The Calculating Stars

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  Then she did a double take.

  I braced myself. No. That’s not true. I suddenly developed a fascination with the river, as if watching the water and the scum at its edges would keep me from having to acknowledge someone who had clearly recognized me. Yes, I wanted to change the public perception about women and our ability to be astronauts, but I had not wanted to be a pinup girl for spaceflight.

  In my peripheral vision, I saw that the woman was still staring at me. There was the intake of breath as she prepared to speak. A hand reached toward me, just a little, to try to catch my attention. “Excuse me.”

  “Hm?” I glanced at her, but tried to look like the boat was now the most interesting thing I had ever seen.

  “I hate to bother you … only you look familiar.”

  I shrugged, and reached for Nathaniel … except, goddamn it, the woman’s husband had finished his business at the window and Nathaniel was stepping forward. I put on a neutral smile, just so I wouldn’t look angry. “I must have one of those faces.”

  “Are you Elma Wexler, by any chance?”

  Wexler. At the sound of my maiden name, my head snapped around of its own accord. “Yes. Yes, I am.” I didn’t recognize her. Plump and blond going to gray, she looked like someone’s mother. Probably one of the kids staring at the boat was hers. “I’m sorry, but…”

  “Oh, it’s been years. I’m Lynn Weyer. I lived next door? In Wilmington?”

  My jaw dropped. “Oh my goodness. Lynn Weyer?”

  “Well, Lynn Bromenshenkel, now.” She turned, reaching for the man she’d been standing with. “Luther? This is Elma Wexler—”

  “York, now. We lived next door to each other for two years.”

  She jumped right in, the way she had when we were kids. “It was the longest I’d lived in one place, on account of Daddy moving around.” When she smiled, I could see her ten-year-old self buried under the intervening years. Her nose always wrinkled when she smiled. “Do you remember the ‘Mud Pie Incident’?”

  “I got in so much trouble for that. And then the Glass House Affair, when Hershel tripped and split his knee open?”

  Lynn’s laugh hadn’t changed at all. It burst out of her like the sonic vibrations of a rocket. “Oh, the blood.” She put her hand on her husband’s arm. “Honest, it’s not as bad as it sounds. It’s just—honestly, I don’t know why I’m laughing. I’m just so happy to see you.”

  Neither of us asked about the other’s parents. It had stopped being a thing one did at some point.

  Nathaniel turned from the ticket booth, then, our tickets in hand, and we had to do introductions all over again. One of the boys was hers, but he had his nose in a book the entire time, and even if he had seen me on Mr. Wizard, he didn’t see me on the boat.

  As we pulled away from the dock, Nathaniel and I found a space in the inside cabin with Lynn and her husband. I settled into the crook of Nathaniel’s arm and watched Chicago roll past outside.

  The captain’s voice crackled over loudspeakers set into the ceiling of the boat. “Afternoon, folks. Take a look on your right and you’ll see the Hotel Murano, designed by Jette Briney. All those round balconies are supposed to remind you of the petals on a tree. And, like a tree, it goes underground, with a whole network of bunkers that are designed to be warm and inviting. Mind you, I’ve never been in there, ’cause you have to have a whole lot more ready cash than a boat captain makes.” He laughed at his own joke.

  I leaned my head back to look up at Nathaniel, who was shaking his head slightly. Probably at the same thought I had, which was that underground bunkers were all well and good if you were worried about another impact, but right on the river? When the temperatures went up again and the water table rose, that was going to be a disaster.

  “Now, we have a real treat for you today: we’ll get to go out and cruise around the lake.” The boat slowed as we reached the locks out to Lake Michigan.

  Nathaniel shifted in his seat to peer out the window to watch the locks in action. He was never going to stop being an engineer. “Huh … I wonder if—” His jaw snapped shut.

  “You wonder if…?”

  He cleared his throat. “Ah. I wonder … if we should have Myrtle and Eugene over for dinner when we get back.”

  “That is not what you were going to say.”

