Learning to Swear in America (2 page)

Yuri picked at his bag strap with his thumbnail. “How can you possibly keep information from some of people working …”

“Not some people,” Fletcher said, smiling tightly. “Just you. Look, if you really need something, if you think weapon specs will change your calculations, ask Simons. He’s your group leader. He can talk to me, and I’ll figure it out.”

He led the way upstairs and to a small office off a hall to the right, brushing powdered sugar from his shirt as he walked. “This is yours for the duration. And we got you a hotel room. A car service will take you over there tonight. There’s a cafeteria downstairs. You don’t need money, just take what you want. We’ve …”

“But won’t we be working all night? I mean, is critical situation.”

“Of course not,” Fletcher said. “This is going to take days. You know impact is June ninth, right?”

Yuri nodded.

“We’re all going to work our asses off, but we’ll get it done. The last thing I want is a bunch of sleep-deprived zombies making critical decisions.”

He opened the door to Yuri’s office. Yuri unslung his book bag from his shoulder and rested it on his foot.

“If you need something, just hit ‘1’ on your phone. The person who answers isn’t a secretary; she’s one of us. You can talk physics to her, explain what you need, who you have to get hold of.”

Yuri ran a hand through his hair and looked at this pale blue office half a world from home.

“We have to avoid group think,” Fletcher said. “Make your
own calculations, and then the three of you hash it out. Pray you come up with the same damn thing. You have to agree, because whatever your group comes up with is what we’re going to enter. Then we’ll embed the equations in the computer model they’ll use to program the weapons. Got it?”

Yuri nodded.

“Now get the hell to work. You’re already behind everybody else.” Fletcher started back down the corridor.

“Sir? Dr. Fletcher?”

He turned. “Yeah?”

“Am I the only one who’s not American?”

“No, we got a Chinese guy, too. He arrived four hours ago.” He stared for a moment at Yuri’s blue eyes, his tousle of blond hair. “Your work on antimatter? Blew us away. If we survive this, you’re gonna be the youngest person to win a Nobel.” He shook his head, then waved his hand toward the office as though sweeping Yuri inside, and started back toward the conference room.

Yuri licked his lips and called after him. “Dr. Fletcher? What they’re saying, that if this doesn’t work, asteroid will explode over Los Angeles with enough force to devastate whole city? Is that true?”

Fletcher took a breath, then answered flatly.

“That’s what Moscow’s saying? It isn’t true. If we have impact, it’ll lay waste to the whole region. A tsunami may take out Japan.”

Yuri stared at him.

“But,” Fletcher said, “I guess they didn’t see any need to panic people.”

Yuri walked into the pale blue office, found a roll of masking tape, and wrote his name on it in marker, copying from his name tag so he couldn’t misspell it. He ripped the piece of tape off, enjoying the faint rubbery scent, and smoothed it on the wall outside his door:
Strelnikov, Y.A.

Then he sat at the desk and pulled his calculator out of his book bag, and a hockey puck signed by Moscow Team Dynamo’s captain. When he left Russia, the authorities had given him twenty minutes to pack. He’d thrown clothes in his suitcase, tossed in a couple of reference books, but was stumped when it came to keepsakes. He didn’t get where he was, as young as he was, without giving up a lot of things—that meant he didn’t have a shoe box stuffed with ticket stubs and photos with friends.

So with a driver standing at the door, tapping his foot, Yuri had tucked in a photo of his dissertation advisor—Dr. Kryukov, a
wonderful old man with extravagant eyebrows—and the puck, his one true keepsake. The photo wasn’t framed, so he kept it in his bag. It was enough knowing it was there. He rolled the puck under his palm, released it, and let it clatter to a rest. Then he spread the printout of the work and scanned it, trying to get his bearings. He should get some idea of what he was doing, and then talk to his team members.

But Fletcher’s words ran in an endless loop inside his skull, like a bird he’d once seen trapped in a library dome. It flew in faster and faster circles and finally dropped, dead before it hit the floor.
If we survive this.
Because Yuri had just put himself in the path of the asteroid.

