The Calculating Stars

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  “Babies or no, it’s not safe.” Parker shook his head and smiled. “I appreciate your ambition, I really do, but surely the Orion 27 accident demonstrates that we can’t put women in the line of fire.”

  “No. That is the wrong tactic to take. If you point to the explosion as a sign that rocketry is not safe, the space program will fail.” I looked back at Director Clemons, but with the cigar in his mouth, it was hard to read his expression. “You know it will. If you want to demonstrate that the program is safe, then you need to demonstrate that these rockets are safe enough even for ladies.”

  Parker shrugged, as if none of that mattered. “And we will … after the moon base has been established.”

  I pressed my hands flat against my skirt to keep me from balling them into fists. “If you refer to page six of my report … After World War II, there is no shortage of women who flew as WASPs and have the right skills. But if you wait too long, those women will be too old, which will raise the barrier of creating the colonies.”

  “She has a point.” Wernher von Braun, of all people, stepped into Clemons’s smoke cloud to support me. “The Russians used their Night Witches in the war to devastating effect.”

  Parker tilted his head at the mention of the Russian women’s air squadron. “I always thought they were propaganda.”

  “Propaganda, perhaps to begin with. But real and effective.” Von Braun shrugged. “And even propaganda has its uses. We want the space program to continue, yes?”

  Propaganda. Yes. I was well aware of what propaganda could do.

  Clemons grunted and tapped his cigar in the brass ashtray on his desk. “All right … so let’s go through this point by point.”

  I took a breath and stood to join Parker behind Clemons. I kept both of them between me and von Braun. Not because I thought he was going to pick me up and haul me off, but because it sickened me that people forgave him for what he’d done simply because he was a brilliant rocket scientist. A “nice” man. A “gentleman.”

  Yet here I was, giving tacit approval to his presence by saying nothing. Because if I did? Then Parker would use that to talk about how hysterical women were.

  And worse … if the space program failed, then humanity was going to be trapped on Earth as it got hotter and hotter. So I leaned over Clemons’s shoulder and turned to the first page of my report. “Right … We begin by looking at the budgetary benefits of using women as astronauts, due to our lower mass and oxygen consumption.”

  And from there, it was all about numbers, and I was home.

  TWENTY-SIX

  ROBOT DESIGNED TO EXPLORE MOON

  6-Legged Crawling Device Would Report Over TV

  March 22, 1957—What has six legs, one claw, television, and sleeps sixteen hours a day? It could be a robot exploration vehicle small enough to be landed on the moon in a Project Reconnoiter package, according to a report to the International Aerospace Coalition yesterday. A working model of the proposed moon crawler has been built. The full-sized object would stand about five feet tall on its walking shoes, weigh 110 pounds, and be powered by little more than a square yard of solar cells.

  The first launch after the hearings was unmanned.

  It was a requirement that came out of the hearings and a smart thing to do when you’re still trying to make sure that your system is robust. In our department, we computers had always employed a safeguard procedure, in that any calculations intended for a rocket were looked over by two other women. In the past, we had sent it to the Air Force, and they had used one of their men to transfer it to program cards. And that was that.

  Now, two computers would look at the output of the IBM machine’s run to make sure no errors had been introduced. It was fairly straightforward. The first launch went smoothly.

  The second launch was manned. No one was treating it as though it were straightforward.

  Oh, we were all pretending like it was business as usual, but you could have ignited the atmosphere in the glassed-in viewing area above Mission Control. I wasn’t on duty this shift, but there was no way I was going to miss the launch.

  If this launch went smoothly, the astronauts would demonstrate that the lunar module could dock and rendezvous with the command module. We could go back on schedule, and we’d be another step closer to the moon.

  If it didn’t, then we’d have killed Derek Benkoski, Halim Malouf, and Estevan Terrazas.

  There was a whole range of possibilities in-between, including a launch abort, or just scrubbing for weather. Those lesser evils were not the things filling anyone’s minds as we milled around the viewing area. At T-minus four, the wives and children of the astronauts would be escorted to the roof to watch the liftoff from there. It would also sequester them from the press if things went badly. We all laughed and chattered, pretending that nothing could go wrong.