  The corners of his mouth twisted into a wry smile. “No. But allow me this course correction.”

  Which meant it had been something about rocketry. I patted his thigh in appreciation. “That would be nice. Maybe we could have—”

  The captain’s voice cut in with just enough volume to make conversation difficult. “Last year we weren’t able to go out at all because the lake was frozen solid, but this winter is mild enough that we’ll be able to give you a good view of Chicago and cruise around Navy Pier and Adler Planetarium. Interesting trivia: Did you know that the astronauts are using our planetarium to practice navigation?”

  Nathaniel and I met each other’s gazes and I started to giggle. “There’s no escape, is there?”

  In mock tones of horror, he said, “The space program is everywhere.”

  Across the cabin, Lynn’s husband grunted. “And a damn foolish thing it is, too.”

  “Luther.” Lynn smacked her husband’s arm. “Language.”

  Nathaniel stilled beside me. “What do you mean?”

  “A couple of years of bad weather, and they’re telling us we have to go into space?” He shrugged, the flesh of his neck bunching over his collar with the movement. “Even if I believed this nonsense, why not spend the money making things better here on Earth?”

  “They are.” I rested my hand on Nathaniel’s knee to let him know that I would take this one. “That’s why we have rationing—they’re trying to eliminate anything that will add to the greenhouse effect. The space program is just one aspect of it.”

  “Eternal winter. Please.” Luther waved his hand toward the front window, where we were starting to draw level with the top of the lock. “You heard the captain.”

  “I think you’ve misunderstood. The winter was temporary. The problem is that the temperature is going to start rising soon. ‘Eternal summer’ is what we’re actually concerned about.” Being in Kansas City, at the IAC, we were surrounded by people who understood that, and were all striving for the same goal. “Besides, it’s not a good idea to keep all your eggs in one basket, right? All the space program is doing is making another basket for eggs.”

  “Ma’am. I appreciate your thoughts, but there are economic forces at work here that I don’t expect you to understand. This is all about big business seeing an opportunity to make a buck off the government. It’s conspiracies and shadows all the way down.”

  Nathaniel drew a breath. “I’m the le—”

  I dropped my purse on the floor to stop him. “Oh! I’m such a klutz.” Having him say that he was the lead engineer for the space program? While we were trapped on a ship with these folks? I was already too angry to continue the conversation, and it wasn’t going to go anywhere better from there. “Lynn, do you remember how I was always dropping things?”

  She joined me in changing the subject, bless her, and from there on the conversation was perfectly ordinary. What did we talk about? I don’t even know. Everything? Nothing? It was just … normal. Until I ran into Lynn, I hadn’t realized how far outside of normal our life had become. They had a son. They were hoping for another. They had a mortgage, for God’s sake.

  A mortgage. Nathaniel and I were too afraid of the future to even move out of our studio apartment, and the Bromenshenkels were planning twenty years into the future with a mortgage.

  * * *

  The next day, Nathaniel came with me to the studio. It was a relief to have him there. At a show about science, Dr. Nathaniel York of the IAC was quite the celebrity, so I was able to fade back and just be Mrs. York for a while.

  Mind you, I think Nathaniel was turning up the charm in order to draw attention from me. It meant that
I didn’t have to carry on small talk with anyone. More than once, I thought about the doctor he’d taken me to, and had some regret for not having that prescription filled. But I only threw up once, and I don’t think that anyone except Nathaniel knew.

  And then it was time to go to places.

  The assistant, whose name I still couldn’t remember, appeared at the makeup table. “Dr. York? We’re ready for you now.”

  Nathaniel turned toward him and opened his mouth, then shut it again with a laugh. “You’re not talking to me.” He bent down to kiss my cheek and whispered, “Prime numbers are your friend.”

  He knew me so well. I whispered back, “Later I’ll have to see if you’re divisible.”

  A coughing laugh was my reward, and he blushed a little, which was always a bonus. “Only divisible by one.”

  Straightening, he gave me a wink and stepped back.

