Isaac's temporary participation was fully authorized under Eleanor's supervision.
No one apologized.
No one called him vindicated.
The board used words like mission continuity, emergency authority, independent verification, and risk acceptance.
Isaac preferred those words.
They were less satisfying than apology and more useful.
At sunrise, Eleanor called him.
"Come to Houston."
Isaac looked around the garage.
Raymond's truck was gone. Two customer vehicles waited outside. A tractor transmission sat half-open on the bench.
"I have work here."
"Isaac."
"I know."
"The upload decision will be made from Johnson. I want you in the room."
He had not been in Houston in six years.
The thought arrived before the engineering reason, which irritated him.
"When?"
"Flight in three hours."
"I hate flying."
"You're an aerospace engineer."
"That's why."
Eleanor laughed once.
He closed the garage for the first time on a weekday in four years.
A handwritten sign appeared on the door.
CLOSED. NATIONAL EMERGENCY. BACK WHEN I CAN.
Dale Hutchins crossed the road to read it.
He stood there for a long moment.
Then he looked toward Isaac, who was loading a small bag into Eleanor's SUV.
"You serious?"
Isaac shut the door.
"Unfortunately."
Dale stared at him.
"What kind of national emergency needs you?"
Isaac got into the vehicle.
"The junk kind."
For once, Dale had no answer.
The drive to San Antonio was quiet.
Eleanor worked on a tablet. Isaac watched cattle land flatten into highway frontage, then suburbs, then airport traffic.
At security, his temporary badge attracted attention. At the gate, two engineers recognized Eleanor and tried not to look curious about the man traveling with her in a mechanic's jacket.
Isaac noticed and ignored it.
The flight lifted through broken cloud.
He kept his eyes on the wing.
"You really hate flying," Eleanor said.
"I like machines I can pull over."
"That's not how airplanes work."
"Exactly."
Houston appeared beneath them after less than an hour.
Isaac saw the city through the window and felt memory before he could stop it.
Glass towers. Toll roads. Industrial parks. The shape of a life he had once believed would be permanent.
At the airport, he expected a driver.
Eleanor took the keys herself.
"You drive program directors around often?" he asked.
"Only difficult ones."
"I'm not a program director."