  All of the astronauts and their wives—except Parker’s—had turned out for this one to support the men in the capsule. Mrs. Lebourgeois separated from her husband and floated across the room to me. She was a diaphanous blonde with a long neck like a swan’s and a tendency to purse her lips into a kittenish pout.

  But she smiled when she saw me, and came up to give me a kiss on each cheek. “Ah, my dear! Our daughter is still talking of you. Not even her father is so impressive.”

  “She should be impressed with him! He’s been in space. I just dream about it.”

  “It will not be so long for you, I think.” Her swan’s neck bent down in a curve as she winked. “My husband, he is making me take flying lessons so I can be ready.”

  That was optimistic, and more than a little charming. “Has he … heard anything?”

  “No.” She pouted. “But he has told Director Clemons that he believes women should be included. I think he just wants to … you know … have his wife in space?”

  Her hand covered her mouth as she giggled at what must have been a stunned expression on my face. My mouth hung open a little and then I laughed with her. It had not occurred to me that one tactic would be to appeal to the male astronauts about the benefits of … marital duties in space. “Oh my heavens. Maybe I should try to talk to all the wives.”

  “Oh, we talk amongst ourselves.”

  “I’ll bet. Have you … have you met Mrs. Parker?”

  “No. She is always ‘ill’ with something or another, or busy. I think she just does not want to spend time with foreigners, but who am I to guess, hm?” She gave a little shrug and dismissed the absent woman. “Did you know … the weightlessness, it does, how shall we say, ‘interesting’ things to our husband’s anatomy. The blood flow is quite … unrestricted by gravity.”

  “Well, now I want to get my husband into space.” I glanced through the glass window to where Nathaniel stood hunched over his desk. They should really just make his station a standing desk, since he had trouble sitting when he was tense. Which was always.

  Wait. I couldn’t hear them. They’d turned the speakers off.

  When had they…? Something was wrong. Nathaniel had the phone pressed to his ear and a broken pencil in one hand. Clemons stood at a different phone and was clearly shouting. Randy Cleary, the astronaut manning the CAPCOM desk, was talking into his headset and making soothing gestures with his hands as if the astronauts in the capsule could see him.

  The countdown clock had stopped at T-minus twenty-eight.

  Other people had noticed and were moving toward the window. Mrs. Lebourgeois caught her husband’s sleeve as he walked past. “ Que se passe-t-il?”

  “ Je ne sais pas. Ce ne fut pas une explosion ou nous aurions senti.” He winced and looked at me. “Dr. York can tell you. An explosion we would have felt, is that not so?”

  “Yes. It’s probably just a glitch that they’ll get sorted out soon.” I smiled at his wife. “Honest, we have to stop launches all the time. It might just be the weather.”

  Except I’d been on the floor when there was a weather scrub, or a cutoff switch failed, or a system didn’t come onli
ne as expected. We had procedures and manuals that were inches thick on what to do in every possible contingency. Everyone stayed aggravated but calm. Whatever was happening down there was not routine.

  I leaned closer to the glass, looking for Basira, who was on duty for this launch. She was leaning together with Myrtle. Both women had dropped their pencils and looked shocked.

  Behind me, Parker spoke. “All right, everyone. There’s no need to be concerned. Nothing is wrong with the rocket.”

  I turned, along with most of the rest of the room. He stood next to one of the couches, holding the viewing room’s phone receiver in one hand. I wouldn’t have called down to bother them, but I guess the first man in space had more privileges than I did.

  He hung up the phone as we all leaned forward in anticipation. “It’s just a weather delay. Things are in a holding pattern.”

  That was a lie. I knew what a weather hold looked like. If it was weather, you’d see a lot of bored engineers spinning in their chairs. I opened my mouth to challenge him, then shut it again. This wasn’t the time.

