The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(28)

I broke into a sweat. The only thing louder was a meteorite impact. If you were too close to the rocket during liftoff, the sound waves would literally shred you.

“Confirm liftoff. Manual clock is started.”

I picked up my pencil and poised it over the graph paper.

“This is Hercules 7. The fuel is go. 1.2g. Cabin pressure at 14 psi. Oxygen is go.”

As the rocket roared into the air, the Teletype sprang to life with information from tracking stations across the world. Helen started circling numbers as the text came off the machine. She tore the first piece of paper free and slid it across the table.

I sank into the calculations. Raw numbers told the story of position and bearing, and it was my job to use those to reveal the rocket’s velocity as it left the Earth. I could see the rocket’s smooth, graceful rise in my mind, but plotted the ascent on a piece of graph paper for the men standing behind me.

“Some vibrations. Sky is getting dark now.”

That meant Parker was starting to exit the atmosphere. With each piece of paper Helen handed me, the line of the arc I traced continued upward within mission parameters. The roar of the rocket had faded, leaving an eerie silence. Around us, the male voices of engineers at work murmured in a quiet, intense call-and-response.

“Guidance, your report?”

Helen read the numbers from my page, her faint Taiwanese accent coming out with her excitement. “Velocity: 2,350 meters per second. Angle of elevation: four minutes of arc. Altitude: 101.98 kilometers.” Her voice was shockingly high amid the tenors and baritones of Mission Control.

Eugene Lindholm, on comm, repeated the numbers to Parker. In response, he said, “Roger. It’s a lot smoother now.”

The Teletype rattled constantly, and Helen slid another page over to me. I held my lower lip between my teeth as my pencil flew across the page. 6,420 meters per second. The first-stage engine cutoff should be soon.

On the radio, “Cutoff.”

“Confirm engine cutoff.”

“I can see the booster falling away.”

I glanced at the clock, counting the seconds along with everyone else. Half a minute after the booster dropped away, the escape tower should jettison. He’d be well and truly on his own, then.

“Tower jettison is green.”

“Confirm tower jettison.”

Momentum carried Parker higher, and with the next page Helen handed me, I started to smile. 8,260 meters per second. Hellooooo orbital velocity. But I did the calculations on the page anyway, to show my work.

“Periscope is coming out. Turnaround started.”

“Confirm turnaround.”

Behind me, Mr. Carmouche asked, “Why are you smiling?”

I shook my head and drew one more dot on the graph at 280 kilometers above the surface. Getting Parker into space was the first step. Achieving orbit required altering his trajectory, and that was all on him.

“Switching to manual.” The radio continued to crackle as he left the channel open. “The view is … wish you all could see this.”

“Roger, wish for seeing view confirmed.”

Didn’t we all wish for that? If he orbited successfully, that got us one step closer to a space station, which got us a step closer to the moon base. And then Mars, Venus, and the rest of the solar system.

Helen gave me another sheet from the Teletype. I tracked Parker’s position by shifts in Doppler frequency. The frequency of those waves showed the rocket’s path over the Earth. I plugged the numbers into the string of calculations and then ran through it again, just to be sure.

Turning in my seat, I lifted the page over my head. “He made it! He’s in orbit.”

Grown men jumped from their seats, shouting like kids at a ball game. One fellow threw paper into the air, and it fluttered down around us. Someone clapped me on the shoulder, and there was a sudden warm wet pressure on my cheek. I pulled back, glaring at Mr. Carmouche, whose lips were still puckered from the kiss.

“We still have to get him home.” I wiped my cheek off and set my pencil on the page again. Across the table, Helen met my gaze and nodded. Then she handed me the next sheet of paper.

*

The light from the hall outside our rented apartment fell across the bed. I rolled over as Nathaniel’s silhouette entered, muffled by his overcoat. The light from the bathroom reflected only on his shoes, and the snow still caught in his trouser cuffs.

“I’m not asleep.” That was mostly true. I’d left the Murphy bed down before I went to Mission Control that morning because I knew we’d both be too tired to deal with it after the launch. “Congratulations.”

“To you as well.” He took off his overcoat and hung it on the peg by the front door. Housing prices in Kansas City had skyrocketed after President Brannan relocated the capital to the center of the country. Between that and all the refugees who needed homes, the only place we could afford, even with a government salary, was a studio apartment. Frankly, I was happy not to have much house to keep up with.

I turned on the bedside lamp and sat up. “You were wonderful in the press conference.”

“If by ‘wonderful’ you mean that I deflected the idiot reporter who thinks the whole program is pointless, then yes. Yes, I was.” He shrugged, pulling on his tie. “I’d rather have been at Mission Control. I could hear you over the radio when they retrieved Parker after splashdown. And here I thought you didn’t like the fellow.”