“I can’t explain the science of it.”
“Science? Of what?”
“Something they shot into space,” Irina said.
“They?”
“They, they,” she whispered. “Just think of it…” She trailed off and pointed to the asbestos-tiled ceiling. “It’s up there. Right now.”
It was the size of a beach ball and weighed as much as the average American man but had the impact of a nuclear warhead. The news of Sputnik’s launch spread across SR hours before the Russian state news agency, TASS, announced that the first satellite to reach space was now nine hundred kilometers above Earth, circling the planet every ninety-eight minutes.
Even with all the men gone, it was impossible to get any work done. We cracked our knuckles and looked around the empty office. Kathy peeked over the partition. “What kind of name is Sputnik, anyway?”
“Sounds like a potato,” Judy said.
“It means fellow traveler,” said Irina. “I think it’s quite poetic.”
“No,” Norma said. “It’s terrifying.”
Gail stood up, closed her eyes, and drew invisible calculations in the air with her finger. She opened her eyes. “Fourteen.”
“Huh?” we asked.
“If it’s circling at that speed, it’s passing over us fourteen times a day.”
We all looked up.
* * *
—
After lunch, we gathered around the radio in Anderson’s empty office. No one had any real information, and the announcer said frantic reports were coming in from all over the country about possible sightings—from Phoenix, Tampa, Pittsburgh, both Portlands. It seemed everyone but us had seen the satellite.
“But it wouldn’t be visible to the naked eye,” Gail said. “Especially not during the day.”
Just as the Alka-Seltzer jingle came on, Anderson walked in. “I could use one of those myself,” he said. “Looks like we’re hard at work here.”
“Plop, plop, fizz, fizz,” Norma said under her breath.
Kathy turned the volume down. “We wanted to know what’s going on,” she said.
“Don’t we all,” Anderson said.
“Do you know?” Norma asked.
“Does anyone know?” said Gail.
Anderson clapped his hands like an exuberant high school basketball coach. “All right, time to get back to work.”
“How can we work with that thing flying over our heads?”
Anderson turned off the radio and shooed us away like pigeons. As we headed out, he asked Irina if she could stay behind for a minute. His request was not unusual, as Irina wasn’t just another member of the typing pool. Since she’d started, we’d suspected she had special duties at the Agency, extracurricular activities. But what they were, we didn’t know. Whether Anderson wanted to chat with her about those after-hours activities, and if they had anything to do with Sputnik, we had no idea. But that didn’t keep us from speculating.
* * *
—
News reports throughout the weekend ranged from the exaggerated (Russia Wins!) to the absurd (End Days?) to the practical (When Will Sputnik Fall?) to the political (What Will Ike Do?). By Monday morning, the inspection line into headquarters was just a trickle, as large contingents of men were off to meetings at the White House and on the Hill, assuaging fears that all was lost. The men who remained looked as though they hadn’t been home since Friday—their white shirts yellowed at the armpits, their eyes bleary, their shadows far past five o’clock.
On Tuesday, Gail came in to work with one of the Mohawk Midgetapes we used to record phone calls. She took off her hat and gloves and set the recorder in front of her typewriter. She motioned for us to come over to her desk. We gathered around as she flipped the switch to Play. We leaned in. Static.
“What are we listening for?” Kathy asked.
“I don’t hear anything,” Irina said.
“Shhh,” Gail snapped.
We leaned in closer.
Then we heard it: a weak, continuous beeping, like the heartbeat of a frightened mouse. “Got it,” she said, and clicked the recorder off.
“Got what?”
“They said you could hear it if you dial in to twenty megahertz,” she said. “But when I tried, all I got was static. So I figured I needed more power. Wanna guess what I did?”
“I have no idea, because I have no idea what you are even talking about,” Judy said.
“I went to my kitchen window and removed the wire screen. My roommate must’ve thought I’d lost my marbles.”
“She may have been right,” Norma said.
“Then I ran a wire from the screen to the radio, dialed back to twenty megahertz, positioned the microphone just right, and that was it.” She lowered her voice. “Contact.”
“With what?”
“Sputnik.”
We all looked at one another.
“You may want to keep this conversation for after hours,” Linda said, looking around.
Gail snorted. “It’s practically child’s play.”
“What does it mean?” Judy whispered.
Gail shook her head. “Don’t know.” She motioned to the row of offices behind her. “That’s for them to find out.”
“Maybe a code?” Norma said.
“A countdown?”
“What happens when the beeping stops?” Judy asked.
Gail shrugged.
“It means you have to get back to work,” Anderson said from behind. We scattered, except for Gail, who remained standing. “And, Gail,” we heard Anderson say, “I’ll see you in my office.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
We watched her trail Anderson into his office; then we watched as she left it twenty minutes later, holding her white hankie to her nose. Norma stood up, but Gail waved her away.
* * *
—
October passed. The leaves turned orange, then red, then brown, then fell. We hauled out our heavier coats from the backs of our closets. The mosquitoes died off, bars began advertising hot toddies, and everywhere, even downtown, the city smelled of burning leaves. Someone brought in a jack-o’-lantern with a hammer and sickle carved into it to display at reception, and the men had their annual trick-or-treat around SR, going desk to desk taking shots of vodka.