The Calculating Stars

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  I turned on the bedside lamp and sat up. “You were wonderful in the press conference.”

  “If by ‘wonderful’ you mean that I deflected the idiot reporter who thinks the whole program is pointless, then yes. Yes, I was.” He shrugged, pulling on his tie. “I’d rather have been at Mission Control. I could hear you over the radio when they retrieved Parker after splashdown. And here I thought you didn’t like the fellow.”

  “How do you know it was me?”

  “First, we’ve been married for five years. Second…” He kicked his shoes off. “You were one of two women in the room, and I don’t think you were the one speaking Taiwanese.”

  “Li ki si.” Helen had taught me to swear, which came in handy with some of the engineers. And occasionally my husband. “Anyway. I’m allowed to be excited that the mission was a success, and I’m not evil. Or at least not enough to wish him dead for real. Mostly.”

  “Hm.” He crossed the room and bent down to kiss me, tasting of good scotch. “Mostly evil? Yes, I can agree with—ow! My point’s proven.”

  Reaching up, I undid the top button of his collar. “I think…” The next button followed, exposing his clavicle and the top of his undershirt. “… it depends on how one defines evil.”

  Nathaniel traced a finger along the neckline of my nightgown. “I am happy to entertain your definition.”

  “Well…” I reached the last button and tugged his shirt free of his trousers. “For instance. Let’s say that one learns something during a press conference that her husband really should have told her.”

  Nathaniel’s hand paused at the strap of my nightgown. “Interesting example.” He slid the strap off and bent down to kiss my exposed shoulder. “I might need more specifics.”

  I inhaled, breathing in muskiness from his aftershave, and the sweet earthiness of a fine cigar. “For instance, the fact that they are expanding the astronaut corps and removing the test pilot requirement.” With my face pressed into his hair, I found his belt by touch. The fabric beneath it was already strained out of shape.

  My God, I loved a successful rocket launch. Nathaniel nibbled a path from my shoulder to the base of my neck, sending warm currents down to my toes. “Let’s say that expanding the astronaut corps was contingent on completion of a mission. Would withholding information about the expansion be considered evil, if the motivation was to keep someone’s hopes from rising?”

  “Mm … rising hopes.” I released the zipper on his trousers, and Nathaniel’s hands tightened on my upper arms.

  “And would that be further mitigated if, for instance, a certain briefcase contained an application? For someone who was, say, a World War II pilot, had logged the requisite flight time, and fit the right height and weight requirements? Ah—oh … oh God.” He cleared his throat, and his breath was hot against my neck. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Confirmed: evilness mitigated. But…” I slid back on the bed, pulling my nightgown off as I did. With my arms over my head and the cool night air bringing my breasts to full attention, I also commanded my husband’s … full attention. “It’s the action one would take to protect a child. Am I a child?”

  “God. No.” He shrugged out of his dress shirt and peeled his undershirt off. The bedside lamp caressed the curve and flex of his abdomen. After the Meteor, Nathaniel had begun working out. He was not alone in that drive to be more prepared for “what if” scenarios, but, my heavens … did I ever appreciate the result.

  I threw my nightgown to the side. His gaze stayed fixed on me, and his mouth hung a little open, as if his brain were trying to acquire extra oxygen to compensate for a redirected blood flow.

  “So, I have to ask, why wouldn’t one tell an adult?” I regretted the question almost immediately, because this one made him pause. On the other hand, he paused in the act of sliding his trousers and underwear off in one motion, so I could appreciate the V of his abdomen as it joined his pelvis, and the dark hair at the base.

  “Because they were going to cancel the entire program. If the launch had failed.” By “fail,” he meant: if Parker had died. Nathaniel slid his trousers the rest of the way off. “The snow. People think that the warming isn’t coming. So…”

  I reached for him and he slid between my legs, pushing me back to lie on the bed with his warmth pressed against my full length. Wrapping one thigh around his leg, I pressed up into Nathaniel and his eyes fluttered closed. “Warming is definitely coming.”

