hard to stop.”

He nodded. “And we’re working on the wrong damn problem.”

I stood in front of the closet, staring at my meager wardrobe. Every time I reached for a dress, my stomach knotted itself. Everyone would be staring at me. What if I picked the wrong dress? What if my calculations were wrong? It would be better, for Nathaniel, if I stayed home instead of going with him to meet the general.

“Elma? Which tie should I—you’re not dressed?” Nathaniel stopped just inside the door to our room. “We’re supposed to meet General Eisenhower in thirty minutes.” He had a borrowed tie in each hand.

“The blue one. It brings out your eyes.” I shut the door to the closet, and the knot in my stomach immediately loosened.

“Are you okay?” He lowered the ties and came over to feel my forehead.

“Just a little under the weather.” I was having my period, but that wasn’t the problem. I would milk it, though, for all it was worth, if it meant I could avoid this meeting. “But I’ve got the report typed up for you, and you understand the equations as well as I do.”

“That is a serious exaggeration.” He set the green tie down on the desk. “If they have any questions, I’m not sure I’m equipped to answer them.”

They. Of course it would be a crowd. It was one thing to follow Nathaniel into a meeting as support, or to argue with Parker, but get more than six men in a room, and … all the old memories came back. I wiped my palms on my dressing gown, still nervous even though I wouldn’t be going. “The general likely won’t be able to follow the equations anyway. So all you have to do is talk about the conclusions.”

He sighed and looped the tie around the back of his neck. “That’s what I was planning on doing. I wanted you there for the things I couldn’t answer. Like the correlation between steam in the air and increased global temperatures.”

I grabbed one of the reports I’d typed up and flipped through the pages. “That’s on page four, and there’s a graph at the back that shows the rise in temperature over the next fifty years. So—”

“I know.”

“They’ll believe it coming from you. They won’t if I explain it.”

“Please.” He turned from the mirror. “Which of us was a math tutor in college? You’re brilliant at explaining things.”

My husband was a good man. He believed in me. And he also had a huge blind spot, because he didn’t see how people would ignore what I said until he repeated it. “It doesn’t matter. I just don’t feel well. Okay?”

Nathaniel wrapped the tie into a Windsor and snugged the sharp knot up against his collar. “Sorry. I’d just been planning on having you there. But if you don’t feel well, you don’t feel well.”

I shrank a little into my bathrobe. “I just … today’s not a good day.”

“When is? We haven’t had a good day since the meteorite struck.”

“I’m—it’s a feminine—”

“Got it.” He frowned and rubbed his brow. Shaking his head, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “Well. This is just a precursor to meeting the president. You’ll be better for that one.”

The problem was that I wouldn’t be better. Meeting the president would be infinitely worse … but at least it wasn’t happening today. And maybe I wouldn’t be needed, or maybe my security clearance wouldn’t be high enough, or something would save me from having to stand in front of a roomful of men.

I’m an intelligent woman. I understood that there was absolutely no danger. I really, truly did.

And yet … and yet, going to high school when you are eleven years old. Being the only girl in a mathematics class. Repeatedly. Going to college at fourteen. Having everyone stare at you because you can do math in your head. Having boys hate you, hate you, because you never get questions wrong in class. Being used as a tool by professor after professor. “Look! Even this little girl knows the answer.”

By the time I left college, I would do anything to avoid speaking in front of a group. I cleared my throat. “Have you met him before?”

“The president, or Eisenhower? I mean, yes, either way, but only briefly.”

“General Eisenhower and Daddy used to golf together.”

“See! This is why I want you there.”

“Because of who my dad is—was? Whatever.” I slapped the report back down on the desk. “I can’t go.”

He sighed again and stared at the floor. “I’m sorry. I’m being selfish, because I’m nervous.” Nathaniel walked over and wrapped his arms around me. “Is there anything you need today? Hot water bottle? Chocolate?”

“Empty promises. Where do you think you’ll get chocolate?” With the ports on the East Coast still closed, the grocery store shelves were already getting thin.

