Stone pursed his lips. “I take it you know the official NASA line. It’s in our induction handbooks. Close coupling of crew members is to be avoided.” He smiled, self-deprecating, completely in control. “Some help.” Another laugh. “But I’d say that advice is basically right. Hell, we’re all adults. But a sexual relationship between crew members — or, more importantly, a special emotional relationship — would be harmful to the stability of the crew as a whole, and might compromise our ability to support the whole crew through the entire duration of the mission. And if you fully understand the potential for negative impact — you’ve got jealousy, special treatment, circumvention of the chain of command, recrimination and regret when you fall out, and so on — I bet this avoidance will be adopted as a group norm on future mixed flights.”

Gershon cocked his head. “Adopted as a what?”

“Pay more attention to your psych training, Gershon.”

Another laugh. Another defused moment.

York hoped the color was fading from her cheeks. It was remarkable the way Stone could turn out the party line, though. The same bland crap, the half-lie which NASA had fed to the world since the days of Mercury.

And I’m just part of the machine now, she thought. An accomplice in the traditional lie. I’m an astronaut, now; my human needs don’t exist anymore, officially.

The reporter’s question, if facetious, was actually perceptive. NASA was terrific at the technology, she thought, but stunningly bad at dealing with the needs of the soft, pink bodies they loaded inside their gleaming von Braun dream machines — unable even to recognize that those needs existed.

The questions continued to come, sliding from topic to topic. And all of them, York thought, looking for ways into the central, banal question anyone wanted to ask of an astronaut:

What does it feel like, in space? On the Moon? On Mars?

At first it seemed just dumb to her: naive, too open, without a possible answer. And the way it cropped up, in one form or another, at every conference irritated her.

Today, Joe Muldoon tried to answer it.

“I’m just an ordinary guy. But I guess you could say I’ve done something extraordinary.

“Let me tell you what it was like. When you look down on the Earth from orbit, you forget about your hassles: the bills you have to pay, the trouble you’re having with your car. Instead, all you think about is the people: the people you know and care about, down there in that blue bowl of air. And you realize, somewhat, how much indeed you do care about them…”

Save for Muldoon’s voice, the room was silent.

She watched the questioners, tough, cynical pressmen all, as they fixed on the face of the astronaut. Even the woman who’d asked about the fake-up was listening, intent, trying to understand.