The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(102)

There were seven women selected, and our first meeting was not at the IAC. It was not even in Kansas City. They flew us out to the bunker where Nathaniel and I had met the president right after the Meteor struck.

I guess after the circus I’d been through, they wanted to keep the rest of us under wraps. When I walked into the conference room, I recognized some of the faces. Betty and Nicole had made the cut and were sitting together at the conference table.

Nicole squealed and waved me over. “I wanted to tell you, but they told me I couldn’t say anything because of the reporters hanging all over you.”

I rolled my eyes. “That was a nuisance.” Nightmare. Much the same thing. “Betty. Congratulations.”

She nodded and bit her lower lip. Swallowing, she looked up. “You too.”

That bit of careful social nicety out of the way, I sat down next to Betty and gave the other women my attention. Naturally Sabiha G ?k ?en had made it in. I was glad she’d come back from Turkey for this, because flying with her had been a pleasure.

Mrs. Lebourgeois, on the other hand … Last we’d spoken at the launch, Violette had only just begun taking flying lessons. I smiled at her and leaned across the table. “Two astronauts in the family? Your husband must be very proud.”

She blushed and waved. “It is an honor, and so unexpected.”

“I can imagine.” I hadn’t even seen her at the testing.

Pausing, I looked around the room at the waiting women. No men. Interesting. I knew that they’d added more men to the corps as well, but they must be training them in a different location.

We weren’t chattering or doing any of the clucking that you’d expect from the movies. All of us were turned out, though—in pants suits, yes, but with makeup and our hair done just so.

Four of us were American. One French woman. A Brazilian woman—Jacira Paz-Viveiros—and Sabiha G ?k ?en. Seven, all told, to match the original seven men.

If Ida hadn’t primed me for it, I don’t know if I would have noticed that there wasn’t a black candidate in the group.

Clemons, Parker, and two other gentlemen that I didn’t know walked in together. Clemons clapped his hands together. “There are my beauties. First of all, ladies, congratulations on being chosen as astronauts in training.”

One of the men I didn’t know, a slender fellow with a shiny white forehead and ears that stuck out past his regulation crew cut, started passing out binders.

“Now. Our first task is to get you ready for the press conference. This is Mr. Pommier.” He beckoned toward the other fellow, who was in his mid-fifties and had that steel-gray hair that some men acquire as they age. “He’s your stylist, and will help you select your wardrobe and hair for the event.”

I exchanged glances with Nicole, but neither of us raised our hands to ask why we needed a stylist. They had probably gotten one for the men and kept him on for us. If I were going to rock the boat, which seemed inevitable, then it would be over a bigger question.

“Mr. Smith is handing out press kits for each of you. We’re going to go through sample interview questions to prepare you for the conference.” Clemons turned to Parker. “Colonel Parker here is in charge of all the astronauts, as well as you lady astronauts-in-training. He’ll be able to help you understand what’s expected of you in your new role.”

Parker gave one of his trademark earnest smiles. “Good morning. I wish all conference rooms looked this lovely when I walked in.” He caught my eye. “Now, I know some of you are used to being able to say anything you want, but we’ve got to be careful with the information that goes out of the IAC. Besides our security interests, we also have an exclusive contract with Life. Isn’t that right, Miss Ralls?”

Betty nodded, her eyes on the table and her cheeks red. “Yes, sir.”

Well, bless her journalistic heart. Betty hadn’t made the cut. She’d cut a deal.

“To control the image of the space program, all communication with the press must go through the front office.” Parker held up a finger. “And just to be clear, ‘the press’ includes entertainment broadcasts.”

This was not the hardship for me that he seemed to think it was.

“Wait a minute—” Sabiha’s voice cut through the room. She had her binder open and was frowning at one of the pages. “This question. What is this answer? ‘No. I am not an astronaut. ’”

I grabbed my binder and flipped it open, amid the sound of pages shuffling and covers slapping against the hard wood of the conference table. Sure enough, under the heading “Approved answers to common questions” were a variety of questions about what it was like to be an astronaut.

“Thank you, Colonel Parker. I’ll take it from here.” Mr. Smith, the fellow with the jug-handled ears, had a voice like a revival preacher. The deep resonance rolled out at complete odds with his slight build. “You’ve already opened your binders, ladies, so let me explain. We’ve realized that it would be confusing for the public if we start calling trainees astronauts. It would be like calling someone a pilot when they’d just signed up for flight school.”

“When, exactly, are we considered astronauts?” My voice left frost on the table.

“Fifty miles.” Parker shrugged. “When you’ve been fifty miles above the Earth’s surface, you’re an astronaut. That’s in conjunction with the IAC and the F éd ération A éronautique Internationale in Paris. Until then, you’re astronaut candidates. Abbreviated as AsCans.”