“I’ll requisition it from General Eisenhower.”

“On what grounds?”

“That the fate of the world depends on keeping my wife healthy and happy.” He kissed my forehead. “I’m not even sure it’s an exaggeration.”

There’s a cascading effect that happens when you lie about not feeling well. I was supposed to go volunteer at the hospital after the meeting with Eisenhower. After Nathaniel left, Myrtle knocked on my door.

I buttoned the last button on my blouse. “Come in?”

Using her foot, Myrtle pushed the door open. She had a tray with some saltines and a glass of ginger ale. “Nathaniel said you weren’t feeling well.”

“Oh … it’s just, you know, feminine complaints.” I tucked in my shirt so I wouldn’t have to face her. “The worst seems to have passed, actually.”

“I know every woman is different, but mine lays me out for an entire day.” She set the tray down on the little desk in our room. “So I’ve brought you some things to settle your stomach. Do you need a hot water bottle? Or … I have some bourbon, if that will help.”

How had we gotten so lucky as to land with these people? My eyes watered, which was a sign that my period was, in fact, affecting me. “You are kindness embodied.” I wiped my fingers under my eyes. “Honestly, I am much better. It usually doesn’t hit me very hard at all. I guess I just…” I waved my hand, hoping she would create her own story from the ambiguity.

“All the stress of—well, everything you’ve gone through in the past couple of weeks.” She held out the glass of ginger ale. “No wonder you’re wrung out.”

“I’m fine.” But I took the ginger ale, and even the icy chill of the glass was soothing. “Really. What about you? Any progress with your church on the refugee front?”

Myrtle hesitated, then wet her lips. “Actually … yes. Maybe. We have an idea, but it involves asking you a favor.”

Oh God. A chance to be useful? “Yes. Anything. After everything y’all have done for us, anything I can do is already done.”

“Don’t worry—this won’t require you to do a thing.” She straightened the tray on the desk so it was square with the edges. “Eugene says you have a plane?”

“It’s damaged, but yes.”

She nodded as if she already knew this. “If he could get it fixed up, can he borrow it?”

“Of course.” It was small and petty of me, but I was disappointed that there was nothing more. “But I called all the mechanics and none of them could help.”

She gave a little smile. “You called all the white mechanics. Not everyone who knows planes is in the phone book. Eugene can get it fixed.”

Had she known that there were other mechanics all along and not told me, or was it something that hadn’t come up until just now? Either way, resentment was a completely inappropriate response. I owed her. She owed me nothing. “It can only hold four. You won’t be able to get a lot of refugees in there.”

“Oh … I know. We’ve got a different plan.” She straightened and clapped her hands together. “Listen to me, running my mouth off when you don’t feel well. Now, you just take it easy for the rest of the day, even if you do feel better. I’ll leave some chicken broth—no bacon—simmering on the stove for later.”

“Thank you, but really—”

“You’re fine. I know. You’re as bad as Eugene. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a man.”

“It’s a pilot thing, I guess.” I shrugged. “They ground you if you’re sick.”

“Well … I don’t have daughters, but you’re grounded, young lady. I think that’s the only way to get you to slow down and take care of yourself.”

Slow down? I’d done nothing since the meteorite. I should have gone with Nathaniel. I might have been a tiny bit useful there.

“What are you doing in the kitchen?” Myrtle stood in the living room with her hat and gloves still on.

With a handful of lettuce poised over a bowl, I somehow suddenly felt guilty. “Making dinner?”

“Girl, you’re supposed to be resting.” Sometimes her mid-Atlantic housewife diction disappeared, mostly when she was irritated. I got a sense I was hearing a more honest version of herself. Myrtle set her things down on one of the side tables and came in, making shooing gestures. “Go on. Back to bed.”

“I’m fine. There was a little cramping, but really…” I put the rest of the lettuce in the bowl and shredded it with, perhaps, a little more force than was strictly necessary. I should have just buckled up and gone with Nathaniel. “I was restless, and you worked all day.”

