Page 1 of Across the Universe

Prologue

DR. EVE SHEINBAUM'S OFFICE

Stardust Beach, Florida

"Lieutenant Colonel Booker.This only works if you're frank with me. I need to understand what happened."

Dr. Sheinbaum is in her late forties, with softly curling hair that forms a halo around her arresting face. She smells like something dark--orchids and musk, or vanilla and cedar--and her silk blouse is the color of champagne. She sits in her green suede armchair, legs crossed at the knee, holding a pair of tortoiseshell-framed glasses in her trousered lap. Bill would certainly spend more time fixating on her screen-star looks if he weren't so preoccupied with the way she's trying to climb inside of his brain and poke around there.

"I'm trying," Bill says. His discomfort is evident, and he shifts his gaze around the wood-paneled office, noting the framed print over Dr. Sheinbaum's desk as well as the crystal decanter of amber liquid next to two tumblers on a bookshelf. "I find it hard to talk about myself."

Dr. Sheinbaum's eyes never leave his face. "As do most of us," she assures him. "But you have some things that we need to work through in here before I can clear you to go back to work."

Bill exhales loudly, unable to hide his displeasure. He understands the assignment here, which is to clear up the misconception that he's unhinged, or that he's somehow unfit for space travel. It's January 1966, and everyone at NASA still wholeheartedly believes in Kennedy's goal to reach the moon before 1970. There is no doubt in Bill Booker's mind that it will happen, and, come hell or high water, he wants to be on that shuttle.

"I understand what NASA's requirements are," Bill says in measured tones, trying not to let his annoyance show in front of Dr. Sheinbaum. But he's not fooling a Harvard-trained psychiatrist, and she tilts her head ever so slightly, watching him with an irritating amount of interest.

"Tell me about your first wife," Dr. Sheinbaum says out of the blue.

This catches Bill by surprise. Sure, he'd had a shock when he'd received a call on the Fourth of July about his first wife committing suicide in a psychiatric facility in Arizona, but her death hadn't undone him. Contrary to what his fellow astronauts might have believed, he'd never been on the verge following that bit of bad news.

Bill clears his throat. "Margaret," he says, tapping his long fingers on his knee as he nods with feigned patience. "Her name was Margaret."

Dr. Sheinbaum jots something on the notepad on the table next to her and then sets her pencil back down again. "I see. And what about Margaret made you love her in the first place?"

This is so out of left field, so wholly unexpected in terms of the types of questions that Bill was expecting, that he drops his guard and answers. "Her laugh," he says, remembering. "I asked her to the high school formal dance, and when I picked her up, I couldn't help but notice how much she laughed." Unbidden, tears threaten to fall, but Bill wills them away. "There's something intoxicating about making a woman laugh."

Dr. Sheinbaum smiles for the first time as she holds her glasses in her hand, letting them dangle in front of her chest. "There is indeed something enthralling about having the ability to elicit emotion from another," she agrees mildly. There is a pause. "Now, tell me why it was so easy for others to elicit a response fromyouon New Year's Eve."

This earns another loud exhalation from Bill as he uses his thumb to trace the seam of his slacks. "I'm not sure," Bill says, keeping his eyes focused on the hazy distance over Dr. Sheinbaum's shoulder. "I really couldn't tell you."

"Fine," Dr. Sheinbaum says, setting her glasses on top of her notepad and re-crossing her legs with the other one on top. She laces her fingers together and rests them on her lap. "Then I'd like to go back to the beginning of that evening and hear all the details from you."

Bill knows full well that the details of the evening have already been relayed to Dr. Sheinbaum and God only knows who else, but he also knows there's no way around these therapy sessions if he wants a shot at the moon, so he mimics Dr. Sheinbaum's pose, leaning back in his own chair, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap.

"I put on my tux at six-thirty," he says, closing his eyes. "And I poured a glass of whiskey while I waited for my wife to finish getting ready..."

CHAPTER1

December 31, 1965

The enormous ballroomis filled with glimmering lights, candles, and the preponderance of diamonds and gems that the women are wearing. Gossamer gowns are encrusted with rhinestones and sparkles, and even the tablecloths are sprinkled with a tasteful dusting of glitter. A band plays on a stage at one end of the ballroom, its members bedecked in sapphire blue shantung silk tuxedos pinned with white rose boutonnières.

On the polished wood dance floor, astronauts in sleek tuxes—some with tails, some without—whirl their ladies around to the musical stylings of Denny Hitzman and the Hitmen. On stage, Denny’s broad, white smile gleams from his tanned face, and the bass player shakes his head as his fingers fly across the guitar's frets. The band is doing a rousing and imaginative cover of the Beatles' "Can't Buy Me Love" as couples move to the music. Bill Booker cuts through the crowd of women in their elbow-length gloves and wrist corsages, and he dodges flying elbows as men turn beautiful women under their arms, let them spin out, and then pull them close again gracefully.

"Excuse me," a woman says breathlessly as she approaches Bill. She is blonde and all business, her dress giving away the fact that she's there for work and not simply to celebrate.

"Lieutenant Colonel," she says smartly, giving him a wide, pearly grin as she stands before him. She's barely over five feet tall and can't be much older than twenty-five, but she has the attitude of a born go-getter. "My name is Polly Vanderbilt. I'd love to escort you over to the merchandise showcase, if you don't mind."

Bill lifts an eyebrow as he looks around the bustling dance floor. "The merchandise showcase?"

Polly nods eagerly, her blonde waves bouncing as she holds out a hand like an airline hostess pointing to an emergency exit. "Yes!" she says, sounding giddy. "Against the wall there."

Intrigued—both by the notion of a merchandise showcase, and by the over-exuberance of this young woman—Bill follows.

"Booker!" Vance Majors says, clapping Bill on the shoulder as he passes. "Happy New Year!"

Bill shakes hands with his colleagues and coworkers as he winds through the throng of well-dressed partygoers, smiling and tossing back well-wishes for a happy new year as he follows Polly Vanderbilt.

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