"Enough, Barb," Ken Hathaway said firmly. "Ms. Fathom hasn't been calling anyone names, so don't you start either." That was enough to forestall Meyer's gathering temper tantrum.
The Australian woman was still agitated, but she was also clearly a little embarrassed by her outburst.
A.J. stood. "You all know me, and you all know that I believe in censorship about as much as I believe in the Tooth Fairy. But I'm going to be working with Ms. Fathom on this one. Or, at least, not trying to work against her. Sure, I'm pissed. But we've still got a job to do here, and we're not going to get it done if we start playing 'Spy versus Spy.' I don't know about you people, but I came here to study Phobos and the resident aliens."
Helen nodded. Barbara looked like her face would crack from tension, then suddenly she shrugged. "Okay, fine. I'm in. Might as well all sink together. And you're right, A.J., I've got a lot to work on."
With that an invisible dam broke, and the murmurs were accepting, resigned, but no longer threatening and ugly. Madeline did relax visibly then, letting herself look smaller and more vulnerable. The group would be predisposed for the moment to look upon her as at least partially a fellow victim. It was even true, as far as it went.
"Thank you all," she said softly. "I will try to intrude upon you as little as possible."
She leaned back and let Hathaway take center stage, giving the directions he had in mind to ensure proper information flow without violating Madeline's requirements.
Once, during the rest of the meeting, she looked at Joe. His eyes met hers, but only briefly. The expression on his face was as unreadable as a Bemmie noteplaque.
She'd won a victory, but it tasted like ashes in her mouth. A month had passed since she'd opened up her personal history to Joe. In the time that followed, they'd seen each other every day and spent many hours in conversation. No further physical contact had occurred. Madeline hadn't felt ready for it, and Joe had carefully respected her feelings. But, under the surface, she'd felt the attraction just growing and growing—and knew that it was reciprocated.
Just two days ago, she'd finally accepted that it had been the happiest month of her life. And now . . . It was over. For the first time since she was ten years old, Madeline Fathom wished she had a different profession.
Chapter 37
"Ms. Fathom," A.J. said, "would you please join us in Phobos Conference Room?"
Madeline's voice replied a moment later. "With that level of formality, I suppose I must."
"I think you'll want to."
The past week had been uncomfortable for everyone. So far, no one had tried to get around the deal that had been struck at the meeting. But it was clear that many of them considered it to be a deal with the devil, and didn't go to any trouble to hide that attitude when Madeline was around. Room temperatures appeared to drop by ten degrees whenever she entered a room, with a few exceptions. Even those who appeared to have accepted the situation without particular rancor, like A.J., didn't seem inclined to let her off the hook she'd hung herself on.
And Joe was still avoiding her.
"On my way."
Fortunately she was already on Phobos. If she'd been on Nike it would've been a matter of hours to get there. She drifted down the newly sealed hallway towards the conference area.
Madeline raised an eyebrow as she entered, seeing not just A.J. but Captain Hathaway, Helen, Rich Skibow and Jane Mayhew sitting around the conference table. Hanging onto it, it might be better to say—the term "sitting" meant little in microgravity.
Helen gave her a smile. Somewhat to Madeline's surprise, since she knew that Helen's attitudes concerning intellectual secrecy were every bit as firm as those of most of the scientists, the paleontologist had been one of the very few members of the scientific staff on Nike who had been just as friendly to her since that meeting as she'd been before.
Madeline suspected that Helen's attitude stemmed from her own life's experience. Us girls gotta stick together, for lack of a better expression. The deep-seated, gut reaction of a woman who'd fought her way to the top in a male profession, seeing another woman in the same position come under pressure.
She'd even learned, from a somewhat amused Jackie Secord, that Helen had been so furious at A.J. when she learned of his behavior at the initial fracas that she'd verbally stripped his hide off—too bad she didn't BREAK your fucking arm, you stinking bully!—and then made him sleep on the couch for the next several days.
Madeline felt a little guilty about that. The truth was that A.J.'s grab at her had been more in the way of an angry reflex than a serious attempt to attack her. Madeline could have easily just fended it off. The real reason she'd chosen—as Ken Hathaway put it—to use