The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(33)
Cold ran all the way to the center of my body. “But … but the director of the IAC doesn’t answer to the president, he—” Even as the words left my mouth, I knew I was being stupid. The IAC might be an international effort, but because the launch center was on American soil, we had more influence on the program than other countries—even with a British director. And I’d seen the list of astronauts. Fully three-quarters of them were American or British. All of them were white. “Everyone buckled up?”
They both said yes, but didn’t ask me why. They knew me well. I pulled the plane up, gaining altitude, and looped us over. Centrifugal force kept us pushed into our seats. The Earth lay spread out below in a quilt of green and brown. There was enough haze in the sky that the line between ground and air was indistinct and the edges blurred away into the silver-white of the sky. I’d seen pictures from orbit, the Earth turned into a blue-green globe. I wanted to float weightless in space and see the stars with all their startling clarity. If these men with their constant jockeying for dominance dragged us back into the dark ages, I would … what?
Bringing the plane out of the loop, I took us into a bar rel roll. Silver and green spun about, with us as the center of the pinwheel. Behind me, Helen laughed and clapped her hands.
Coming out of the roll, I considered my next option. People were losing sight of the greenhouse timeline, since this was a slow disaster. We needed to establish colonies on the moon and the other planets while we had the resources to spare. If their excuse was that establishing a colony wasn’t safe for women, then we’d need to prove that women were just as capable as men. “Do you think your newspaper would be interested in covering an all-women air show?”
“Hell yes.” Betty jabbed her finger at me. “But only if I get to use your name.”
“I’m not anyone.”
“You’re married to the lead engineer at the IAC. That story about you flying out after the Meteor? I can use that.”
I swallowed. Being the center of attention was … necessary. And it would just be talking to Betty. “Sure. You can do that.”
TWELVE
MEN OF THE SPACE AGE
National Times photographs by SAM FALK
March 26, 1956—The rocket specialists—those who think up, design, engineer, and fire the mighty engines to carry scientific instruments aloft—are the men to whom the country looks for achievement in the Space Age. They work in many fields, ranging from fuels to computer systems and from alloys to communication techniques. The best known of these is Dr. Nathaniel York, who is the lead engineer for the International Aerospace Coalition.
The press conference went exactly as Betty predicted. When questioned about the exclusively male list, Norman Clemons, the director of the IAC, said that it was “for safety considerations.” And it was “much the same as when Columbus discovered the New World.” Or Shackleton’s trip to the North Pole. No one had been concerned that there were no women on those expeditions. He was sure that the “international effort” made it clear that this was entirely a peaceful, scientific expedition.
Some of the women’s magazines, which had been founded to agitate for suffrage, picked up Betty’s story and joined her in rallying for women to be included in found ing the colony. No men paid any attention to the women’s magazines. I know—shocking.
Basira sat down on the opposite side of our shared desk at the IAC. “He’s back.”
I glanced around to see if anyone had heard her. Not that it really mattered, but the other women in the computing department were all busy at their calculations. The scratching of pencils across paper and the shush of glass cursors brushing over Bakelite slide rules were punctuated by the rattle of our Friden mechanical calculator. And even if anyone had been paying attention, there was nothing wrong with Basira reporting that Director Clemons had returned from the testing range.
Besides, most of them knew what I was hoping to do. I nodded and closed my notebook. I set it to the side of my desk, pencil lined up neatly against it. Opening my desk drawer, I pulled out another notebook, labeled “WASPs,” which had the figures I’d collated about the Women Airforce Service Pilots of the Second World War.
Standing, I hugged the notebook to my chest. Basira smiled at me. “Operation Ladies First is go.”
I needed the laughter rather desperately. Helen glanced up from the desk she shared with Myrtle. She nudged Myrtle, who turned and gave me a thumbs up. Nodding to them, I headed out of the room and down the corridors to Director Clemons’s office.
There was no reason to be afraid of him. We had enjoyed multiple conversations at holiday parties, or company picnics. He was always a calming presence in the “dark room” on launch days. But before, Nathaniel or my work had always been there as a shield.
My palms left damp imprints on the cover of my notebook. I stopped before I got to Clemons’s office door, which was always open, to wipe my hands on my skirt. Today, I’d opted for a simple gray pencil skirt and a white blouse, which I hoped made me look more businesslike. Any type of armor would be welcomed.
Swallowing, I went to the door, and Mrs. Kare, his secretary, looked up with a smile. “Mrs. York. What can I do for you?”
“I was hoping I could make an appointment to speak with Director Clemons.” This was me chickening out. I had the notebook, and he was right there.