  Parker caught my eye and gave this weird little nod. Almost like he was thanking me for not interfering. Something was very, very wrong, but I trusted him—which surprised me—to have a compelling reason for wanting the lie to stick.

  I turned back to Mrs. Lebourgeois and laughed, shaking my head. “Oh, weather delays are the worst. There’s nothing you can do but wait it out.”

  “I am glad that it did not happen when Jean-Paul went up. I should have died from the waiting.”

  “Well, the astronauts will probably just take a nap.” I kept having to pull my gaze away from the window. “When Cristiano Zambrano went up, we had a two-hour delay, and I actually heard him snoring.”

  Someone approached and I stepped back a little to let them enter our circle of conversation. Stetson Parker stood next to me. He smiled, showing his outrageous dimples. “You wouldn’t expect a person to sleep under these circumstances, but the couches are custom made to fit our bodies. Surprisingly comfortable. Say … Mrs. York, may I borrow you for a moment? Got a question about your Lady Astronaut speaking engagements.”

  I met his gaze and smiled as brightly as he was. “Of course, Colonel Parker.”

  My first thought was that something had happened to Nathaniel. We stepped a little away, facing the window so that our backs were to the viewing room. My husband was still talking on the phone. Every moment I looked down there, I became more convinced that something terrible had happened. Myrtle had tissues out.

  Parker leaned in, voice low. “I’m trusting that you’re not going to scream.”

  “Gee. Thanks.”

  “There’s a bomb.” He glanced from me to where Benkoski was standing by the switch for the speaker. “There’s a man with a sign and explosives, and he’s strapped himself to the gantry. That’s all we know.”

  A thousand questions ran through my head. How did he get out there? What kind of bomb? What would happen if it went off? “Copy. What do you need me to do?”

  “I want you to get all the wives and children to the cafeteria without scaring them. Keep them away from the press.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Especially Malouf’s and Benkoski’s kids—keep them from hearing anything until the situation is handled.”

  Of course. Their fathers were on the rocket, waiting for launch. “Have they told the astronauts?”

  “I don’t know.” He grimaced and looked down at Mission Control’s floor. “It looks like that’s what Cleary is doing, though.”

  “I’ll tell the wives, discreetly.”

  “I wouldn’t.” He shrugged. “Astronauts’ wives already have to live through enough stress and worry for a lifetime. Save them this.”

  It was tempting to make a comment about his own absent wife. Later. I could score points later. I spun away from him, clapping my hands. “Ladies? I’m going to suggest that we adjourn to the cafeteria where, I’m told, there is cake. It will be a much more agreeable wait than in here.”

  * * *

  I do not do well when there is a problem that I can’t do anything to solve. The two hours we waited in the cafeteria were awful. I spent the entire time listening for an explosion.

  Listening for an explosion, while trying to amuse small children who had been promised a rocket launch and were long past their naptime. Mrs. Lebourgeois’s daughter was an unexpected help, even without knowing what was happening upstairs. She borrowed tinfoil from the chef, and I sat next to one of Mrs. Benkoski’s little boys and helped him smoosh tinfoil into a pointed column. “Good! That can be the body of your rocket.”

  While I was chattering with children, I was trying to mask all the questions stampeding through my brain. What was happening upstairs? What could I do? My tactical training consisted of listening to my father and his friends tell war stories.

  What would my father have done? Stormed the gantry? No. Sat next to a five-year-old who was making a mess of his fuselage? Maybe. “Oh—Max, that’s very good.”

  The cafeteria door opened. All of our heads turned toward it as if we were in a formation drill. Parker entered, followed by Benkoski, Malouf, and Terrazas. Still in their flight suits.

  “Daddy!” The little boy next to me abandoned the table and ran across the cafeteria, holding his tinfoil rocket up in the air. “Look what I made!”

  His mother was slumped against the table, eyes closed and crossing herself repeatedly. I stood more slowly, letting families reunite. I somehow managed not to scream “What happened?!”

