Read Online Earth Bound by Emma Barry & Genevieve Turner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emma Barry & Genevieve Turner
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notice about the upcoming office Halloween party—with apple bobbing!—was tacked to the wall in front of her.
She straightened her tartan skirt and squared her shoulders. She hadn’t been nervous, really nervous, since she’d told her parents she was going to major in math and not physics. There hadn’t been any point in being nervous then. They’d disapproved, as she knew they would, but she’d persevered and that had been the end of it.
There was even less point in being nervous now. She had the job. She’d been doing it well for months. She’d saved the mission carrying the chimp into space—he’d come back safe and sound and scored a triumph for ASD—although she hadn’t officially gotten the credit. She was an integral part of the effort to send Joe Reynolds into orbit early next year.
So what if she hadn’t met the ASD director or the chief of the facility in Virginia before? They only cared about results. And she got them. They weren’t going to care she—
No. She wasn’t even going to think it.
With a few deep breaths, she returned her heart rate to normal. She folded her arms behind her and held the position until her shoulders ached. It was good, the ache. It grounded her, distracted her. She didn’t give in and release, however.
Instead, she tapped the toe of one shoe against the linoleum floor a few times. He’d said to be here at a quarter after, and it was now—fine, she’d check the time. She swung her arms forward and glanced at her wristwatch. Half past.
Parsons was never late. Ever. The man had a Swiss mechanism where his heart should be.
But he’d also said not to knock, that he would come and get her.
She could hear voices inside. The meeting wasn’t over. So she waited.
Sometimes she suspected Parsons simply enjoyed ordering her around.
And right before she did something stupid, like rap her knuckle against the door, it swung open.
Parsons had on his jacket. Black of course, like all his suits. His tie had black embroidered stripes on a black silk base. He looked even more the undertaker than usual.
He looked at her for several long beats. Those eyes—dark brown, impenetrable—focused on her face. His expression was pained. Altogether, he looked damned uncomfortable. But he struck her as a man who hated comfort. He would think it common. Pedestrian. And there was nothing pedestrian about him.
She cocked her head and waited. At last he stepped aside, and she strolled into the room.
“This is Charlie Eason,” Parsons said.
At the end of the long table sat Stan Jensen and the director of the ASD facility in Virginia.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Eason. Would you like some water?”
Her heart started to beat a ragged tattoo in her ears. She ignored it.
“It’s Dr. Eason.” She walked to the chair next to Parsons’s and pulled it out. She sat heavily. Her hands were shaking now, so she kept one braced on the arm of the chair. With the other, she twitched at her skirt until it covered her knees. She set her hand in her lap, draping her arm in the arc of a ballerina’s.
“Parsons said you wanted to discuss the launch procedure, gentlemen,” she said, keeping her voice low. “So let’s talk.”
Only someone who knew her well would be able to hear the tension, the anger in the aspirated K.
None of these men had that pleasure.
“We have some questions about the tracking computer,” the ASD director from Virginia said. His words were careful and a bit neutral, as if he were afraid he might scare her off. “About the coding process.”
She bit back the question she wanted to ask: Tell me what you know about coding, and I’ll know how to calibrate my explanation.
“It’s a derivative of a von Neumann machine,” she said equally slowly, as if she were talking to idiots. She smiled to soften the edge of her tone.
“You worked with him at Princeton,” Stan Jensen said. Well, he said it, but it was a question. He was asking her to confirm something he
She straightened her tartan skirt and squared her shoulders. She hadn’t been nervous, really nervous, since she’d told her parents she was going to major in math and not physics. There hadn’t been any point in being nervous then. They’d disapproved, as she knew they would, but she’d persevered and that had been the end of it.
There was even less point in being nervous now. She had the job. She’d been doing it well for months. She’d saved the mission carrying the chimp into space—he’d come back safe and sound and scored a triumph for ASD—although she hadn’t officially gotten the credit. She was an integral part of the effort to send Joe Reynolds into orbit early next year.
So what if she hadn’t met the ASD director or the chief of the facility in Virginia before? They only cared about results. And she got them. They weren’t going to care she—
No. She wasn’t even going to think it.
With a few deep breaths, she returned her heart rate to normal. She folded her arms behind her and held the position until her shoulders ached. It was good, the ache. It grounded her, distracted her. She didn’t give in and release, however.
Instead, she tapped the toe of one shoe against the linoleum floor a few times. He’d said to be here at a quarter after, and it was now—fine, she’d check the time. She swung her arms forward and glanced at her wristwatch. Half past.
Parsons was never late. Ever. The man had a Swiss mechanism where his heart should be.
But he’d also said not to knock, that he would come and get her.
She could hear voices inside. The meeting wasn’t over. So she waited.
Sometimes she suspected Parsons simply enjoyed ordering her around.
And right before she did something stupid, like rap her knuckle against the door, it swung open.
Parsons had on his jacket. Black of course, like all his suits. His tie had black embroidered stripes on a black silk base. He looked even more the undertaker than usual.
He looked at her for several long beats. Those eyes—dark brown, impenetrable—focused on her face. His expression was pained. Altogether, he looked damned uncomfortable. But he struck her as a man who hated comfort. He would think it common. Pedestrian. And there was nothing pedestrian about him.
She cocked her head and waited. At last he stepped aside, and she strolled into the room.
“This is Charlie Eason,” Parsons said.
At the end of the long table sat Stan Jensen and the director of the ASD facility in Virginia.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Eason. Would you like some water?”
Her heart started to beat a ragged tattoo in her ears. She ignored it.
“It’s Dr. Eason.” She walked to the chair next to Parsons’s and pulled it out. She sat heavily. Her hands were shaking now, so she kept one braced on the arm of the chair. With the other, she twitched at her skirt until it covered her knees. She set her hand in her lap, draping her arm in the arc of a ballerina’s.
“Parsons said you wanted to discuss the launch procedure, gentlemen,” she said, keeping her voice low. “So let’s talk.”
Only someone who knew her well would be able to hear the tension, the anger in the aspirated K.
None of these men had that pleasure.
“We have some questions about the tracking computer,” the ASD director from Virginia said. His words were careful and a bit neutral, as if he were afraid he might scare her off. “About the coding process.”
She bit back the question she wanted to ask: Tell me what you know about coding, and I’ll know how to calibrate my explanation.
“It’s a derivative of a von Neumann machine,” she said equally slowly, as if she were talking to idiots. She smiled to soften the edge of her tone.
“You worked with him at Princeton,” Stan Jensen said. Well, he said it, but it was a question. He was asking her to confirm something he
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