“Well, there were a lot of questions.”
Nigel laughed, a barking sound. “There always are.” “Some people wondered if you were still in the top flight-training category.”
“I go back to Houston and Ames regularly. I put in a lot of time on the simulators.”
“True. How about exercise?”
“Hiking. Squash. Racquetball.”
“Racquetball? How’s that played?”
“A blend of handball and squash. Short, stubby racquet. Played in a room, shots off the ceiling are legal, and you have to return the ball to the forward wall after each bounce.”
“I see. Fast?”
“Reasonably.”
“As fast as squash?”
“No. The ball bounces a lot.”
“You don’t like me, do you, Nigel?”
Nigel sat silent. He kept his face stony and shifted his feet on the thick carpet.
“Can’t say I’ve thought about it.”
“Come on.” Evers leaned forward, elbows on his chair’s arms, hands knitted together.
“Well, I can’t really—”
“I’m trying to level with you.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t see.”
Nigel sat back, crossed his legs.
“You come to me and want the Snark rendezvous mission. Right? I think about it. I read your file.”
“You buck it upstairs,” Nigel said evenly. “Damned right. It’s an important decision.”
“One you can make.”
“Not by myself.”
“You’re in charge of this operation. You’re the next rung up from NASA itself, so—”
“So nothing. I have to take the advice of the experts below me or else there’s no reason to have experts in the first place.”
“Well, then—take it.”
“You wouldn’t like it if I did.”
Nigel grimaced. “The canonical punchup, eh?” “Let’s say the returns are mixed.”
“Nice phrase.”
“Damn it!” Evers slapped his chair arm. “You are not going to sit here and Gary Cooper your way through this thing.”
“I don’t know what you mean, but if you’re asking me to be responsible, then ask me a bloody question.”
“Nigel …” Evers looked at his hands. “Nigel. NASA remembers Icarus. They remember your private little communication gambit with the Snark—and so do I.”
“I don’t think that last bears on matters. I was under stress. My—”
“You’ll be under stress out there, meeting the Snark.” “A different thing entirely.”
“Maybe. That’s it—maybe. You’re unreliable, Nigel. You don’t follow orders.”
“I’m not a machine, no.”
“There you go. That fucking British reserve, those distancing remarks. But I know you’re not really like that, Nigel. Your personality profile from the psychtechs isn’t that way.”
“And they should know, of course.”
“Okay, they’re not perfect. But there has to be something to explain why a hell of a lot of people in NASA like you, Nigel. Why they’ll go out on a limb and recommend you for the Snark rendezvous.”