There was time to do the math, to make the computer model to guide the missiles. It would be hard work, but there was time, enough that Fletcher wanted them to sleep well, even unwind a little. Yuri would do his work; Simons and Pirkola would calculate their solutions. They would compare, and because they all knew what they were doing, they would get the same result. They would give Fletcher their part, and the Americans would shoot down the asteroid. He would go home, exaggerate his role, and maybe get laid.

And if it didn’t work?

He was seventeen and he would be dead in three weeks.

Who would mourn him? Gregor Kryukov. And his mother, of course. They’d probably put a memo on her desk, and she’d read it when she had time. But he wouldn’t be like all those regular dead kids who had a park bench with their name on a plaque. He
wouldn’t get a bench, but he didn’t want one, either. He wanted a Nobel.

No—after his group worked out their part of the math, he was just going to have to fly home to Moscow. It would be painful explaining to Fletcher that he was leaving them, that he’d done his best, and if it didn’t work, well, Yuri didn’t want to be in Pasadena when it hit. But it wouldn’t be the
most
socially awkward moment he’d ever had.

He flexed his hands, stood his puck on its edge for luck, and started reading. An elevator down the hall rumbled, or maybe it was a drink cart going past. Did they do that? And then the puck rolled to the end of his desk, paused, and rolled the other direction. He stared at it. Yuri had studied with brilliant people at one of the best institutions in the world. He understood laws of motion. He didn’t understand this. A body at rest … flew off the edge of the desk. And then the books were shaking, inching forward on the shelves, and falling off, splaying open on the carpet, and he could feel the vibration through his feet, all the way up to his knees.
Earthquake.

He ran from the room. The hall was filled with people standing calmly in their doorways. “Is earthquake, I think!” he shouted, running down the hall. A few doors were closed and he beat on them as he ran by. “Earthquake!” He paused at the elevator and imagined the car swaying on its cable, and he plunged into the east stairwell.

The shuddering stopped, but he grabbed the railing with both hands and crabbed down sideways, not convinced that the ground
wouldn’t move beneath him again. It looked ridiculous to hold on like that, but it beat being buried in rubble for three days and having to drink his own urine. At the bottom he looked up and saw a dozen faces on each of the stairwells above, looking down at him. Idiots. They were all going to die, and he was going to have to stop the asteroid by himself. The ground gave another jolt. He threw his arms up and shook his hands and shouted, “Earthquake!” over the rumble. Then he ran out the stairwell doors and into the lobby.

He could see the coffee decanters in the conference room bouncing across the table, as though containing that much caffeine had finally gotten to them. A lamp swung overhead, reminding him of Galileo’s pendulum experiments, but, with the unsteady rippling of the earth, the time the light took to complete its arc was not constant. And that was so, so wrong.

“Help me, Galileo,” he muttered. It was as close to praying as he was going to come. He started for the front door, but it was glass, and he should stay away from glass, right? So he stood in the lobby, hands out at his sides, palms down, as though to calm the earth.

“Hey.” It was Karl Fletcher, the director. The ground quieted.

“Is earthquake, I think.”

“Yeah, we get these.”

“We need to evacuate building. I banged on doors upstairs and shouted to people, but maybe nobody heard.”

“Seriously? Okay, let’s get you outside.” He gripped Yuri’s upper arm and pulled him through the plate glass door, down the steps, and into the middle of the street. “Better?”

Yuri watched the street suspiciously. The rumbling was over, and the pavement was still. Inside, the lamp would be describing normal arcs again, and then be stationary. He took a breath. “Nobody else came out.”

“Nah, this wasn’t too bad. Enough to get your attention, though, right?”

Yuri flushed and glanced up. The windows were lined with people looking out into the street. “Perhaps I overreacted?” The director laughed and slapped him between his shoulder blades. “I didn’t want to have to drink my urine,” Yuri said.