  It was marginally less terrifying to go with the assistant this time, though whether that’s because I knew what to expect or because I hadn’t had as much time to get worked up, I couldn’t tell you. I was mostly fine, just mild butterflies. I didn’t need to be drugged, thank you very much—

  Until the assistant turned to Nathaniel and said, “I’ll be back to show you where you can watch, Dr. York.”

  “No.” The word was out of my mouth before I knew why I didn’t want Nathaniel watching. It was why he’d come, after all. And he’d seen the other broadcast. It wasn’t as if I was about to do something shocking, or even difficult. “I—never mind. It’s fine.”

  Nathaniel watched me for a moment. “You know … I think I’d rather watch from the control booth. See how they do this stuff.”

  What will people think … He knew me so well, and it made no sense that I was afraid to make a mistake in front of him. Goodness knows he’d seen me be foolish plenty of times, like the “dandelion greens salad” disaster. And yet, I was nodding at him now. “That sounds like a fine idea.”

  Then it was off through the hallways of the studio, onto the soundstage, and then on my mark at the fake door. Beyond the door, the assistant director said, “We’re live in five, four, three…”

  Three was a prime number. So was five. I breathed through my mouth. Seven. Eleven. Thirteen.

  The assistant held his clipboard and nodded to the stage. That was my cue. I put my hand on the knob and walked through, smiling.

  Don looked up with a grin. “Dr. York! Boy, am I glad you’re here. Rita and I were just trying to figure out what fuel to use for our bottle rocket.”

  Beside him, Rita had a bottle with fins on the side like a toy rocket. This time she wore a blue dress, spangled with stars.

  “As it happens, I can help with that.” I walked to the mark like an old hand, and found myself smiling at Rita. She smiled back. It might have been acting, but still … this was why I was here.

  And now I wished Nathaniel were there to see me.

  * * *

  The miniature rocket we’d made from a bottle filled with baking soda and vinegar lifted off the makeshift launchpad in a spray of foaming gas. It arced above the height of the set. Off camera, a pair of stagehands with a blanket caught the rocket as it dropped back down.

  Rita clapped her hands with delight. “Golly, that’s keen, Dr. York!” She turned to Don. “Say, Mr. Wizard, what would happen if we used a bigger rocket?”

  He laughed and put a hand on his hip. “You remember those calculations that Dr. York showed you?”

  “Oh, sure.” She beamed at me. “So all I’d have to do is figure out how much the new rocket weighed … I could do that!”

  Mr. Wizard handed her the sheet of paper we’d been using earlier. “All right, then. I’ll see you next week.”

  From behind the cameras, the director said, “And we’re out. Good work, people.”

  I sagged against the counter and sighed as a sort of brightness drained out of me. TV was nothing like doing calculations—not really—since these problems were all things that we’d discussed beforehand. But the precision with which the entire studio worked to pull off this live broadcast … it did remind me a little of the dark room on launch day, as dozens of competent people focused on one goal.

  Don joined me in leaning on the counter. “You’re a natural at this.”

  I barked a laugh. “There is nothing natural about television.”

  “Heh. No, I suppose not.” He loosened his tie and beckoned me to walk off the set with him. “Still. You make math seem interesting.”

  “Well, it is.” I shrugged. “Oh, I know it isn’t for most folks, but I think they’ve just been put off by people who taught them to be afraid of numbers.”

  “That’s a nice perspective.” He held the door to the soundstage for me so we could head into the labyrinth of hallways back to the dressing rooms. “Did Nathaniel stick around?”

  “He was watching from the control room.” He might still be there, in fact, watching them wind up the loose ends.

  “If you ask me, the IAC could do worse than create a show with the two of you—like The Johns Hopkins Science Review, but for space.” Don paused at the door to his dressing room. “Say, how long are you two in town?”

  “We’re flying home tomorrow.” I was not going to even remotely address his idea of me hosting a show. About the only comfort I could derive from the suggestion was that I was doing an adequate job masking my terror.

