The Calculating Stars (Lady Astronaut, #1)(93)
34 WOMEN TOOK ASTRONAUT TESTS
KANSAS CITY, KS, May 16, 1957—(AP)—Thirty-four women were chosen to undergo a preliminary testing program to be Lunar Astronauts. All 34 are airplane pilots and their ages range from 23 to 38. These beauties range from blond to brunette and are among the best feminine specimens on the planet.
By day four, there were just twenty-one of us left. Betty and Nicole were still in the running, as was Sabiha. Sometimes we were in the same testing room, other times it was a solo ordeal like the inner ear test.
After I endured the joys of having a metal cup pressed against my eyeball to test for glaucoma, I walked into an interview room. Stetson Parker sat at a table, flanked on one side by Benkoski and the other by Director Clemons.
“Bloody hell.” Clemons threw his pen down on the table. “We don’t really need to interview her, do we?”
Thank God I was already sweaty from the treadmill earlier, because it masked the cold sweat that broke out of every pore. “I know that I’ve tried your patience, but—”
Clemons waved his hand and I stopped talking out of habit. He picked up his pen again and aimed it at me. “You misunderstand. We are supposed to see if the candidates have the drive an astronaut needs. That is hardly a question with you.”
“Oh.” I looked back at the door. “Should I … should I send in the next person?”
“No…” Parker leaned back in his chair. “I think we should do this right, so no one can accuse us of favoritism later. Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. York, and tell us why you want to be an astronaut.”
Favoritism. Ha. But I sat down in the chair facing the men and rested my hands on my knees with my ankles crossed, the way Mama had taught me. Don’t ask me why I wanted to sit like a lady when I was wearing rumpled pants and a sweat-dampened shirt. It might just have been the only armor I owned.
For once, I was glad for all the interviews that I had done, because this was a question that I had answered over and again. “Why do I want to be an astronaut? Because I believe that women have a necessary role in establishing colonies on other planets. If we have—”
“I’m not interested in your speeches.” Parker sat upright with a thump. “If I wanted those, I could read a magazine.”
“Colonel Parker!” Clemons glared at him. “This is not how we treat candidates.”
“We all know why she thinks women should go into space.” He turned to face me again. “I want to know why you, specifically you, want to be an astronaut. And why you want to do that now, at this stage of the program.”
I stared at him. I didn’t have an answer. Or at least not one that I could articulate. I just wanted to, in the same way I wanted to fly. I discarded the truth—which was that I didn’t really know—and instead reached for answers like the ones that I’d seen the astronauts give in interviews. “I feel that it’s my duty to—”
“To serve your country … That’s the answer someone gives to the press corps.” Parker shook his head. Neither of the other two men stepped in this time.
All three men stared at me, waiting.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. If I could talk to Congress or appear on national television, I could answer these men. “I don’t remember a time when flying wasn’t a part of my life. My father was a pilot. I used to beg him to do barrel rolls when I was little because I loved the way the earth spread out below us and gravity didn’t seem to matter…”
I opened my eyes, but still stared at the polished linoleum floors as I felt my way through my answer. “Space seems … I’m a pilot, you know? Space seems … necessary. Or inevitable. Or…” I spread my hands, struggling to find words I was willing to say to them about how I yearned to go there. “Maybe it was all the science-fiction novels and comic books my dad gave me, but the idea of not going into space seems more impossible than anything else. Even if the Earth weren’t damaged, I’d still want to go.”
Benkoski gave a little grunt, his pencil scratching on a form. Clemons had his arms crossed over his chest and his lips pursed as if he were holding a cigar.
And Parker was nodding.
God help me, the man who had said he would keep me grounded was nodding as if he understood. Then he shrugged and picked a notebook off the table. “What’s the reliability data on the Atlas booster?”
“Um…” The sudden shift in topic left me a little startled. “Fewer than nine out of ten Atlas launches were successful. That’s why we moved to the Jupiter design.”
Clemons kept his arms crossed over his chest while Benkoski jotted down my response.
“What are the advantages of pressure carburetors over float carburetors?”
“Pressure carburetors are less likely to exhibit carb icing, which can initially lead to the engine running more rich, but will eventually restrict the airflow and cause a complete blockage. And they provide a stable fuel-air ratio under negative-G conditions, such as a rapid dive or inverted flight.” It is astonishing how much more comfortable I am with technical questions than personal ones.
From then on, the interview was almost simple.
*
When Hershel asked for a hotel recommendation, I sent him to the Aladdin, which is where Nathaniel and I had stayed after the bomb threat. Its lobby had a second-floor balcony with a martini bar. The balcony was supported by black marble pillars, and the gilding on the railings and at the top of the columns gave a pre-Meteor golden-age elegance to the place.