Fletcher was silent for a moment. “We do have beverage alternatives. There’s a vending machine downstairs.”

Yuri barked a laugh.

Fletcher led him back upstairs to his office, one hand on Yuri’s arm, the other angrily waving gawkers away.

“We have asteroid coming in very fast. Would be nice if Earth stayed in same place for little while.”

“It would be nicer if it moved the hell out of the way,” Fletcher said. He smacked Yuri on the back. “Show’s over. Get to work.” He shut the door and left.

Yuri picked up the fallen books while his stomach settled, then restored the puck to his desk, sat down, and got to work. It was simple, in a sense, to arrange a killing strike at the asteroid. Getting it right was what made it hard. They had to account for the rotation of Earth, the speed and rotation of the incoming body, the gravitational pull of the moon, for solar flares, for mass and speed and Earth’s tilt on its axis. He didn’t think the asteroid would
pass one of the points of Lagrange, but it would be a pretty good idea to check. Even the Coriolis effect would slightly alter the missiles’ trajectory if they were leaving from Earth. Did the Americans have missiles stationed in space? Someone had to choose the weaponry, and the angle of fire, and the exact moment of launch.

And the calculation had to be precise, because although the asteroid was big for space junk, it had to be struck in the right spots or the wreckage would be too big to burn on entry into Earth’s atmosphere. And then there would be multiple points of impact.

And it was moving so fast.

Yuri read the whole problem through, front to back, twice. No time for a misunderstanding—there would be no second chance. His group had a small but complex calculation to make. There were multiple variables and no ability to experiment. He was a theoretical physicist, anyway—a math guy, not a lab rat, but it was the kind of problem that would normally take him a couple of hours to write out. A semester to solve. What they were doing here was more like working a crossword puzzle. Jot some things in, and hope that last word would fit.

He set to work, and when he glanced up and saw the round institutional clock on the opposite wall, he was shocked at how much time had passed. He stretched and walked down to the conference room and its beverages and pastries. At least the decanters were standing still.

Yuri poured himself a cup of tea. A woman nodded to him.
She had to be seventy, her steel-gray hair pulled back in a neat bun.

Yuri poured a coffee for her.

She smiled faintly and took the cup from his hand. “Dr. Strelnikov, you’re not a waiter. Do what you do best.” She inclined her head and walked off.

A girl walked into the room. Yuri gaped at her, his hand tightening on the decanter he still held. She clearly didn’t belong here, but she didn’t seem to know it. Or maybe she just didn’t care. She was about his age, shorter than average and not a thin girl. Her bangs were yellow, not blond, against dark hair and they stuck straight up. He had a sudden certainty that in an algebra equation, she would be the unknown
x.

Her dark eyes took him in, standing at the refreshment table, and as she smiled and started toward him, he felt a moment of irrational panic. She was wearing a sundress and those shoes with just a V of plastic between your toes, and long, dangly earrings that swung when she walked. He didn’t know anything about jewelry, but he was pretty sure there should be no dangling in a NASA building.

Yuri’s genius did not extend to social relations in the best of times. This girl—he’d never seen anything like her. How did one talk to American girls? And she was walking straight toward him.

A guard cut over and intercepted her.

“Miss? You have business here?” He was curt.

“Um, I’m waiting for my father.”

“He work here?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s his name?”

“John Collum.”

Yuri shifted so he could see her past the guard.

“Where’s his office?”

“Um. He’s a janitor.”

“Not in this building.” The man said it as though pronouncing a prison sentence.

“No, he’s down in …”

“Why don’t you wait outside, miss?”

He didn’t say it as a question, and he took a step forward. It wasn’t a threat, exactly, but Yuri felt a flash of anger. If the guard had to keep her out, he could have been … nicer. The girl turned and went outside, her shoes flapping as she walked. Yuri put the decanter down and stepped forward so he could see out the conference room door. She walked down the steps and sat on the edge of a planter in front of the building. Where janitors’ daughters could sit, apparently.