  Instead, I tidied tinfoil. That’s right. There had been a bomber threatening the space program, and I spent that time making rockets and cleaning up tinfoil. I turned my back on everyone and began gathering up the supplies we’d been using. Little scraps of foil littered the table where Mrs. Lebourgeois had shredded them while chattering idly about a film she’d seen recently.

  Parker swept some of the scraps into a neat pile. “Thank you.”

  Stopping, I stared at him. “What happened?”

  “The astronauts used the emergency slide. When they were clear, the Air Force moved in.” He glanced over my shoulder to the happy noises of children being adorable.

  “That’s it? The Air Force moved in?”

  “They shot the bomber.” Parker’s gaze hardened on mine. “He was opposed to ‘abandoning God’s creation on Earth.’ The rocket was ‘a sin and a violation of God’s plan. ’”

  I bent my head and shredded a piece of tinfoil, finding satisfaction in tearing the metal. “Well. I’m glad that’s over.”

  “Good work, by the way.”

  Lifting my head, I stared at Parker. He stood at ease in a well-tailored suit that hinted at the blue of flight suits, though not quite as vivid. His hair was a little mussed, which was unusual for him. “That is, I think, the first compliment you have ever given me.”

  “It’s the first one you’ve earned.”

  The muscles in my right arm burned with the desire to punch him. The urge pulled the breath out of me. If I moved at all, I would lose the battle, and I’d never punched anyone before, so I had no idea if I would be any good at it. “Do you practice being offensive? Or do you come by it natural?”

  He winked. “For you? I practice.” Parker looked past me to smile and wave at someone. “I’ll be honest. I needed someone who knew how to talk to women and children. And while I may not like your whole Lady Astronaut routine, you do it well.”

  “Two compliments in one day? You’re slipping.”

  “Then let me leave you with this. You’re never going into space if I have anything to say about it.”

  That was so much blunter than anything I had expected from him. Sniping at each other, sure. But actually coming out and saying he’d keep me grounded? I couldn’t even fire back. “Why?”

  “Really?” He shook his head, brows drawn together. “You tried to have me court-martialed, and you think that’s not going to have consequences?”

  “What—
I didn’t. I never tried … What are you talking about?”

  He spread his hands on the cafeteria table and leaned toward me. “What, exactly, did you think was going to happen when you reported me for ‘conduct unbecoming an officer’? Did you think I wasn’t going to go on trial? Please. You’re a general’s daughter. You know exactly what happens with that kind of charge.”

  “Yes.” I kept my voice clipped and low, conscious of all the kids behind us. “Yes. It gets ignored. I wasn’t the first person to report you for harassing women.”

  “You’re the only one I know about.” Parker pushed back from the table, spreading his hands as if he could brush it all away. “And when they looked into it, you know what? None of the girls had a problem with me. None of them.”

  A laugh came out of nowhere. “They were afraid of you. They were afraid they’d be grounded.”

  “And you weren’t? Please.”

  “I wasn’t. Because, as you say, I was a general’s daughter.” I shook my head and backed away from him. “How did you ever get anyone to marry you? Or—maybe that explains why no one ever sees your wife?”

  His face hardened and closed. “My wife is off limits.”

  “I’ll bet she is.” I turned my back on Parker and walked over to rejoin the other wives. Anger was shaking my veins with the force of my pulse. Bastard. Self-centered, self-righteous bastard. He thought he could keep me from joining the astronaut corps? I’d like to see him try.

  And then the anger bled into cold resignation. He already had. And it was working well.

  * * *

  The IAC sent Nathaniel to a hotel that night, with a military guard, just in case someone decided to take a shot at the program’s lead engineer. That was a depressing thought. I went with him, and the agency sent someone to our apartment to get clean clothes for us.

  He sat on the edge of the hotel bed in his stocking feet, staring at the carpet. I sat next to him, leaning into his warmth. “Can we pretend this is a vacation?”

  Nathaniel laughed, sliding an arm around my back to pull me closer. “The agency is doing something wrong. We have to change the way we’re selling the space program to the public.”