The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(40)

He sighed and raised his beer to her. “I don’t know how you do it.”

I let them have their laugh and just grinned at Eugene. Six Mustangs. We could do proper formations with that, and smoke tricks, and … “Are there any women pilots in your group?”

“Yeah. Come to the club and I’ll introduce you.” He gave me a wink. “We can go for a spin and leave these two on the ground.”





FOURTEEN

IAC LAUNCHES MANNED SPACE PORT MADE OF AN INFLATABLE FABRIC

By BILL BECKER

Special to The National Times.





KANSAS CITY, KS, April 21, 1956—The world’s first space station is a huge spinning wheel of four sausage-shaped links.


The Kansas City Negro Aeronautics Club had a nicer facility than our women’s club did. There was a little house next to the hangar, both of which had been painted blinding white, with red shutters and lettering.

As soon as we walked into the social room of the house, I became self-conscious and grateful for Eugene’s presence as a shield. I was the only white person in the room. The brown faces ranged from a magnolia tan to a deep blue-black, with no one who was even as light as Myrtle.

I stood out like a dirty handkerchief dropped on a clean table. Clutching my purse tighter, I planted myself in the door to keep from backing out. Everyone was staring at me. I tried to smile. And then I realized that the way I was hanging on to my purse, they probably thought I was worried someone was going to steal it. I let go, and that probably looked just as bad.

Eugene turned back, smiling, and beckoned at me to follow him to a table with three black ladies sitting at it. Conversation started up again in the social room, but I kept hearing snatches of “what’s she doing here” and “white” and “no business.” Some of them, I think, weren’t trying to keep their voices down.

Two of the women stood as we came up to the table. The third stayed seated and stared at me with a neutral expression, with only a pinching of the nose to indicate disdain.

“This is Miss Ida Peaks.” Eugene gestured to the younger of the two standing women. She was short, with generous curves and ruddy brown cheeks. The other standing woman wore her hair in an elegant French twist, pinned with green Bakelite combs. “… Miss Imogene Braggs, and…” He gestured to the seated woman. Her orange dress with a narrow white collar gave her a warmth that her expression countered. “… Miss Sarah Coleman. Some of the finest pilots you’ll ever meet.”

“Thank you for meeting with me.” I took off my gloves and, at Miss Braggs’s gesture, sat down. “I believe Major Lindholm has explained our aims to you?”

Miss Coleman nodded. “You want to be an astronaut.”

“I—well, yes. But my main goal is to get the IAC to consider women as pilots. The current group is entirely composed of men.” I turned to smile at the two friendlier women. “I was hoping that you would consider flying with us.”

Miss Peaks tilted her head to consider me. “So you can use our planes?”

Something about this conversation was off. I glanced at Eugene, but he had stepped back. “That … that is a separate discussion, I think.”

“And if we turn you down—about using the Mustangs—would you still want black women to fly with you?” Miss Braggs’s tone was gentle, with mild curiosity, but the words held a challenge.

“It depends upon the reasons for turning us down, I suppose.” That answer caused Miss Coleman to sniff. “If it was because you doubted me as a pilot, then that doesn’t seem like it would be a good collaboration. But, otherwise, yes, I should still like you to fly with us. Major Lindholm has spoken very highly of your performance in the shows your airclub has put on, and I need experienced pilots.”

“Good! I’m game, then.” Miss Peaks grinned at me. “Any chance to do some more formation flying is fine by me. You … you are okay with formation, right?”

“Absolutely. I was definitely planning that.” It would take a liquid ton of rehearsal, but precision flying was mission critical if we were going to convince people that women pilots were as good as men.

Miss Coleman shook her head. “There’s no point in it.”

“Sarah—”

“No. Don’t hush me. You know good and well that even though we’re qualified—even if this air show scheme were to work—we wouldn’t be allowed in the astronaut corps.” She glared up at Eugene. “Would we, Major?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, now … they only took seven men, and had to take those from different countries, and—”

“And none of those countries selected anything but a white man.”

“The makeup of the list bothers me as well. That’s why we’re trying to change things with the air show. Once they see how qualified you are—”

Miss Coleman leaned across the table, face intense. “I was accepted into the WASPs during the second war. Until they realized I was black, and then they asked me to withdraw my application. What makes you think that the IAC is going to be any different?”

“I—well … well, because we’re talking about a colony, and … and…” And I remembered what had happened in the days after the Meteor hit, when the people in the black neighborhoods were left for dead until Eugene and Myrtle had used their leaflets. “And we’ll make them. But to do that, we have to show them we can fly first.”