“Okay. That’s super interesting,” I say. “But why FATE?”
“The letters ended up working well together.”
I tilt my head toward him. “Come on.”
He hesitates. “Fine. Maybe I was inspired in an ironic way by what you told me about it. This equipment is how we take fate intoour own hands if you will. Distance becomes irrelevant. We’ll speed up progress.”
I smile. “Ah.Verrrrryinteresting. Admit it. You’ve got a little thing for fate, huh?”
Jack raises his eyebrows. “The only fate I believe in or care about is this mission. And the fate of the earth and how it’ll all end.”
“Sure. So then tell me. How does FATE work?” I remove my sketchbook and a pen from my bag to take notes as we walk. I catch Jack looking at my pen, and I realize which one I’m using. The floaty pen from our night together.
“I—”
“It’s nice that you use it,” he says softly. “A memento. Um, so with FATE, we won’t have to wait for Mars to align with Earth anytime we want to send rovers. Eventually humans. There’s less of a risk of missing that short window of alignment, as long as we have the equipment ready. You don’t necessarily have to create something about FATE. It’s one of the many missions happening here.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
I balance my sketchbook on my arm, jotting down keywords that I hope will inspire ideas later. While I typically fly through sketchbooks, this is the same one I’ve had for over a year. I don’t dare flip the last page over. I know what I’d see:Gravity, the last idea I had the week after my night with Jack. The remaining blank pages a direct reflection of my lack of ideas and drained creativity.
Jack opens the door to the Space Flight Operations Facility. He tells me this is home to Mission Control for NASA’s Deep Space Network. I notice his tone shifts into something more professional.
We step into the back of the room. Ahead of us, computer banks stretch horizontally while large screens overhead showcase images of satellites with data moving in and out of the dishes.
“This is the center of the universe,” he continues, pointing to aplaque on the floor that says just that. “Data from deep space comes through Mission Control first. Then it’s shared with the operators of the mission and teams so they can use the information to guide their work.”
I spin, slowly observing everything around me. In the blue glow of the room, my sweater looks purple.
“It’s like I’m in NASA’s brain,” I say, loosely sketching the scene in front of us. Drawing something that exists? Fine. Creating something from scratch? May never happen again.
Jack smiles and looks around, too. “Something like that. The data and images that come through here help us improve our understanding of the solar system and universe.”
“Why are these here?” I ask, lifting a bag of peanuts.
“They’re good-luck peanuts. After six failed missions in the Ranger program in 1964, there was a lot of pressure for the seventh mission to be a success. Peanuts were passed around to everyone to relieve tension. To give people something to snack on. Take their mind off the pressure. As you could probably guess, the seventh mission was indeed a success. From that point on, peanuts were designated as lucky.”
This information pleases me to no end. “NASA is superstitious!”
“It’s more of a tradition,” he corrects.
I shake the peanuts. “What if someone’s allergic to this tradition?”
Jack grows quiet. “Hmm. We don’t always leave them lying around. But that’s a good question.” He points out the other people in the room, who are closely monitoring their screens. “There’s always at least five people here at all times.”
“Every day?”
“Twenty-four/seven. Since 1964,” he says, facing me.
In Jack’s eyes are small white rectangles, the monitors in the dark room reflecting off his pupils. Knowing that he works here is like ablock falling into place in a Jack-shaped Tetris game. His comments in New York about Polaris and the moon being a satellite pop into my head. It makes so much sense now.
I whistle quietly. “That’s one high electricity bill.”
We peek through the windows of the Multi-Mission Support Area and then make our way up to what Jack explains is the Viewing Gallery.
Peering down over Mission Control, I etch a darker line around the curve of a peanut I’ve drawn. Then, without warning, I poke Jack in the shoulder with the end of the pen.
Jack looks at the light indent in his button-down. “What was that for?”
