The Calculating Stars

by Mary Robinette Kowal

“I know.” I tucked my skirts under me as I sat. “Helen? I’ll come to the 99s this weekend if—if you’ll promise to fly with me so I don’t have to share the Cessna with someone I don’t know.”

  “ Āiyō, Āiyō!” Her grin of triumph did the translation, and I couldn’t help smiling back.

  “Ha!” Nathaniel straightened. “We’ve worked around the automatic cutoff. Start the clock again and tell Malouf his prayers worked. Let’s light this candle.”

  EIGHTEEN

  ALGERIAN FRENCH KILL THREE IN RIOT

  By MICHAEL CLARK

  Special to The National Times.

  ALGIERS, Algeria, Aug. 22, 1956—Riots flared in Algiers today as thousands of Frenchmen demonstrated during the funeral of Am éd ée Froger, chairman of the Algerian Mayors Federation. He was assassinated by an anti-space terrorist yesterday.

  Betty volunteered to come with me to meet the Girl Scout troop that Lebourgeois’s daughter belonged to, which was great, because I was scared senseless. Betty was thrilled about the “Great Publicity,” and had been gushing since we’d met at my place, imagining headlines with her hands spread wide like she was cupping the words.

  “Lady Astronaut Meets Astronaut’s Daughter!” She laughed and swung on the streetcar’s pole. “I wish you’d let me bring a photographer.”

  I reached for the pull cord on the streetcar. “This is our stop.” The doors opened and I trotted down the steps to the street. “First, please stop calling me that; I’m not an astronaut.”

  “That’s what the public calls you.” She hopped down next to me, coat pulled tight against the wind.

  “Yes, but I haven’t been into space, and it’s disrespectful of the men who have.” I pulled the address out of my purse and steered us down the street.

  “Whoa. Elma.” Betty put up her hands in mock surrender. “I thought you were the one who was all keen to get women into space.”

  “I am, but that doesn’t mean I want a title I haven’t earned.” We were meeting the Girl Scouts in the common room at a Catholic church in a newer part of Kansas City I didn’t usually visit.

  The broad streets had modern buildings with narrow windows and low, thick walls. Half of them probably had several stories below ground, in the fashion that had become popular right after the Meteor hit. Idiots. They were building for an impact that would never come. At least the floors below ground would be fairly easy to cool.

  The church itself was easy to spot from several blocks away from its redbrick facade and the thrust of its bell tower. Given the number of cars parked outside, it clearly had some sort of event going on. Likely a wedding, which was nice.

  Right after the Meteor, there’d been a trend toward free love as a sort of reaction to Doomsday. It was good that people were still getting married, since it meant that they weren’t as scared about the future.

  On the other hand, if people were becoming complacent about the planet’s future, that was a different sort of problem.

  “Don’t be mad.” Betty grabbed my arm. “Just smile. You’ve got a great smile.”

  “What are you—?”

  The sidewalk next to the church was filled with reporters. Sweat drenched my back and ran down my inner arms. If Betty hadn’t had a hold of my arm, I would have probably made a run for it. My stomach heaved and I had to swallow hard to keep from hurling on the spot.

  “Smile, Elma.” She kept her grip on my arm and spoke through a fixed smile of her own. “We need this.”

  “I didn’t even want a photographer, and you arranged this?” I wrenched my arm free, heart hitting my ribs like a punching bag. Any moment now I was going to cry, and that was monumentally unfair. I was angry, damn it. I turned my back on the reporters.

  “You can’t walk away. Elma. Elma … the little girls are coming out. Elma, you can’t leave them. There’s an astronaut’s daughter here, and her daddy is in—”

  “Damn it.” Mr. Lebourgeois’s daughter had asked me to come because her father was in space and she was scared. “Goddamn it.”

  So I turned to face the cameras, and all the expectations, and—and eight little girls, all wearing cardboard-and-tinfoil space helmets.

  “Elma … please don’t be mad.” Betty stayed by my side, talking through a smile. “Please. I knew you’d say no, and you’re so good on camera. Please don’t be mad.”