  “Well, if you don’t have dinner plans, why don’t you join me and Maraleita?”

  “That would be lovely, but we’ve got a date with Adler Planetarium.” I shrugged ruefully. When Nathaniel had manfully not suggested heading over to check in on the astronaut training program, I made the offer. “It’s supposed to be a mini-vacation, but we’re both working.”

  “Next time, then.”

  I kept the smile on my face as I said goodbye, and managed to make it down to my own dressing room before I started shaking. Next time. This was never going to stop. I shut the door and sat down on the little couch. Nothing bad had happened to me. I was fine. 3.14159 … Leaning forward, I rested my head on my knees and let the wool of my skirt cocoon my face.

  My dear lady, your body is not supposed to react to stress in this way.

  I needed to pull myself together before Nathaniel got back from the control room, or he would worry. I was not sick. I was fine. Deep breaths. Slow, deep breaths, pushing past the knot of tension in my abdomen. 2, 3, 5, 7, 11 … The show had gone well. Don was pleased. I hadn’t been eaten by bears.

  Someone knocked on the door. I sat up fast enough that the room grayed a little at the edges of my sight. Wiping my eyes, I pasted on a smile. “Come in!”

  Don opened the door. His face was tight, and worry pinched his brows together. “Elma … you’d better come with me. It looks like Nathaniel has gotten some bad news.”

  The room went cold. I moved from sitting to standing at Don’s side without a transition. “What sort of bad news?”

  “I don’t know for sure.” He led me down the hall. My hands were numb and I couldn’t feel the floor. I think I knew, even before he said it. “But on the radio, they’re saying that a rocket exploded.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  PROPANE IS URGED TO END BUS FUMES

  Air Control Head to Ask City to Use “Bottled Gas”

  CHICAGO, IL, Dec. 4, 1956—Dr. Leonard Greenburg, City Commissioner of Air Pollution Control, asserted yesterday that the use of propane gas, familiarly known as “bottled gas,” could eliminate noxious fumes from buses. These fumes are said to contribute to the alleged “greenhouse” effect caused by the Meteor. However, the mayor of Chicago questioned whether such an overhaul of the bus system was really necessary.

  In the writer’s room, there was a long table with chairs for ten people. Nathaniel sat alone on one side of the table, hunched over the telephone. He had a hand pressed over his eyes as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. A broken pencil lay on the table in front of him.

 
; When I came in, he didn’t look around. Don pulled the door shut behind me. My heels were unnaturally loud as I crossed the room, and still, Nathaniel kept his head down.

  “Yeah … if you have the altitude, the computers should be able to tell you how much propellant was left.”

  Pulling out a chair, I tried not to let it scrape against the linoleum. I sank into it with a rustle of crinoline. I lay a hand on Nathaniel’s back, to let him know that I was there, I guess. As if he hadn’t heard me. His back was rigid and soaked with a cold sweat.

  “No, no—I understand. But—right. It will at least tell the firefighters how bad the burn is going to be.”

  I could just barely hear the person on the other end of the line. Someone from the IAC, I presumed, and probably Director Clemons.

  “Oh. Oh, I see.” He sighed and bent his head even farther down. “No. We can’t account for fuel on the farm itself.”

  My heart stuttered. Farm? The flight path of the rockets was carefully calculated to not pass over any towns or farms. From what Don had said, I thought the rocket had exploded on the launchpad. That happened in tests, but not with proven rockets like the Jupiter class.

  “Right. Yeah … Elma’s done, so we’ll head straight back.” He nodded, pulling the base of the phone closer. “Mm-hm. I understand.”

  Then he hung up. He sat there staring at the table, or maybe with his eyes closed. I couldn’t tell which with his hand still shielding his eyes.

  “What happened?”

  He sat back, finally dropping his hand. His eyes were bloodshot, and tear tracks stained his cheeks. “They’re still sorting that out. But it looks like the booster separated too soon, knocked it off course.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Rocket fell on a farm.” He pressed his hands against his face again. “Goddamn it.”