Outside, the rumble of Major Lindholm’s jeep gave notice that at least one of the men was home. Glancing out the window, I couldn’t quite make out the vehicle. Had Nathaniel been kept in meetings? Again? I should have gone. I was an idiot.

She pulled open the pantry door and reached inside for an apron. “Well, tell me what I can do.”

“Um … Check the tagliarini to see if the foil needs to come off?”

The front door opened and brought with it the sound of Eugene and Nathaniel talking. It seemed like every time he got a chance, Eugene would pump Nathaniel for information about rockets. “… out at Edwards Air Force Base.”

“Oh Lord … not this again.” Myrtle strode toward the living room. “You are not going to be a test pilot. Fighter was bad enough, but at least there was a war on then.”

“Baby … we’re just talking about the rocket work they’re doing.”

Nathaniel laughed uncomfortably. “We’re comparing the facilities at Sunflower in Kansas to Edwards. That’s all … Um. I should go check on Elma.”

“She’s in the kitchen.”

Nathaniel appeared in the door as I picked up a carrot to grate into the salad. He set his folder of papers down on the kitchen table. “Hey. Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you.” We needed to get him a new briefcase, but it seemed low on the list of priorities. I picked up the grater and ran the carrot over the rough surface with quick downstrokes. “How did it go?”

“Good. Thank God.” He loosened his tie and leaned against the counter. “Anything I can do?”

“Um … make a cocktail?”

“Gladly.” We had added to the Lindholms’ liquor cabinet as soon as Nathaniel had received his first paycheck from the military. And, yes, we stockpiled some under the bed in our room—currency. In case things really collapsed. “Martini okay?”

“Perfect.” I set the grater aside and scraped the carrots into the bowl with the lettuce. Every time I’d handled food since doing the calculations, I wondered if this was the last year I’d be eating it. But carrots and lettuce … they’d both survive the meteorite winter years. I think. “So what did Eisenhower say? Tell me about your brilliance.”

Nathaniel snorted as he pulled the gin out of the freezer. “Well … your brilliant, brilliant husband—hang on.” He wandered over to the door to the living room, and I wanted to scream at him. Such a tease. “Do you all want martinis?”

Their hushed conversation broke off and Eugene said, “God yes. If my wife allows—oof.”

“Thank you, Nathaniel. That would be very much appreciated. Might I have a double?” You could have caught flies with the honey in Myrtle’s voice.

Chuckling, I rinsed the grater in the kitchen sink. At least there were no issues with clean water here. Some of the refugees had been without it for days by the time they got to us. Of course, the acid rains hadn’t reached the Midwest yet. “A double sounds like an excellent idea.”

Nathaniel turned back from the doorway with his brows raised. “And I’m the one who had the meeting.”

“Medicinal. And you should have a double too.” The dressing was already made, but I wouldn’t add it until we were ready to eat. That left … checking the tagliarini. “You were telling me about Eisenhower and your brilliance.”

“Ah. Right.” He grabbed a pitcher from the cabinet. “Well … after I dazzled them with my rhetoric and awe-inspiring elocution, I stunned Eisenhower into silence by handing him your brilliant, in-depth report. Not that he could follow the calculations, but—”

“See, I didn’t need to be there.” As I opened the oven door, the heat from it rushed up into my face. Four hundred and fifty degrees. That was cooler than the air that would have hit Washington from the airblast.

“Well, I did have to bluff my way past some of his questions.” Nathaniel measured gin into the pitcher. “But he has enough understanding of rocketry, from a military perspective, to understand that moving the asteroid would have been impossible given the Soviet’s current level of technology.”

“Thank God.” I teased the foil off the tagliarini so the cheese could brown, then shut the oven door. “What about the weather?”

“The weather today was lovely.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. And it’s relevant. It’s hard to convince people that catastrophic weather changes are coming on a nice day.” The bottle of vermouth was standing on the counter next to him. “Besides, it doesn’t have ‘military significance,’ so he didn’t feel the urgency of it.”

