FIDO: “We can still land at Edwards on the next rev, but then the closest opportunity after that will be twelve hours after.”

Jack closes his eyes and nods. “Then let’s hope she can do it within ninety minutes. CAPCOM, prepare her for EVA.”

Joan: “Roger that. Navigator, Houston. You will need to close the payload bay doors manually. Please prepare to get into the EMU.”

“Copy, Houston.”

And then, more quietly, Vanessa says, “I…I don’t know how to get into the suit without help. It was hard enough getting it off.”

“Understood,” Joan says. “Tell me what you need from us.”

“You can’t help me,” Vanessa says. “No one can.”

Joan does not know what to say. “Copy that,” she says, finally. It is so useless.

Joan can see the future for a moment—everything that happens if this doesn’t work.

“I’m going to start the oxygen for the pre-breathe,” Vanessa says. “And then figure out how to get in the damn suit again. I hope you all can talk me through how to put my shoulder back in the socket if I dislocate it.”

Joan considers how to respond, but then Vanessa speaks up again.

“I’ll have to get Hank and Steve out of the airlock. Then I’ll get in there and depressurize again. Then I’ll figure out what’s wrong with the latches and come back in here and start deorbit and land this thing. And somehow do it in less than four revolutions.”

Joan waits an extra moment, to make sure Vanessa is done.

“You and I…” Joan says. “We will do this together.”

“I’m…” Vanessa says. “I’m grateful you’re the one in that chair today, Goodwin. I’m glad it’s you.”

Joan stares forward, worried she might catch someone’s eye. She is good at this, understanding what Vanessa means. So this is enough for now.

She closes her eyes and begs the unfolding cosmos: Please. Please don’t take Vanessa.

Fall 1980

It was after eleven on Saturday night. Joan should have been in bed, but she could not tear her fingers away from the piano.

After a long week of classes, her brain was fried. The lingo at NASA was going to kill her, especially the abbreviations. OMS, RCS, EVA, EMU, FIDO, GPCs. Joan was attentive and ready. But the terms were coming at her so fast that often it felt less like science and more like French.

She needed a break. So instead of going out to a bar, she’d gone on a long run, come home, taken a shower, and sat down at her keyboard. She did not know how long she’d been at it, but she’d played so much and just kept playing. Tchaikovsky, Chopin, Shostakovich, and now, Satie’s “Gnossienne No. 1.”