The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(84)

Ida Peaks and Imogene Braggs were at the table, along with some women I didn’t know. There were more planes in the hangar, too. One of the Mustangs seemed to have made its way over. And a P-38 Lightning—whose was that, and how could I become their best friend?

Nicole had been perched on the end of the table with a cigarette held lazily in one hand. She stood when she saw me, smiling. “It’s about damn time.”

And Betty … she kept her gaze fixed on the table.

But Helen bounced up from the table, grinning like I’d given her the best present. “I was just telling them!”

Of course. Helen had been in the computing department when we got the news. “Well, just remember, it’s not public yet. The press release won’t go out until Tuesday.”

“I won’t tell anyone.” Betty spoke to the table. “If that’s what you’re implying.”

To respond or not to respond, that is the question. Whether ’tis nobler to suffer the bait of defensive posturing or to … “Hell, I wasn’t worried about that. You’re good at keeping secrets when you need to.”

Nicole stepped between us. “Now, girls…” She hurried over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re back. You get me hooked on flying again, then up and vanish. It’s too much, really, darling.”

“Anyway.” I fished in my bag. “I have the applications for the astronaut progr—”

Women surrounded me like a bank of clouds. One minute, clear skies; next, zero visibility except for a flurry of white as the pages were whipped away. The laughter that had been present before I came in resurfaced, bouncing off the walls.

Though not all of the cries were of delight. “Advanced degree?” One woman’s shoulders drooped. “I didn’t even go to college.”

As quickly as they had surrounded me, the women dispersed to fill out their applications. I had already filled mine out. It was sitting in a box on the secretary’s desk outside Clemons’s office.

Helen had snatched one from my hands, too. She’d seen the announcement, but not the application form. The grin sagged off her face. “A thousand hours in high-performance aircraft with four hundred of that as pilot-in-command? And fifty hours of jet time? How—that not fair. What woman has that?”

I winced. “I do. A lot of the WASPs do.”

“Chemistry counts? Oh my God. Oh my God.” Ida Peaks bounced on her toes. “I have a master’s in chemistry—and I meet all the qualifications. … goddamn it. Except for the high-performance aircraft.”

Imogene stared at her application as if she were trying to decide whether to kiss it or flush it. “Same … I keep thinking about Sarah Coleman and how she was asked to withdraw her application during the war.”

“They can’t ask us to withdraw if we don’t even qualify.”

Imogene nodded, still staring at the document. “And the reason that only white women qualify is because of that policy decision about the WASPs. This is an extremely neat way to keep the astronaut corps all-white while pretending that it’s open to everyone.”

That hadn’t even occurred to me. I blinked, trying to decide what to do or say, but before I could get my thoughts in order, Ida snorted.

“Well, that’s bullshit. And I bet Dr. King will have things to say about it. Very loud and pointed things.” Ida turned back to the table. “I need a pen.”

With a flourish, Imogene raised her pen. “Got one right here, and you can have it when I’m finished filling this damn thing out. Fifty hours pilot-in-command of a jet aircraft my aunt Fanny’s ass. The spaceships aren’t even jet powered, are they, Elma?”

“They’re not.” I hesitated, not wanting to promise something I couldn’t deliver. It had taken this long just to get women even considered. “I’ll mention it to Nathaniel and see if he can convince the director to change the requirements. The forms haven’t gone out to anyone except you all yet. I think.”

From the table, Betty said, “They’ll send it out with the press release. Once that happens, it’ll be set in stone.”

I nodded, lips pressed together. Swallowing my pride, I walked over to the table where she sat and put one of the applications down in front of her. “You have enough flight experience.”

“And a master’s in journalism. Pretty sure that’s not the sort of advanced degree they’re looking for.”

“It’s still worth trying.” I slid it toward her. “Right?”

She nodded, but didn’t reach for the application. Instead, she shook herself like a dog just out of a pond and reached for her purse. “I’ve been carrying this around for months, hoping you’d come back. I should have just forwarded it, but … I don’t know. I think I was afraid you’d throw it out.”

Cocking my head, I stared at her as she fumbled around inside her purse. “Why would I throw it out?”

“Because it was from me.” She pulled a battered envelope from her bag and put it on the table. “Or, at least, it would have been if I’d forwarded it.”

Curious, I picked it up. The return address was from Life magazine. Just the name sent a flash of red across my vision with the memory of that anger. She was probably right—I probably would have tossed it if it had come right after the Girl Scout incident.