“The bulk of the report was about that!” I should have gone with him. Next time. Next time, I would have to go. “So … do you get to see the president? Is that what happens next?”

He shrugged and grabbed the ice from the freezer. “I’m trying. Eisenhower said he would attempt to expedite it, but without the Soviet threat, the urgency isn’t there. Acting President Brannan is, understandably, busy with restoring the U.S. government.”

“Ugh.” I stood with my hands on my hips and hated myself even more for this morning’s lie. If I had been there—what? Would General Eisenhower really have listened to a girl talk about math and weather? Maybe, for the sake of my father, he might have given me time, but I doubt I could have changed his mind. “I’m glad I already asked for a double, because if they don’t make plans…”

“I know.” He lifted the lever to crack the ice in the tray with such force that a piece hopped out and skittered across the floor. “But one step at a time. They aren’t going to attack the Soviets, and that would have been far worse.”

It wouldn’t have been. Just more immediate.

NINE

POLLUTION DEFIES EUROPE’S BORDERS

Norway Finds Air Waste From Abroad a Problem

By JOHN M. LEE

OSLO, Norway, April 3, 1952—Rising European concern about air pollution deriving from last month’s Meteor strike found expression in Norway this week when a leading scientist declared, “Our freshwater fish and our forests will be destroyed if these developments continue uncontrolled.”

After that glorious week of calculations, my life returned to volunteering at the hospital while we waited to hear from the president. April 3rd. One month, to the day, after the Meteor struck, one of the daily refugee planes landed. You would think they would stop coming at a certain point, but there were always more. The people who had survived the initial devastation had held out until it became clear that the infrastructure wouldn’t recover any time soon.

I waited in the shade of one of our canvas triage tents as the plane taxied to a stop. Uniformed men ran the stairs out to the plane, and the doctors and nurses waited at the ready. We had a good system down now.

The door opened and the first of the refugees stepped out, gaunt as a rake. And black. I inhaled and turned, automatically, to look for Myrtle. In the entire month, this was the first black man who had gotten off one of the refugee planes.

She had her back to the plane, squaring bandages on a table.

“Myrtle?” Behind me, a murmur of surprise came from the doctors and nurses.

“Hm?” She looked over her shoulder. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself on the table. “Oh God. Praise God, it worked. Thank you, God, for your mercy.”

When I turned back, there was a line of black men, women, and children coming down the stairs. There were white people mixed in, and we saw more as the refugees kept deplaning. First in, last out. The black people had been the last ones they’d let on the plane.

As they came closer, their features were easier to make out. Thin, yes. But also pocked with tiny pink sores. Someone moaned—it might have been me. We’d seen the sores from acid rain before, but the damage was so much more apparent on darker skin.

I shook myself and picked up my tray of paper cups of electrolytes. Hydration. Someone else would be standing by with sandwiches. Glancing back at Myrtle, I said, “So I guess Eugene finally talked someone into changing the location of the rescue missions, huh?”

“No.” The smile on her face died away. “No. We used your plane to drop fliers on the black neighborhoods, telling them where to go to be picked up by the refugee planes. But they’re here now, and there will be more, and we’ll thank God for that.”

She picked up a packet of swabs and prepared to meet the incoming wave.

Two weeks later, I’d had ample opportunity to feel guilty for ditching the first meeting about the climate problem like it was a plane on fire. So, feeling the total lack of a parachute, I followed Nathaniel into the meeting with the president, his staff, some cabinet members, and half a dozen other men who served goodness knows what function.

I tried to focus on the mundane details to get past the fear. For instance, whoever had decorated this conference room had gone to great lengths to mask the fact that it was an underground bunker. The wood-paneled walls and green carpet evoked a forest glade. Curtains hung over faux windows, which were lit from the back with a warm golden light.

I clutched my portfolio of papers against my chest and followed Nathaniel into the room. Men in ties and dark suits sat or stood around the room in little knots of conversation. Some stood in front of a chalkboard, where my calculations had been transferred. They stopped talking and turned to stare when Acting President Brannan stood to greet us.

