I frown. “What do you mean?”
“It’s inconsequential.”
“I . . . Is it?”
“Yes. Of course it would have been convenient if you’d had those funds at your disposal, but I’ve already discussed it with two of my colleagues who agree that your work is meritorious. They are in control of other funds that Floyd won’t be able to veto, so—”
“Floyd?” I raise my finger. I must have misheard. “Hold up, did you say Floyd? Ian Floyd?” I try to recall if I’ve heard of other Floyds working here. It’s a common last name, but . . .
Merel’s face doesn’t hide much. It’s obvious that he was referring to Ian, and it’s obvious that he wasn’t supposed to bring him up, fucked up by doing it anyway, and now has no choice but to explain to me what he hinted at.
I have exactly zero intention of letting him off the hook.
“This is, of course, confidential,” he says after a brief hesitation.
“Okay,” I agree hurriedly.
“The review process should remain anonymous. Floyd cannot know.”
“He won’t,” I lie. I have no plan at the moment, but part of me already knows that I’m lying. I’m not exactly the nonconfrontational type.
“Very well.” Merel nods. “Floyd was part of the committee that screened your application, and he was the one who decided to veto your project.”
He . . . what?
He what?
No way.
“This doesn’t sound right. Ian isn’t even here in Houston.” I know this because a couple of days after coming back from Norway, I went looking for him. Looked him up on the NASA directory, bought a cup of coffee and one of tea from the cafeteria, then went to his office with only vague ideas of what I’d say, feeling almost nervous, and . . .
I found it locked. “He’s at JPL,” someone with a South African accent told me when they noticed me idling in the hallway.
“Oh. Okay.” I turned around. Took two steps away. Then turned back to ask, “When will he be back?”
“Hard to tell. He’s been there for a month or so to work on the sampling tool for Serendipity.”
“I see.” I thanked the woman, and this time I left for real.
It’s been a little over a week since then, and I’ve been to his office . . . in a number of instances. I’m not even sure why. And it doesn’t really matter, because the door was closed every single time. Which is how I know that: “Ian is at JPL. He’s not here.”
“You are mistaken,” Merel says. “He’s back.”
I stiffen. “As of when?”
“That, I could not tell you, but he was present when the committee met to discuss your proposal. And like I said, he was the one who vetoed it.”
This is impossible. Nonsensical. “Are you sure it was him?”
Merel gives me an annoyed look and I swallow, feeling oddly . . . exposed, standing the way I am in this office while being told that Ian—Ian? Really?—is the reason I didn’t get my funding. It seems like a lie. But would Merel lie? He’s way too straitlaced for that. I doubt he has the imagination.
“Can he do that? Veto a project that’s otherwise well received?”
“Considering his position and seniority, yes.”
“Why, though?”
He sighs. “It could be anything. Perhaps he is jealous of a brilliant proposal, or he’d rather the funding go to someone else. Some of his close collaborators have applied, I hear.” A pause. “Something he said made me suspect that . . .”
“What?”
“That he didn’t believe you capable of doing the work.”
I stiffen. “Excuse me?”
“He didn’t seem to find faults in the proposal. But he did talk about your role in it in less-than-flattering tones. Of course, I tried to push back.”
I close my eyes, suddenly nauseous. I cannot believe Ian would do this. I cannot believe he’d be such a backstabbing, miserable dick. Maybe we’re not close friends, but after our last meeting, I thought he . . . I don’t know. I have no idea. I think maybe I had expectations of something, but this puts a swift end to them. “I’m going to appeal.”
“There is no reason to do that, Hannah.”
“There are plenty of reasons. If Ian thinks that I’m not good enough despite my CV, I—”
“Do you know him?” Merel interrupts me.
“What?”
“I was wondering if you two know each other?”
“No. No, I . . .” Once humped his leg. It was fantastic. “Barely. Just in passing.”
“I see. I was just curious. It would explain why he was so determined about denying your project. I’d never seen him quite so . . . adamant that a proposal not get accepted.” He waves his hand, like this is not important. “But you shouldn’t concern yourself with this, because I have already secured alternative funding for your project.”
Oh. Now this I did not expect. “Alternative funding?”
“I reached out to a few team leaders who owed me favors. I asked them if they had any budget surplus they might want to dedicate to your project, and I was able to put together enough to send you back to Norway.”
I half gasp, half laugh. “Really?”
“Indeed.”
“On the next AMASE?”
“The one that leaves in February of next year, yes.”
“What about the help I asked for? I will need one other person to help me build the mini-rover and to be in the field. And I’ll have to travel quite a way from home base, which might be dangerous on my own.”
“I don’t think we’ll be able to finance another expedition member.”
I press my lips together and think about it. I can probably do most of the prep work on my own. If I don’t sleep for the next few months, which . . . I’ve done it before. I’ll be fine. The problem would be when I get to Svalbard. It’s too risky to—
“I’ll be there, out in the field with you, of course,” Dr. Merel says. I’m a little surprised. In the months we were in Norway, I saw him do very little sample collecting and snow plodding. I’ve always thought of him as more of a coordinator. But if he offered, he must mean it, and . . . I smile. “Perfect, then. Thank you.”
I slip out of the room, and for about two weeks I’m high enough on the knowledge that my project will be happening that I manage to do just that: not let anyone know. I don’t even tell Mara and Sadie when we FaceTime, because . . . because to explain the degree of Ian’s betrayal, I’d have to admit to the lie I told them years ago. Because I feel like a total idiot for trusting someone who deserves nothing from me. Because being honest with them would first require me to be honest with myself, and I’m too angry, tired, disappointed for that. In my rants, Ian becomes a faceless, anonymous figure, and there is something freeing in that. In not letting myself remember that I used to think of him fondly, and by name.
Then, exactly seventeen days later, I meet Ian Floyd in the stairwell. And that’s when everything goes to shit.
* * *
I spot him before he sees me—because of the red, and the general largeness, and the fact that he’s climbing up while I’m going down. There are about five elevators here, and I’m not sure why anyone would willingly choose to subject their bodies to the stress of upward stairs, but I’m not too shocked that Ian is the one doing it. It’s the kind of glory-less overachieving I’ve come to expect from him.