  “Yes.” He shifted so he could reach between us. His fingers found the bright bundle of delight between my legs and … sparked my ignition sequence. Everything else could wait.

  “Oh … oh God. We are Go for launch.”

  ELEVEN

  IAC IS SPURRING ROCKET PROGRAM

  75 to 105 Vehicles Will Be Fired in 3-Year Schedule, Chief Says

  By BILL BECKER

  Special to The National Times.

  KANSAS CITY, KS, March 3, 1956—The International Aerospace Coalition plans to launch 75 to 105 major rockets in the next three years, thereby expecting to have a colony on the moon by 1960.

  “Do you remember where you were when the Meteor struck?” At the front of the synagogue, our rabbi looked over the congregation.

  I don’t know about anyone else, but my eyes instantly burned with the threat of tears. Of course I remembered.

  Behind me, I heard another woman sniffle. I wondered where she had been four years ago on March 3rd, 1952. Had she been in bed with her husband? Had she been preparing breakfast for her children? Or had she been one of the millions of people who didn’t hear about it until later?

  “I was counseling a young couple, newly engaged, who were facing all the joys of their upcoming marriage. My secretary knocked on the door—she never does this. She opened the door and she was weeping. You all know Mrs. Schwab. Have you ever seen her even without a smile? ‘The radio,’ she said.”

  Rabbi Neuberger shrugged, but somehow still conveyed all the grief that followed. “I will always think about that moment as the threshold between Before and After.” He held up a finger. “If that young couple had not been in my office, I would have given way to grief. But they asked me if they should still get married. It seemed as if the world were ending. Should they marry?”

  He leaned forward, and you could hear the held breath of every person in the tense silence around us.

  “Yes. Marriage, too, is a threshold between Before and After. We have many of these, every day, which we do not recognize. The threshold is not the question. There will always be Befores and Afters. The question is: what do you do after you cross that threshold?”

  I wiped under my eyes with the thumb of my glove, and it came away dark with mascara.

  “You live. You remember. This is what our people have always done.”

  Outside the synagogue, bells began to sound across the city. Probably across the country, and maybe across the planet. I didn’t have to look at my watch. 9:53 a.m.

  I closed my eyes, and even in the darkness, even four year later, I could still see the light. Yes. I remembered where I was when the Meteor struck.

  * * *

  I did not even make the first cut.

  I was consoling myself with a piece of carrot cake at the IAC cafeteria—and, as a sidenote, let me say that the best thing about the International part of the International Aerospace Coalition was that it meant the cafeteria had a French pastry chef. But I digress. So the carrot cake and I were sitting at a table with Helen, Basira, and Myrtle. When we’d been living with Myrtle, I’d had no idea she had worked as a computer during the war until she signed on with the IAC two years ago.

  Basira, who had come to us from Algiers, made a face. “So, then he tried to show me how to use a slide rule!”

  “No—for a differential equation?” Myrtle, the only other American in our group, covered her mouth and laughed until her cheeks turned red. “What a buffoon.”

  “I know!” Basira put on a terrible American accent. “
Weyaaaaahll, liddle lady, this here iz ah mighdy fine instrumen.”

  Helen had her hands clapped over her mouth and was cackling like a Taiwanese banshee—if there were such a thing. “Tell them where he hold it!”

  With a snort, Basira glanced around the cafeteria, but it was the end of the day shift, so it was largely empty. I lowered my fork, making a guess and—yep. She placed her hand in her lap, as if the slide rule were … well. Prepared for liftoff. “I ken show ya how ta uze it.”

  I laughed, picturing Leroy Pluckett, with his wispy sideburns and loud ties, trying to come on to Basira. With her height and dark, smooth complexion, she had easily won Miss Outer Space at the company holiday party last winter. Plus, her accent was to die for.

