“No, they make it look easy. Because they’re good.”

“We’ll see. The integrated sim’s on for Tuesday, with Hawley and Higuchi aboard. We’ll be pulling some new tricks out of the hat.” Kittredge grinned.

“Okay, try to kill us. But be fair about it.

“Fate seldom plays fair,” Hazel said solemnly. “Don’t expect me to.”

Emma and Bob Kittredge sat in a booth in the Fly By Night saloon, sipping beers as they dissected the day’s simulations. It was a they’d established eleven months ago, early in their team building, when the four of them had first come together as the crew for shuttle flight 162.

Every Friday evening, they would meet in the Fly By Night, located just up NASA Road 1 from Johnson Space Center, and review the progress of their training. What they’d done right, what still needed improvement.

Kittredge, who’d personally selected each member of his crew, had started the ritual. Though they were already working together more than sixty hours a week, he never seemed eager to go home. Emma had thought it was because the recently divorced Kittredge now lived alone and dreaded returning to his empty house. But as she’d come to know him better, she realized these meetings were simply his way of prolonging the adrenaline high of his job. Kittredge lived to fly. For sheer entertainment he read the painfully dry shuttle manuals. He spent every free moment at the controls of one of NASA’s T-38s. It was almost as if he resented the force of gravity binding his feet the earth.

He couldn’t understand why the rest of his crew might want to go home at the end of the day, and tonight he seemed a little melancholy that just the two of them were sitting at their usual the Fly By Night. Jill Hewitt was at her nephew’s piano recital, Andy Mercer was home celebrating his tenth wedding anniversary.

Only Emma and Kittredge had shown up at the appointed hour, and now that they’d finished hashing over the week’s sims, there was a long silence between them. The conversation had run out of shop talk and therefore out of steam.

“I’m taking one of the T-38s up to White Sands tomorrow,” he said. “You want to join me?”

“Can’t. I have an appointment with my lawyer.”

“So you and Jack are forging ahead with it?”

She sighed. “The momentum’s established. Jack has his lawyer, and I have mine. This divorce has turned into a runaway train.”

“It sounds like you’re having second thoughts.”

Firmly she set down her beer. “I don’t have any second thoughts.”

“Then why’re you still wearing his ring?”

She looked down at the gold wedding band. With sudden ferocity she tried to yank it off, but found it wouldn’t budge. After years on her finger, the ring seemed to have molded itself to her flesh, refusing to be dislodged. She cursed and gave another tug, this time pulling so hard the ring scraped off skin as it slid over knuckle. She set the ring down on the table.

“There. A free woman.”

Kittredge laughed. “You two have been dragging out your divorce longer than I was married. What are you two still haggling over, anyway?”

She sank back in her chair, suddenly weary. “Everything. I admit it, I haven’t been reasonable either. A few weeks ago, we tried to sit down and make a list of all our possessions. What I want, what he wants. We promised ourselves we were going to be civilized about it. Two calm and mature adults. Well, by the time we got halfway down the list, it was out-and-out war. Take no prisoners.” She sighed. In truth, that was the way she and Jack had always been. Equally obstinate, fiercely passionate. Whether in love or at war, the sparks were always flying between them.

“There was only one thing we could both agree on,” she said. “I get to keep the cat.”

“Lucky you.” She looked at him. “Do you ever have any regrets?”

“You mean about my divorce? Never.” Though his answer was flatly unequivocal, his gaze had dropped, as though he was trying to hide a truth they both knew, he was still mourning the failure his marriage.

Even a man fearless enough to strap himself atop millions of pounds of explosive fuel could suffer from an ordinary of loneliness.

“This is the problem, you see. I’ve finally figured it out,” he said.

“Civilians don’t understand us because they can’t share the dream. The only ones who’ll stay married to an astronaut are the saints and the martyrs. Or the ones who just don’t give a shit whether we live or die.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Bonnie, she no martyr. And she sure as hell didn’t understand the dream.”

Emma stared down at her wedding ring, gleaming on the table.

“Jack understands it,” she said softly. “It was his dream too. That’s what ruined it for us, you know. That I’m going up and he can’t. That he’s the one left behind.”

“Then he needs to grow up and face reality. Not everyone’s got the right stuff.”

“You know, I really wish you wouldn’t refer to him as some sort of reject.”

“Hey, he’s the one who resigned.”

“What else could he do? He knew he wasn’t going to get any flight assignments. If they won’t let you fly, there’s no point in the corps.”

“They grounded him for his own good.”

“It was medical guesswork. Having one kidney stone doesn’t mean you’ll get another.”

“Okay, Dr. Watson. You’re the physician. Tell me this, would you want Jack on your shuttle crew? Knowing his medical problem?

She paused. “Yes. As a physician, yes, I would. Chances are, Jack would do perfectly fine in space. He has so much to offer I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t want him up there. I may be divorcing him, but I do respect him.”

Kittredge laughed and then drained his beer mug. “You’re not exactly objective about this, are you?”

She started to argue the point, then realized she had no defense. Kittredge was right. Where Jack McCallum was concerned, she had never been objective. Outside, in the humid heat of a Houston summer night, she stopped in the Fly By Night’s parking lot and glanced up at the sky.

The glare of city lights washed out the stars, but she could still make out comfortingly familiar constellations. Cassiopeia and Andromeda and the Seven Sisters. Every time she looked at them, she remembered what Jack had told her as they’d lain side by side on the grass one summer night, gazing at the stars. The night she had first realized she was in love with him. The heavens are full women, Emma. You belong up there too.

She said, softly, “So do you, Jack.” She unlocked her car and slid into the driver’s seat. Reaching into her pocket, she fished out the wedding ring. Gazing at it in gloom of her car, she thought of the seven years of marriage it represented. Almost over now.

She slipped the ring back into her pocket. Her left hand felt naked, exposed. I’ll have to get used to it, she thought, and the car.

Dr. Jack McCallum heard the scream of the first ambulance siren and said, “It’s show time, folks!” Stepping outside to the ER loading dock, he felt his pulse kick into a tachycardia, felt the adrenaline priming his nervous system into crackling live wires. He had no idea what was coming to Miles Memorial Hospital, only that there was more than one patient on the way. Over the ER radio they’d been told a fifteen-car pileup on I-45 had left two at the scene and a score of injured. Although the most critical patients would be taken to Bayshore or Texas Med, all the area’s smaller hospitals, including Miles Memorial, were braced for the overflow.

Jack glanced around the ambulance dock to confirm his team was ready.

The other ER doctor, Anna Slezak, stood right beside him, looking grimly pugnacious. Their support staff included four nurses, a lab runner, and a scared-looking intern. Only a month of med school, the intern was the greenest member of the ER team and hopelessly fumble-fingered. Destined for the field of psychiatry, thought Jack.