“There’s no question about an autopsy,” said Blankenship.

“Every one’s agreed on that point.”

“No, the reason I mention it is because of the…” Cutler dropped his voice, “preservation problem.” There was a pause. Obie saw gazes drop in uneasy contemplation of what that meant.

“The lack of refrigeration on the station is what he’s talking about,” said Obie. “Not for something as large as a human body. Not in a pressurized environment.”

ISS flight director Woody Ellis said, “Shuttle rendezvous is in seventeen hours. How badly can the body deteriorate in that time?”

“There’s no refrigeration aboard the shuttle either,” pointed out Cutler. “Death occurred seven hours ago. Add to that the time for rendezvous, the transfer of the corpse, as well as other cargo, the undocking. We’re talking at least three days with the body at room temperature. And that’s if everything goes like clockwork. Which, as we all know, is not a given.”

Three days. Obie thought of what could happen to a dead body in two days. Of how badly raw chicken parts stank if he left them in his garbage can for just one night… “You’re saying Discovery can’t delay her return home, even for an extra day?” said Ellis.

“We were hoping there’d be time for tasks. There are numerous experiments on ISS ready to come home. Scientists on the ground are waiting for them.”

“An autopsy won’t be of much help if the body’s deteriorated,” said Cutler.

“Isn’t there some way to preserve it? Embalm it?”

“Not without affecting its chemistry. We need an unembalmed body. And we need it home soon.” Ellis sighed. “There has to be a compromise. A way to get something else accomplished while they’re docked.” Gretchen said, “From a PR point of view, it looks bad, going about your usual business while a corpse is stored in the middeck. Besides, isn’t there some, well, health hazard? And then there’s … the odor.”

“The body is sealed in a plastic shroud,” said Cutler. “They can curtain it off out of view in a sleep station.”

The subject had turned so grim that most faces in the room were looking pale. They could talk about the political fallout and the media crisis. They could talk about hostile senators and anomalies. But dead bodies and bad smells and deteriorating flesh were not things they wanted to concentrate on.

Leroy Cornell finally broke the silence. “I understand your sense of urgency about getting the body back for autopsy, Dr. Cutler. And I understand the PR angle as well. The seeming lack of sensitivity if we go about our business. But there are things we need to do, even in light of our losses.” He looked around the table.

“That is our prime objective, isn’t it? One of our strengths as organization? No matter what goes wrong, no matter what we suffer, we always strive to get the job done?” That’s the moment Obie sensed the sudden shift of mood in the room. Up till then, they had been laboring under the pall of tragedy, the pressure of media attention. He had seen gloom and defeat in these faces, and defensiveness. Now the pall was lifting. He met Cornell’s gaze and felt some of his old disdain toward the man fall away.

Obie had never trusted smooth talkers like Cornell. He thought of NASA administrators as a necessary evil and tolerated them only as long as they kept their noses out of operational decisions.

At times, Cornell had strayed over that line. Today, though, he had done them a service by making them step back and view the big picture. Every one had come to this meeting with his or her private concerns. Cutler wanted a fresh corpse to autopsy.

Liu wanted the right media spin. The shuttle management team wanted Discovery’s mission expanded.

Cornell had just reminded them that they had to look beyond this death, beyond their individual concerns, and focus on what was best for the space program.

Obie gave a small nod of agreement, which was noted by others at the table. The Sphinx had finally made his opinion known.

“Every successful launch is a gift from heaven,” he said. “Let’s not waste this one.”

August 5

Emma’s running shoes pounded rhythmically on the TVIS treadmill, and every slap of her soles against the moving belt, impact jolting her bones and joints and muscles, was another self-administered blow of punishment.

Dead.

I lost him. I fucked up and I lost him.

I should have realized how sick he was. I should have pushed for a CRV evac. But I delayed, because I thought I could handle it.

I thought I could keep him alive.

Muscles aching, sweat beading on her forehead, she continued to punish herself, enraged by her own failure. She had not used TVIS in three days because she’d been too busy tending to Kenichi.

Now she was making up for it, had snapped on the side restraints, turned the treadmill to active mode, and started her run.

On earth she enjoyed running. She was not particularly fast, but she’d developed endurance and had learned to slip into that hypnotic trance that comes to long-distance runners as the miles melt away beneath their feet, as the burn of working muscles gives way to euphoria. Day after day she had worked to build up that endurance, had forced herself, through sheer stubbornness, to go longer, farther, always in competition with her last run, never cutting herself a break. It was the way she’d been since she was girl, smaller than the others, but fiercer. All her life she had been fierce, but never more so than with herself.

I made mistakes. And now my patient’s dead.

Sweat soaked through her shirt, a big wet blotch spreading between her breasts. Her calves and thighs were beyond the burn stage. The muscles were twitching, on the verge of collapse from the constant tension of the restraints.

A hand reached over and flicked off the TVIS power switch.

The running belt abruptly shuddered to a halt. She glanced up and met Luther’s gaze.

“I think that’s more than enough, Watson,” he said quietly.

“Not yet.”

“You’ve been at it for more than three hours.”

“I’m just getting started,” she muttered grimly. She switched on the power, and once again her shoes pounded on the moving belt.

Luther watched her for a moment, his body floating at her eye level, his gaze unavoidable. She hated being studied, even hated him at that instant, because she thought he could see right to her pain, her self-disgust.

“Wouldn’t it be quicker just to smash your head against a wall?” he said.

“Quicker. But not painful enough.”

“I get it. To be punishment, it’s gotta hurt, huh?”

“Right.”

“Would it make a difference if I told you this is bullshit? Because it is. It’s a waste of energy. Kenichi died because he got sick.”

“That’s where I’m supposed to come in.”

“And you couldn’t save him. So now you’re the corps fuckup.

“That’s right.”

“Well, you’re wrong. Because I claimed that title before you.”

“Is this some sort of contest?” Again, he shut off the TVIS power. Again the treadmill belt ground to a halt. He was staring her right in the eye, his gaze angry.

As fierce as hers.

“Remember my fuckup? On Columbia?” She said nothing, she didn’t have to.

Every one at NASA remembered it. It had happened four years ago, during a mission repair an orbiting comm satellite. Luther had been the mission specialist responsible for redeploying the satellite after repairs completed. The crew had ejected it from its cradle in the payload bay and watched it drift away. The rockets had ignited right on schedule, sending the satellite into its correct altitude.

Where it failed to respond to any commands. It was dead in orbit, a multimillion-dollar piece of junk uselessly circling the earth.

Who was responsible for this calamity?

Almost immediately, the blame fell on the shoulders of Luther Ames. In his haste to deploy, he had forgotten to key in vital software codes—or so the private contractor claimed. Luther said he had keyed in the codes, that he was the scapegoat for mistakes made by the satellite’s manufacturer. Though the public heard very little about the controversy, within NASA, the story was known by all. Luther’s flight assignments dried up. He was condemned to status of astronaut ghost, still in the corps, but invisible to who chose shuttle crews.