  I gave her my brightest, most Stetson-Parker smile. “Well, bless your heart. Why would I be mad?” One little girl. I was here for one little girl. I tried my damnedest to block out the cameras and the men shouting for us to look at them and smile. One little girl. Her name was Claire Lebourgeois and her daddy was in space.

  I could keep from throwing up for long enough to reassure her that he was coming home.

  * * *

  Fourteen days after they went into space, Lebourgeois, Cleary, and Malouf safely returned to the ground. They hadn’t accomplished all of their objectives, but they’d proven the main point that the lunar module would sustain life long enough for an exploratory moon mission. That just left it up to us to get them there.

  Sitting at my shared desk with Basira, I tried to ignore the constant bouncing that the engineer next to us was doing. I’d offered him a chair when he came in, but he was too eager. Resting my head on my left hand, I tried to surreptitiously rub my temple while studying the figures that Clarence “Bubbles” Bobienski had brought from the latest engine test. I’d been on the radio this morning before work, and getting up two hours earlier had left me with a headache that ran from my left eye, over my scalp, and down to the base of my neck.

  I was fairly certain it wasn’t fatigue that was the problem, though. “Bubbles, this doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know!” He jabbed a finger, raw with chewed cuticles, at the paper. “That’s why I want you to go over the calculations.”

  I shook my head, running the tip of my pencil over the machine-generated numbers. “It’s not an error in calculation.”

  “Please. That machine adds wrong if the temperature is over sixty-five.” The cuffs of his shirt were smudged gray with pencil lead. “I need a computress.”

  As a group, we hated that nickname. Lifting my gaze, I fixed him with a dead stare that I’d learned from Mrs. Rogers. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Helen had done the same. “You need a computer.”

  He waved my correction away. “Can you help me?”

  “I am. I’m telling you that there are no errors in the calculations, so it’s either an error in the initial data set, or you’ve found a spectacularly effective engine arrangement.” It was possible that going to a star pattern in the middle of the solid propellant could lead to a more efficient burn ratio. In fact … “This structure reminds me of a theory that Harold James Pool had.”

  “Yes!” He bounced on his toes, and behind him, Myrtle covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. There was a reason he had the nickname Bubbles among the computers. “See! That’s why I need you doing this, because you understand. That contraption doesn’t. I mean, great Scott! —you’ve got a PhD.”

  That was the first time my degree had come up at work since I was hired. Mrs. Rogers knew my credentials, of course, but after our interview, I’m not sure I ever mentioned it, even when trying to make a point. I guess he watched Mr. Wizard or listened to ABC Headline Edition.

  It wasn’t as if it made me a better computer, and trotting it out always sounded like posturing. I mean, anyone with a background in physics would have been just as capable of the type of work we did. And several of the women in the computer department didn’t have college degrees at all.

  “My degree is irrelevant here.” I flipped back through the pages that Bubbles had brought me. “Do you have the raw data?”

  “Of course!” He shrugged as if I’d asked a stupid question. I waited, smiling at him, until he snapped and pointed both fingers at me. “Oh! You need it. Right. Got it. It’s over in the lab. I should go get that. I’ll go get that.”

  “Thank you
.” I stacked the pages on my desk as he bounded out of the room, tie flapping with each step.

  The moment he was out of the room, giggles escaped from almost every desk. We loved Bubbles, but oh, he could be such an engineer sometimes. We had a saying: Engineers caused problems. Computers solved them. Bubbles? Perfect example of the type.

  Basira pushed back her chair and jumped up, bouncing from one foot to the other. With an exaggerated American accent, she kept bouncing like Bubbles. “Ah need a computress! Lord help me, ah need a computress!”

  “Bless his heart.” I laughed and rested against the back of my chair. “He means well.”

  “Oof. Harsh words.” Myrtle left her desk and came over to join us. “But, seriously, what do the numbers look like?”

  I slid the paper over to her so she could flip through it. Helen appeared at her elbow, head tilted to the side as she studied the printed output. “Something must have been mistranscribed on the punch cards.”