  The company of these women was a newfound joy to me. The NACA computing department had been all women, yes, but due to segregation laws in D.C., they had all been white women. If you told me four years ago that I was going to be one of only two white women in my group of closest friends, I would have laughed. I’m ashamed of that now.

  The International Aerospace Coalition, which President Brannan had convinced the UN to form, changed everything. Well … the Meteor had changed everything. But having a Quaker for president did a lot to alter hiring practices all the way down the line. And I couldn’t be luckier to have these friends as a result.

  Helen wiped her eyes and looked over my shoulder. “Hello, Dr. York.”

  “Good evening, ladies.” He rested his hand on my shoulder briefly, in lieu of a public kiss. “What are you laughing about?”

  “Slide rules.” Helen folded her hands demurely in her lap. “And their uses.”

  Which set us off again. Poor Nathaniel just watched the laughter, smiling with us, but otherwise clueless. Which reminded me that I would have to talk to him about Leroy Pluckett. It made for a funny story, but I didn’t like him coming into our department and disrupting it. Technically, personnel issues were Mrs. Rogers’s job, but I was the one who was sleeping with the lead engineer, so I was in a better position to fix it than the other women.

  Wiping my eyes and still chuckling, I slid my chair back. “Looks like my ride is here.”

  “Are you not going to finish that cake?” Myrtle reached across the table.

  “It’s all yours.”

  Nathaniel picked up my coat from the back of my chair and held it up for me. This July was almost warm enough to not need it, but not quite yet. Summer was coming, sooner than we liked. I waved goodbye to the women. “See y’all tomorrow.”

  A chorus of goodbyes followed us across the cafeteria amid bubbles of laughter. Nathaniel took my hand. “You seem to be in a better mood.”

  “Well, cake helps. And getting a rose from you.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.” He waved to one of the other engineers as we walked down the hall toward the front doors of the IAC. “I learned something today that might also cheer you up.”

  “Oh?” I stopped by the door to let him open it for me. “Do tell?”

  The late-evening sun cut across the parking lot, but did little to stave off the chill air. Pulling my coat a little tighter around me, I went out and walked with Nathaniel toward the bus stop. Beyond the fence that surrounded the IAC campus, kids waited with autograph books, hoping for a glimpse of one of the astronauts. They spotted Nathaniel, and once again settled for the lead engineer of the space program.

  I let go of his hand and stepped to the side as the kids swarmed around him. Thank heavens they had no interest in the engineer’s wife. It was like watching a feeding frenzy, with autograph books in lieu of teeth. He ran the gauntlet nearly every day, and I suspected that it was one of the reasons he often worked so late.

  Well … that and my husband’s inherent nature. The kids weren’t the only rocket enthusiasts.

  After he worked his way clear of them, Nathaniel waited until we had walked down the block toward the bus stop to get back to his news.

  “Well…” He glanced behind us. “This is not technically classified, since the final list of the astronauts will make it clear, but…”

  “I won’t mention anything until the final list is published.” Not even the first cut. I hadn’t expected to make the final team—not really—but with my logged flight time, I thought I’d at least get past the first cut.

  “Director Clemons did not select any women. At all.”

  Stopping dead in my tracks, I stared at him. The head of the IAC, Director Norman Clemons—a man I had worked with for years, and someone I had respected—had not se lected any women. Breath steamed in front of me as my mouth hung open. “How is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Well … because you know it wasn’t you. Right?”

  “But there wasn’t anything in the requirements about being male.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “Clemons said he thought it would have been self-evident. Because of the dangers.”

  “Oh my God. I accepted that piece of patriarchal stupidity for test flights. But now? We’re trying to establish a colony. How exactly does he expect to do that without any women?”

  “I think…” He hesitated and looked down the street, his eyes squinted against the breeze. There were times when Nathaniel really couldn’t tell me things, because they were classified, and when he hit one of those walls, he always looked vaguely constipated. Right now, it looked as if he were holding something huge.

