Mike put his bag down and started to pace about the apartment, his coat heavy. His hair straggled out of an unkempt ponytail, and his beard had grown down over his neck. “I didn’t freeze,” Conlig said.

“If you knew you were going to choke up like that, you should have just gotten out of that goddamn chair,” York said. She felt her throat tighten up, a pressure behind her eyes; but, by God, she was going to see this through without falling apart. “You had a responsibility! Those men in orbit were relying on you…”

He stood over her, his face twisted in disgust. “First time I see you in a month, and it’s straight on the attack. Happy fucking New Year to you, Natalie. So I killed them. Is that what you’re telling me?”

“But the damn NERVA wasn’t ready to fly. Was it?”

“Natalie, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Was it? You worked on the cooling systems for years, and in the end, with three men on board, the damn thing overheated and exploded—”

“I knew what I was doing, Natalie.”

“You knew you were letting the NERVA melt down?”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, damn it. Natalie, it’s the easiest thing in the world to abort. If I’d aborted, we’d have lost the mission—”

“But not three men.”

“ — and maybe,” he went on doggedly, “we’d never have known what went wrong. And we’d have had to risk throwing three more men up there to try all over again.” He pulled at his beard in quick, nervous gestures. “At the time — it happened so fast — I just wasn’t sure. I thought the situation might stabilize, that we might be able to salvage control of the NERVA. It might have happened that way, Natalie, and saved us risking more lives. As we’ll have to now. It’s a question of cost and benefit.”

She was appalled. “You did kill them.”

“But it isn’t like that.” He sounded querulous, hurt, misunderstood. “Look: NASA is too cautious. Every safety precaution increases the complexity and cost of the mission. With fewer safety precautions we could have reached the Moon a little sooner, done a lot more exploring, learned more, and” — defiantly — “yes, and created a martyr or two—”

“How can you talk about martyrs? If you hadn’t screwed up, Ben might be alive now. And the others, damn it.”

“Oh, sure. Precious Ben. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” He was angry.

“What are you saying?”

He snorted. “I know all about you and Ben Fucking Priest, Natalie. Come on. I’ve known for years.”

You, too? She considered protesting, telling him he was mistaken. But Ben was dead. It would be beneath her.