He was sunburnt, and had wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, as though he usually smiled a lot. Not today, though. Lines of strain turned his mouth down, and his hoary gray eyebrows were drawn together with concern.

“Dr. York. Mrs. York.” He gestured to the man next to him, who was rotund and balding, but had a splendidly tailored suit. “This is M. Scherzinger from the United Nations. I’ve asked him to sit in on our conversation.”

“Charmed.” He bent over my hand with a click of his heels, but his eyes strayed to the small scar my hairline.

Or, at least, I thought they did. I might have been a little paranoid about my appearance. I had tried to find the line between professional and dowdy, but it likely didn’t matter. I was the only woman in the room.

Another man, with red hair and no chin, approached and said, “Should we get started, Mr. President? We don’t want to waste Dr. York’s time.” By which he meant that the president was very busy.

“Of course. Thank you, Mr. O’Neill.” President Brannan gestured to the front of the conference room.

I kept my gaze fixed upon the chalkboards, scanning the numbers to see if everything had been transferred accurately. It was easier than thinking about the fact that we were about to give a presentation to the president. Or, at least, the acting president.

Around us, the men took their seats and stared at the front of the room expectantly. My heart was racing, and my palms stuck to the portfolio with sweat. To look at me, you wouldn’t think that it was snowing outside.

At least I was only there as backup, in case Nathaniel needed additional calculations to explain the situation. Give me an unpowered landing and I was fine. Addressing a roomful of people? Thank you, but no.

At the moment, all I wanted to do was get through the afternoon without vomiting. Besides, there was a disturbing consistency to how data presented by pretty young women was treated. It was better all around if it was Nathaniel doing the talking.

I set my portfolio down on a little table between the chalkboards. One of them was blank and there was plenty of chalk, in a variety of colors, waiting for me. I picked up a piece so I’d have something to do with my hands. The cool white cylinder soaked up the sweat from my skin.

My husband faced the room and waited until he had everyone’s attention. “Gentlemen. In the weeks since the Meteor, we have been focused on recovery efforts. Hundreds of thousands of people in countries around the At lantic have been rendered homeless. In some places, the social order has collapsed, leading to rioting, looting, and other atrocities as people compete for scarce resources. My duty today is to tell you that this is not the worst of our problems.”

Listening to the rolling, authoritative tone of his speech, it became much easier to remember why he had become something of a celebrity after we launched the satellites.

“Many people fear that another meteor will strike. It’s a natural fear, and why we’re buried in this bunker. But … but the chances of another strike occurring are astronomically small. The danger represented by this equation is not only much greater, but certain.” He gave a rueful smile and shrugged. “For decades, scientists have wondered what happened to the dinosaurs. Why they all died off. This … this might explain it.”

He walked to the chalkboard with my equations on it. “I won’t expect you to follow the math here, but I will say that it has been checked by top people in geology, climatology, and mathematics.”

That last one was only me, but I didn’t interrupt him. Nathaniel paused and surveyed the room, gathering their attention. The golden light from the faux window brushed his cheeks, picking out the small scars. Under his dark gray suit, his bruises had faded, and he stood with easy confidence, as if he had never been injured.

Taking a breath, Nathaniel tapped the board. “The problem is, gentlemen, that the Earth is going to get warmer. The dust that the Meteor kicked up will clear from our skies. The water vapor … that’s the problem. It will trap heat, which will cause evaporation, which will put more water vapor into the air, which will, in turn, make the Earth hotter, and kick off a vicious cycle that will eventually make the planet unfit for human habitation.”

A plump, sallow man on the right side of the table snorted. “It’s snowing today in Los Angeles.”

Nathaniel nodded and pointed to him. “Exactly. That snow is directly linked to the Meteor. The dust and smoke that got kicked into the atmosphere are going to cool the Earth for the next several years. We’ll probably lose crops this year, not just in the United States, but globally.”

President Brannan, bless him, raised his hand before speaking. “How much will the temperature drop?”

