“Forget nature. This is the cleanest air I’ll probably ever breathe.” Rooney deeply inhales. “Yeah. That’s good stuff. My New York City–born-and-bred lungs can’t handle such pure air. Can we pollute the air a little? I don’t want my lungs getting too comfortable.”
I smile. “Sure, no problem. I’ll sabotage the missions for you. Grab some soil from the Mars Yard. Throw it into the air. Dusty will kill me, but it’s worth it if it means saving you.” I catch myself, as though even the slightest impure thought might contaminate the area.
Rooney places her gloved hand on my upper arm. “That’s the most romantic gesture anyone’s ever offered me.”
“Here. Let me help you with your grounding strap,” I say, noticing she’s not wearing it. Rooney steps closer to me and holds her wrist out. I pull back her sleeve until I find skin. I fumble with the coiled cord, wrapping the wristlet around her arm.
“That’s not too tight?” I ask.
“Just right,” she says quietly. With her hair under a hood and the face mask covering the lower half of her face, her eyes are all I can see. When framed by white cloth and without bangs falling over them, they look like a richer shade of honey. Dark amber.
I hold her eyes for a few more seconds.
“Is that it?” she asks.
I pull my gloved hand away from her wrist. “Yeah. Yes. We, uh,we clip this end to the hardware when we’re working on it. This is to prevent the buildup of static electricity. We can’t risk damaging these spacecraft electronics with an electric shock.”
Rooney confidently gestures toward the others in the room and calls out, “You’re all unsung heroes. Without you, this room, your brains, and these little black wrist cords, astronauts would go nowhere.” They laugh.
Everyone in here today has signed NDAs so that Rooney can ask them questions. If there’s anything I’ve noticed about her so far, it’s that she’s observational. Rooney notices something unremarkable about a place and expands upon it, providing a new perspective. No wonder she’s a great artist.
Dusty approaches us with a clipboard in hand. I estimate that he’s in his mid-sixties. He’s clean-shaven and detail-oriented, which I’ve always appreciated. He’s also worked his way up at NASA, which is an inspiration in and of itself. He’s been here longer than I’ve been alive.
“Welcome, Rooney,” Dusty says before introducing himself. “If you have questions I can answer about the clean room, I’ll be around.”
“Actually, I do have a question,” Rooney says, smiling sweetly and pointing to me. “He won’t let me touch anything in here. Do you have the power to do something about that?”
I cough out a small laugh.
“No coughing! I’ll apologize for him, Dusty,” Rooney says, patting my back.
“Your DNA is getting all over,” Dusty says dramatically. “We can’t risk little Jacksons popping up on Mars.”
Rooney laughs hard at this.
Dusty chuckles, too. “But no, I’m afraid you’ll have to blame me for that one,” he says, answering Rooney’s original question. “Iassure you we’re excited to have you here. I’m personally a big art fan, so this was happy news about the Artist-in-Residence program coming back. Have you been enjoying the area?”
“So far I’ve only visited the Norton Simon Museum,” Rooney informs him.
“That’s it? Has Jackson planned anything fun? A team welcoming of sorts?” Dusty asks, turning his focus on me.
Rooney shakes her head. “Afraid not, Dusty. We’ve been focused on work, but a little team event sounds like a great idea. Nothing like a little NDA-signing party to make everyone feel bonded.”
Dusty leans back and crosses his arms. “You have your reasons, I’m sure.” As he turns to leave, he adds, “If you ever want to come to Social Science, Rooney, do let me know. It’s our biweekly happy hour. There’s also the Cacti Council, of which I am the chair. We discuss very important topics like what type of cacti is trending. There are a couple of events coming up you might want to keep on your radar.”
“Dusty apparently has an extensive cacti and succulent collection at home,” I explain, recalling what he’s shared with me during an earlier invite.
“They’re my children,” he says. “I put all my money into them and love them equally.”
“Kids. You have to love them even when they’re prickly,” Rooney says, straight-faced.
Dusty chuckles and tilts his clipboard toward us. “And Jackson, the invite always stands. It would be great to see you there sometime.”
“Invite still stands?” Rooney asks when Dusty moves on to the next team.
“I haven’t had time to go,” I inform her.
Rooney arches her eyebrows.
