The prose sparkles with warmth and urgency. It is compulsively readable, placing readers right among the ASCANs (Astraunaut Candidates) as they endure drills and training and share intimate conversations in off-duty hangouts. Reid doesn’t romanticise NASA, but instead shows it for what it was in the 1980s—sexist, queerphobic, and brutal. While exploring queer love in such a restrictive space, Reid writes, “What they had together was a lit candle, and the wind could be fierce.”
The book introduces us to characters like Frances, turning Joan from an ambitious astronaut to a loving aunt. Joan’s relationship with her sister Barbara is a subplot that looks at the lives of astronauts beyond their work.
The book’s structure builds momentum by weaving flash-forwards into the narrative. As the timelines come closer and connections between the characters deepen, a sense of impending doom creates an addictive uneasiness.
Unlike Reid’s previous novels, which explored public personas and performance—be it on stage or in sports—Atmosphere faces inwards. It is a diversion from Reid’s home turf of spectacle. Rooted in restraint, it leaves us with two women in love, training to fly among the stars but still grounded by fear, duty, and desire. It reminds us that space is vast—but love, too, is a kind of gravity.