“Elma?” Nathaniel half-turned toward me.

My stomach lurched into my throat, and I flipped through the papers in my portfolio to find the one I wanted. “Seventy to one hundred degrees globally.”

Toward the back of the room, someone said, “Couldn’t hear.”

Swallowing, I lifted my head from the papers and faced the room. This was no different from shouting over the engine of an airplane. “Seventy to one hundred degrees.”

“That doesn’t seem possible.” The man at the back crossed his arms over his chest.

“That’s just for the first few months.” They were focusing on the wrong thing. The temperature drop would be unpleasant, but was short-term. “Then we’ll have three to four years of a global climate that’s 2.2 degrees cooler than average, before the temperature begins to rise.”

“2.2? Huh. So what’s the big tizzy over?”

President Brannan said, “That’s more than enough to severely affect crops. Growing seasons will shorten by ten to thirty days, so we’ll have to convince farmers to plant different crops and at different times of year. That’s not going to be easy.”

As the former secretary of agriculture, it wasn’t surprising that he intuitively understood the trouble with a change in climate. But he was still focused on the wrong thing. Yes, we had a mini–Ice Age to get through, but none of them were considering the eventual rise in temperature.

“Farm subsidies.” Another man, maybe the one who’d said he couldn’t hear, leaned across the table. “It got farmers to change their crops during the Great Depression.”

“All of our resources are going to be tied up in rebuilding.”

As they argued, Nathaniel stepped back to me and murmured, “Will you chart the temperature rise?”

I nodded and turned to the board, grateful to have something concrete to do. The chalk slid across the surface, shedding shivers of dust with my upstrokes. The notes in my portfolio were there, in case I lost my place, but I’d stared at this chart so much over the past couple of weeks that it was etched on the inside of my eyelids.

Unseasonable cold for the next several years, then a return to “normal” and then … then the temperature kept rising. The line was slow at first, until it reached the tipping point, and suddenly spiked upward.

When I hit that on the board, Nathaniel stepped forward, to the end of the conference table, and stood with his hands clasped in front of him. The conversation quieted.

“In 1824, Joseph Fourier described an effect that Alexander Bell later called ‘the greenhouse effect.’ In it, particles in the air cause the atmosphere to retain heat. If the Meteor had struck land, the winter would have been longer. The fireball would have been larger. We thought it was fortunate that it struck water, but it’s worse. The Earth is going to come out of winter and get hotter. In fifty years, there will be no snow in North America.”

The pudgy man who had complained about snow in California laughed. “Coming from Chicago, I gotta say this doesn’t strike me as a problem.”

“How do you feel about one hundred percent humidity and summers with a low of one hundred and twenty degrees?”

“Still. Weathermen can’t predict if it’s going to rain tomorrow. Fifty years is a long time out.”

President Brannan raised his hand again. He was staring at me. No. At the board. I stepped to the side so he could see it better. “Dr. York. What does the upturn on that chart represent?”

“That … that is when the oceans begin to boil.”

It was as if a jet engine had sucked the air out of the room. Someone said, “You can’t be serious. That’s—”

President Brannan slapped his hand on the table. “I hope you’ll grant that I know something about the planet and how it behaves. We’re having this meeting because I’ve already looked over Dr. York’s figures and consider the problem serious. We’re not here, gentlemen, to debate the matter. We’re here to decide what to do about it.”

Thank God. Brannan was only the acting president, until Congress could confirm him, which required a Congress, which required elections. But still … all the powers of the president were currently invested in him.

He surveyed the room and then gestured to M. Scherzinger. “Will you take the floor?”

“Certainly.” He stood and came to stand by Nathaniel. “Gentlemen. Mrs. York. There is a saying in Switzerland, ‘Ne pas mettre tous ses œufs dans le même panier,’ which you will know in English as, ‘Do not put all your eggs in one basket.’ The United Nations feels that, in addition to reducing the damage here on Earth, we must also look beyond our planet. It is time, gentlemen, to colonize outer space.”