  “That’s why I wanted the raw data, which really … how hard is it to figure out that you need to bring that with you?”

  Nathaniel came into the computer room. The giggles stopped and everyone returned to work mode. He was my husband, but he was also the lead engineer. I winked at Helen as she returned to her seat, then turned to give him my full attention.

  His mouth was compressed in a narrow line, and a muscle bunched at the corner of his jaw. Between his brows, concentration furrows had appeared. He had a magazine rolled up in one hand and was slapping it against his thigh as he walked. “Elma. May I speak with you? In my office.”

  “Of course.” Exchanging a look with Basira, I slid my chair back from my desk. “If Bubbles returns before I’m back, will you just tell him to leave the raw data on my desk?”

  As I followed Nathaniel out of the computer room, the other women did a pretty poor job of pretending not to stare at us. Nathaniel’s back was rigid, and his strides ate up the length of the corridor that led to his office. My heels clattered against the linoleum as I hurried after him.

  Nathaniel held the door to the office for me, staring at the floor. That muscle in his jaw kept clenching and unclenching, and my heart seemed to be joining it in a race. The last time I’d seen Nathaniel this furious was when he had fired Leroy Pluckett for grabbing one of the computers.

  The usual organized chaos dominated his office. The blackboard on one wall had been filled with what looked like equations for a lunar orbit, which made sense, given the next phase of the space project. Nathaniel shut the door carefully, so it barely made any sound.

  He strode across the room and tossed the magazine on his desk. It unrolled as it hit—the issue of Life I had been in. I wasn’t on the cover, thank God, but there was a one-page write-up about my Girl Scout appearance. At some point, I was going to forgive Betty for ambushing me. Maybe. She didn’t understand how much being the center of attention terrified me—but that didn’t stop me from feeling panicked that she would pull a stunt like that again. Especially with how thrilled she’d been because her story had made it to a national market.

  Nathaniel loosened his tie, still staring at the floor. “Elma. I’m furious. It’s not at you. But it’s going to sound like it is.”

  “That … that sounds ominous.” I sank into the chair near his desk, hoping it would inspire him to do the same.

  He grunted, sweeping his hand over his hair, and then just … stood there, with one hand on his hip and the other gripping the back of his neck. “It’s fucking stupid.”

  “Nathaniel!” I think that reaction is a permanent imprint from my mother.

  “Fucking. Stupid.” He turned and glared at me. “I have just spent the last fucking hour in the office of Director Norman Fucking Clemons who fucking said, and I quote, ‘Control your wife.’ I don’t think he appreciates the fact that I did not fucking slug him.”

  My mouth hung open. Brilliantly, I said, “What?”

  “Control. Your. Wife.” He brought his fists together and pressed them against his forehead. “Control your—fuck him.”

  “Wait—because of the magazine?” If Clemons had said that to me, I might have been furious. As it was, I was just horrified that I’d gotten Nathaniel in trouble. “Or the Girl Scout appearance? I didn’t … what did I say?”

  He snatched the magazine from the desk. “This? This isn’t the problem, except that he’s an asshole and a coward.”

  “You didn’t say that to him, did you?” The headache I’d been fighting all day spiked and ran a line of current through my right eye.

  “No.” Nathaniel scowled. “No. I told him I would talk to you. And I am. We’re talking.”

  “I’ll stop doing interviews. I’ll call and cancel things as soon as I get home tonight.”

  “Stop? I don’t want you to stop.”

  “But if it’s affecting your job…”

  His anger transformed to horror. “No—no. It’s not you. I’m not angry at you. Clemons is the one who’s out of line. And it’s because what you’re doing is working. He spent the majority of the time ranting about how he’s getting criticism for not including women in his plans, and pressure from some pretty influential people to add them. All of them talked about having seen you or listened to you or read an interview with you.”

  My stomach churned. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “But if it’s getting you in trouble … I don’t want to cause any problems.” I held up my hands, but they were shaking, so I folded them in my lap. This was just like being in college again. Every time I stood out, it made someone angry, and now it was causing Nathaniel problems too. “I’ll stop. It’s fine. I’ll stop.”

