The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(103)

Of course. All nice and proper and completely legitimate. I couldn’t even complain that it was unreasonable—except, of course, that the rule hadn’t applied until they’d added women to the corps.

*

At the press conference, I stood in the shadows backstage with Nathaniel holding both of my hands. A film of sweat separated us. The murmur of the crowd rumbled through the curtains at a constant low-frequency hum. You could feel it through the floorboards, like the buzz of an engine. Around me, the new astronauts—excuse me, the new AsCans—milled about in uncertain patterns. The seven women nearly vanished among the thirty-five men they’d chosen. Why had I signed up for this?

Nathaniel stood directly in front of me. “197 times 4753?”

“936,341.”

“Divided by 243?”

“3853.255144032922 … How many decimal places do you want?” The dress that the stylist had asked me to wear had a tight-fitted bodice. It had seemed to fit well enough when I’d tried it on, but now I could hardly draw a breath.

“That’s fine. Square root? To five decimals … if applicable.”

At least I wasn’t the only one who was nervous. “62.07459.”

Sabiha G ?k ?en paced back and forth, shaking her wrists out. She kept touching her hair as if she’d be happier to have it back in a ponytail instead of the bouffant it had been teased into.

“What is the optimal pitchover angle for the gravity turn when entering low Earth orbit?”

“Gravity turn … With what rocket engine and config uration? And what should the final altitude be?” Bless him for trying to keep me distracted.

“Jupiter class, with a dual-Sirius engine. Final altitude would be—”

He probably said more than that, but Clemons walked onto the stage and through the curtains. The uproar from the audience rose to critical. I closed my eyes and swallowed and swallowed and breathed through my nose and swallowed down the bitter acid that coated the back of my tongue. Not now. Not now not now not now …

Nathaniel breathed into my ear. “1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 9—”

“That’s wrong.” I clung to him. “The Fibonacci sequence adds the prior number to the current one, so it should be 3, 5, 8, 13 … Oh. Clever man.”

“I can do more bad math, if that will help.” He gave me a squeeze and stepped back to look at me. “Just remember that the astronauts get to fly T-33s.”

I snorted. “Here I thought you were going to tell me to remember that you loved me.”

“Eh. You know that. But a T-33? A jet? I know where I stand in relation to—”

“Elma! We’re up.” Nicole grabbed my hand and pulled me with her to the stage.

T-33s. Even as an astronaut candidate, I would get to fly a T-33 jet aircraft. As we walked onto the stage, I tried to hold the image of the cockpit in my head. The flashes going off were just lightning. I could keep this steady, and hold the course.

That image lasted long enough for me to make it to the table with the other women. They had us seated in front, with the men standing in two rows behind us like a frame. This was just another interview. It was just like the ones I’d given before. I’d even been trained this time.

3.14159265359 …

T-33. Teeeeeeeeeee-thirty-three. Astronaut. Astronaut. Astronaut. T-33.

“Dr. York? What does your husband think about your new occupation?” came a voice from the front row.

The speaker was a man with a rumpled gray suit surrounded by nearly identical men with rumpled gray suits. I had no idea that reporters had uniforms. Nicole kicked me under the table.

I was taking too long to respond. “He’s been very supportive. In fact, he was backstage waiting with us before we came out.”

Clemons pointed to another reporter in the ubiquitous gray suit. “Why do you all want to beat a man to the moon?”

Nicole leaned into the microphone. “I don’t want to beat a man to the moon. I want to go to the moon for the same reason men want to go. Women can do a useful job in space. We aren’t in a contest to beat men in anything.”

Thank God for her. That was a great answer. Granted, there was one man I would happily beat to the moon, but mostly, I just wanted us to get there.

“What are you going to cook in space?”

“Science.” The word popped out of my mouth before I thought about it, and the room rewarded me with a laugh. “Followed by a nice healthy dinner of kerosene and liquid oxygen.”

Betty leaned into the microphone. “And without gravity, I’m looking forward to souffl és that won’t fall.”

That line got a bigger laugh than mine, and pencils scribbled across notepads. Clemons pointed to another reporter. I stopped trying to identify them in the crowd, because their questions were all just the same inanity, and none of them had questions for the men.

“What about your beauty regimen in space? Will you be able to use hairspray?”

Sabiha shook her head. “We will be in a pure oxygen environment. Hairspray would be foolish.”

That list of questions that they had prepared for us? We got none of them. They’d have been better off giving us a coach for beauty contestants. The only thing they were missing was asking us how we would bring about world peace.

Behind me, the men shifted weight and I heard one of them mutter, “What about bra size?”