The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [57]
Since proposing the mission, Emilio had been taken aback by the pace of things. What had begun in laughter, almost as a joke, was snow-balling, changing lives. Already, time and money were being spent in quantities that staggered him. And if the speed of events scared him, the precision with which the pieces were falling into place was even more unnerving. He went sleepless, unable to decide which was harder to live with: the idea that he had started all this, or the possibility that God had. The only way he could reassure himself during these midnight debates was to believe that wiser heads than his were making the decisions. If he could not put his faith directly in God, who remained unknowable, he could place it in the structure of the Society and in his superiors—in D. W. Yarbrough and in Father General da Silva.
Now he felt himself rocked again by doubt. What if the whole thing was a mistake and it cost the Edwardses’ marriage? And as quickly as that passed his mind, he caught another glimpse of the serenity that sometimes came to him lately. Anne and George, he felt sure, were meant to be a part of the mission, if the mission was meant to be. And when he spoke again, Anne heard only calm and reason.
"The Society would never permit a suicide mission, Anne. If the voyage could not be undertaken now with a reasonable chance of success, we would simply wait until it seems sensible to make the attempt. Already, the plans call for provisions sufficient for ten years, just in case the subjective travel time does not contract as much as the physicists predict. The specifications call for an asteroid more than sufficiently large to provide fuel for a return trip, plus a one hundred percent safety margin," he told her. "Who knows? The atmosphere may be unbreathable or it may be impossible to land. In such cases, we would gather as much information as possible and return home."
"Who’s we? Is it definite now? Are you going?"
"There has been no decision about the crew as yet. But the Father General is, in fact, a religious man," Emilio said ironically, "who seems to believe that God is involved with this discovery." He saw that set her off again and laughed. "In any case, it would be logical to assign someone like me to the mission. If it is possible to make contact with the Singers, a linguist will presumably be useful." He wanted to tell her how much it meant to him to think that she would be part of this, but Emilio suspected he’d taken the subject as far as he could. He pushed his chair from the table and stood, picking up their plates and taking them to the kitchen. Out of sight, he called to her, "Anne. May I ask a favor?"
"What?" she asked suspiciously.
"I have an old friend coming in to visit. May I offer him your hospitality?"
"Dammit, Emilio! Aren’t there any restaurants in Puerto Rico? Between you and George, I end up feeding every stray cat on this island."
He came out of the kitchen and leaned against the doorjamb, arms across his chest, grinning, not fooled for a moment.
"All right, who’s coming?" she demanded ungraciously, refusing to be charmed.
"Dalton Wesley Yarbrough, New Orleans Provincial of the Society of Jesus, from Waco, Texas, Vatican City of the Southern Baptists," he announced with ceremony, standing at attention, a butler introducing the next guest to enter a ballroom.
She put her head in her hands, defeated. "Barbecue. Hush puppies. Collard greens, red beans and watermelon. With Carta Blanca. I can’t seem to help myself," she said in tones of wonderment. "I have this compulsion to cook for strangers."
"Well, ma’am," said Emilio Sandoz with a Texas twang, "they don’t come a whole hell of a lot stranger’n D. W. Yarbrough."
She laughed, reached behind her to the bookcase, and pitched