  “What?”

  He licked his lips and shifted his weight. “There was some … concern about the stresses of space.”

  “Stresses. Women handle G-forces better than men. The WASPs established that during the war and—” I broke off at the sudden compression of his lips, as if he were biting back words. “You are kidding me. They think we’ll get hysterical in space?”

  Nathaniel shook his head and gestured toward the bus stop. “I thought we might go dancing tonight.”

  Grinding my teeth, I jammed my hands into my coat pockets. “Why not a show, while we’re at it.” If I had to lay money on who had objected to the fitness of women for the space program, I’d pick one man: Stetson Parker.

  * * *

  I will grant that Nathaniel was right, in that I wasn’t sad anymore, but anger was, perhaps, not what he had intended to inspire. By the time we reached the weekend, I was still angry. If I had tried my best and failed, it would have been different. I could have dusted myself off and tried harder next time.

  This? This was maddening, because there was nothing I could do to change it. If you haven’t gathered by now, I don’t do well with “helpless.” So I headed out to the private airfield where our local branch of the 99s Flight Club met. The first rule of flight club was—well, actually, the first rule was “safety,” but after that it was, “Ground is for griping. Planes are for planning.” In-air conversations did not return to the ground.

  Which is why I started this particular conversation on the ground. I wanted at least some gossip to arise from it. I looked around at the circle of women. When the original 99s formed, they took their name because there were only ninety-nine women pilots in the United States. Now there were thousands of us in different clubs across the nation, and I was betting that all of us had the same ambitions. “Who else applied for the astronaut corps?”

  Everyone’s hands went up, except Pearl, who was still plump from having triplets, and Helen, who didn’t have her license yet. (I’d gotten her hooked on flying at the Fourth of July party last year. Her father still hadn’t forgiven me.)

  It was Betty’s turn for preflight refreshments and she had brought lemon-beet cookies. I’d been dubious when they first made an appearance, but these could be made despite the sugar shortages, and they were tart, sweet, and delicious. She set the plate down on the rough wooden picnic table set up in the corner of the hangar. Her movie-star red lips twisted into a pout. “I didn’t make the cut.”

  I snatched a bright pink cookie from the plate. “None of us did.”

  The other women turned on me w
ith expressions ranging from surprise to suspicion. Pearl wrinkled her pert little nose. “How do you know that?”

  “Because.” I broke the cookie in half. “They didn’t take any women.”

  “Why? On what grounds?”

  Betty snorted and grabbed her bosom, which was magnificent. “Obviously, these get in the way of the controls.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Helen ran her hands down her flight suit, which accentuated her boyish figure.

  “Seriously, though. I thought they were trying to establish colonies.”

  Nodding, I avoided any of the things Nathaniel had hinted at. “They’ll be doing a formal announcement of the list at a press conference next week.”

  Betty perked up and grabbed for her bag. “You don’t say.” She pulled out her reporter’s notepad.

  I cleared my throat. “Obviously, I don’t say, but someone with a tie to a major newspaper would probably be invited, and—”

  “Nuts.” She glared at the pad. “They’ll probably give it to Hart. He’s getting all the prime international stuff. I swear to God, if I have to cover one more garden club—”

  “You’ll do it, and be grateful for the paycheck.” Pearl twisted her gloves in her hands.

  Betty sighed. “You could have at least let me rant a little longer before bringing reality into this.”

  “The thing is—” I cut in, pointing my cookie at Betty. “Do you think he’ll notice an all-male list?”

  She narrowed her eyes, and I could see her formulating the pitch she’d use with her editor. “Can I cite you as a source at the IAC? Not by name.”

  “I … I don’t want to get … um … my source in trouble.”

  Betty snatched the cookie out of my hand. “If you think that little of my—”

  I snatched it back and crumbs went flying. Laughing, I popped the tart morsel into my mouth. “I just want to make sure the parameters are clear.”