“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says dismissively.

I frown. “What do you mean?”

“It’s inconsequential.”

“I . . . Is it?”

“Yes. Of course it would have been convenient if you’d had those funds at your disposal, but I’ve already discussed it with two of my colleagues who agree that your work is meritorious. They are in control of other funds that Floyd won’t be able to veto, so—”

“Floyd?” I raise my finger. I must have misheard. “Hold up, did you say Floyd? Ian Floyd?” I try to recall if I’ve heard of other Floyds working here. It’s a common last name, but . . .

Merel’s face doesn’t hide much. It’s obvious that he was referring to Ian, and it’s obvious that he wasn’t supposed to bring him up, fucked up by doing it anyway, and now has no choice but to explain to me what he hinted at.

I have exactly zero intention of letting him off the hook.

“This is, of course, confidential,” he says after a brief hesitation.

“Okay,” I agree hurriedly.

“The review process should remain anonymous. Floyd cannot know.”

“He won’t,” I lie. I have no plan at the moment, but part of me already knows that I’m lying. I’m not exactly the nonconfrontational type.

“Very well.” Merel nods. “Floyd was part of the committee that screened your application, and he was the one who decided to veto your project.”

He . . . what?

He what?

No way.

“This doesn’t sound right. Ian isn’t even here in Houston.” I know this because a couple of days after coming back from Norway, I went looking for him. Looked him up on the NASA directory, bought a cup of coffee and one of tea from the cafeteria, then went to his office with only vague ideas of what I’d say, feeling almost nervous, and . . .

I found it locked. “He’s at JPL,” someone with a South African accent told me when they noticed me idling in the hallway.

“Oh. Okay.” I turned around. Took two steps away. Then turned back to ask, “When will he be back?”

“Hard to tell. He’s been there for a month or so to work on the sampling tool for Serendipity.”

“I see.” I thanked the woman, and this time I left for real.

It’s been a little over a week since then, and I’ve been to his office . . . in a number of instances. I’m not even sure why. And it doesn’t really matter, because the door was closed every single time. Which is how I know that: “Ian is at JPL. He’s not here.”

“You are mistaken,” Merel says. “He’s back.”

I stiffen. “As of when?”

“That, I could not tell you, but he was present when the committee met to discuss your proposal. And like I said, he was the one who vetoed it.”

This is impossible. Nonsensical. “Are you sure it was him?”

Merel gives me an annoyed look and I swallow, feeling oddly . . . exposed, standing the way I am in this office while being told that Ian—Ian? Really?—is the reason I didn’t get my funding. It seems like a lie. But would Merel lie? He’s way too straitlaced for that. I doubt he has the imagination.