  “I’m not asking you to stop!”

  “I know, and I love you for that, but still—” I swallowed, tasting bile at the back of my throat. The room was too warm, and my headache sent lines of green and white across my right eye. “I mean. I don’t need to prove anything. If I keep going, it’ll be bad for morale. Distracting. The astronauts don’t like having me out there.”

  “Parker asked you to talk to the Girl Scouts! Aside from expressing some jealousy that you’d been on Watch Mr. Wizard, even he admitted that you’d done a good job. In his usual way, I mean.”

  “ He watched the show?” I was standing. I didn’t remember standing. Had everyone seen me on television? My stomach was a fireball of tension, and seemed set to launch itself up my esophagus. I tried to catch my breath, but all systems were critical. “Tell him I’ll stop. Tell Parker that I’ll ask Don to invite him next time. I’m so sorry. Tell him I’m sorry.”

  Nathaniel was staring at me like I was some sort of freak. I was messing everything up. His mouth hung open, and his brows were drawn together like he’d never seen me before. “Elma…”

  I vomited. Noisily, and without discretion. What little I’d managed to eat at lunch spattered in messy chunks on the linoleum floor of his office. Nathaniel flinched back, and my stomach heaved again. I managed to make it to the trash can, but the damn thing was wire frame.

  “Oh God.” He had me by the shoulders and braced me as I threw up again, sobbing.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “Hey … hey, sweetie. No. Shush. No. You have nothing to apologize for.” He smoothed the hair back from my face and kept murmuring at me. I have no idea what else he said.

  But he eventually got me calmed down and sitting in his office chair. He knelt in front of me, holding both of my hands. I don’t know what his face looked like because I was too ashamed to lift my eyes.

  Somewhere in the back of my brain, a rational part remained, screaming at me to pull it together. Or maybe it wasn’t rational, because it was my mother’s voice, sounding mortified. Elma! What will people think?

  I wiped my eyes with the handkerchief—when had I acquired a handkerchief? Oh, it was Nathaniel’s. In one of my few early domestic fits, I had embroidered NDY in the corner
with dark blue floss. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, no. It’s my fault. I should have waited until I wasn’t so angry.” Nathaniel squeezed my hands. “Elma, I’m not angry at you. At all. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “I got you in trouble at work. I didn’t pay the electric bill, and we were behind on the gas, too. My housecleaning isn’t much more than doing the dishes and making the bed. I’m having trouble concentrating at work. If I weren’t trying to make trouble—”

  “Okay. Stop. Shh…” He squeezed my hands and rose up on his knees. “Elma. Elma? What’s 441 multiplied by 48?”

  “21,168.”

  “Divided by twelve?”

  “1,764.” My breathing eased a little.

  “Square root of 1,764?”

  “Forty-two.”

  “Okay. Good.” He wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Can you look at me?”

  I nodded, but gravity seemed to keep my gaze chained to the floor. I used my next breath as a propellant to look up.

  Nathaniel’s sky-blue eyes were pinched and worried. “I love you. I’m proud of you. I’m sorry for whatever I’ve done to make you doubt that.”

  “Nothing. I mean…” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “This is just … I’m sorry.”

  “If I accept your apology, will you stop apologizing?” He tried for a smile, but his voice still cracked with worry. “Tell you what. Let’s take the rest of the day off and go home.”

  “No—I don’t want to pull you away from work. And Bubbles still needs my help with calculations, and if I’m not there, Mrs. Rogers will have to reschedule people, and I don’t want to be trouble.”

  He put a finger over my lips. “We’ll stay here, then. Okay? But I want you to stay in here with me. I need your help on some calculations. Okay? Can you help me with those?”

  I nodded. I could be helpful. That I could do. I could do all the math he wanted.

  “Good. Now, Elma, here’s…” He stood and rooted around on his desk until he found a piece of paper and drew it toward me. “Here’s the equipment list for the moon landing. What I want to know is how many launches we’ll need to do to get everything there.”