Page 55 of Reinventing Cato
Cato had a busy week. He left early in the mornings and came back late at night. Members of the IoA, Institute of Astronomy, were issued with an external door key that allowed access to all the buildings and telescopes at any time of the day or night. Since the university security patrol made regular checks, he always kept his Raven ID with him. Cato spenthis time moving between the Battcock Centre, the Kavli and the Obs—the Grand Observatory building that housed the library and offices. Though term had not technically started, there was plenty of coding to be done, always papers to read, people to chat with and a few group meetings to attend.
As well as doing work on his doctorate, and practising the violin, he needed to do four hours of small-group teaching per week. Cato was a member of the Governing Body of Downing College, and had been to a meeting last night that had sapped his strength. Some people just loved to talk. About nothing.
But he liked being part of the college system. It made him feel as if he belonged. He liked doing research, he still loved astrophysics. If he had someone more permanent in his life, would that make him feel differently about what he was doing? All he was sure about was that he was looking forward to seeing Vigge tomorrow. Every night, he’d texted Vigge some random fact about animals and a photo of some innocent body part—finger, toe, his hair, one eye, and Vigge texted him a countdown of how long until they met.
Cato was excited.
He was in the kitchen on Friday evening, cooking tagliatelle with mushrooms and cream, when Sam came in.
“Oh, do you live here?” Sam asked.
Cato laughed.
“You’re never around.”
“I’ve a lot of work on.”
“Not been with that guy then?”
“Just my computer and the stars.”
Sam took a bottle of white wine from the fridge. “Like a glass?”
“No thanks.”
“Go on. Just one.”
Cato was annoyed when Sam put one next to him, but he wasn’t going to be churlish. “Thanks.”
“That smells delicious.”
“Sorry. There’s only enough for me.”
“You’re such a good cook.” Sam slipped two slices of bread into the toaster and put a carton of beans into the microwave.
“Not really.”
“You are. You’re good at everything. Cooking, the violin, your work, the way you dress… You even have fabulous handwriting.”
Sometimes Sam irritated him. He was just… “There’s nothing special about my clothes. Just chain store stuff. And if you only knew the number of times I was made to write stuff out again because it wasn’t written neatly enough.”
“Well, it was worth it. I wish I’d had someone push me like that.”
Cato took the parmesan from the fridge and sprinkled a little on top of the pasta he’d just plated up. Sam sat down at the table with his beans on toast and after thinking about taking his food to his room, Cato decided to stop being a grouch and joined him.
“Heard anymore from NASA?” Sam asked.
“No.” Cato wouldn’t be telling anyone if he did. “The bigger the organisation, the longer these things take.”
“What do you think about throwing a party?”
Not a lot.Sam was seven years younger than him and Cato could see why he’d want one, but he’d had his fill of student parties.
“We could meet each other’s friends.” Sam gave him a hopeful look.
The front door slammed and Pedro stamped into the kitchen. “Fucking fucking fucking fucking…”
“Bad day?” Sam asked.
