Columbia jokes, “When in doubt, land long.”

Tranquillity says, “Well, we did.”

And Houston intervenes, “Tranquillity, Houston. We have a P twenty-two update for you if you’re ready to copy. Over.”

Columbia jokes again: “At your service, sir.”

Houston, unamused, a city of computers working without sleep, answers, “Right, Mike. P one one zero four thirty two eighteen; P two one zero four thirty-seven twenty-eight and that is four miles south. This is based on a targeted landing site. Over.”

Columbia repeats the numbers.

Tranquillity says, “Our mission timer is now reading nine zero four thirty-four forty-seven and static.”

“Roger, copy. Your mission timer is not static at—say again the time.”

“Nine zero four thirty-four forty-seven.”

“Roger, copy, Tranquillity. That gravity align looked good. We see you recycling.”

“Well, no. I was trying to get time sixteen sixty-five out and somehow it proceeded on the six-twenty-two before I could do a BRP thirty-two enter. I want to log a time here and then I’d like to know whether you want me to proceed on torquing angles or to go back and re-enter again before torquing. Over.”

“Rog, Buzz. Stand by.”

Nelson and his grandfather listen raptly to these procedures; Mary Angstrom turns impatiently—or is it that her difficulty of motion makes all gestures appear impatient?—and makes her shuffling way out into the landing and down the stairs again. Rabbit, heart trembling in its hollow, follows. She needs no help going down the stairs. In the garishly bright kitchen she asks, “Where did you say Janice was?”

“In the Poconos with her mother.”

“Why should I believe that?”

“Why shouldn’t you?”

She stoops over, waveringly, to open the oven and look in, her tangled wire hair making a net of light. She grunts, stands, and states, “Janice. Stays out of my way. These days.”

In his frightened, hypnotized condition, Rabbit can only, it seems, ask questions. “Why would she do that?”

His mother stares and stares, only a movement of her tongue between her parted lips betraying that she is trying to speak. “I know too much,” she at last brings out, “about her.”

Rabbit says, “You know only what a bunch of pathetic old gossips tell you about her. And stop bugging Pop about it, he comes into work and bugs me.” Since she does not fight back, he is provoked to go on. “With Mim out turning ten tricks a day in Las Vegas I’d think you’d have more to worry about than poor Janice’s private life.”

“She was always,” his mother brings out, “spoiled.”

“Yes and Nelson too I suppose is spoiled. How would you describe me? Just yesterday I was sitting over at the Blasts game thinking how lousy I used to be at baseball. Let’s face it. As a human being I’m about C minus. As a husband I’m about zilch. When Verity folds I’ll fold with it and have to go on welfare. Some life. Thanks, Mom.”

“Hush,” she says, expressionless, “you’ll make. The cake fall,” and like a rusty jackknife she forces herself to bend over and peer into the gas oven.