She blushed and waved. “It is an honor, and so unexpected.”
“I can imagine.” I hadn’t even seen her at the testing.
Pausing, I looked around the room at the waiting women. No men. Interesting. I knew that they’d added more men to the corps as well, but they must be training them in a different location.
We weren’t chattering or doing any of the clucking that you’d expect from the movies. All of us were turned out, though—in pants suits, yes, but with makeup and our hair done just so.
Four of us were American. One French woman. A Brazilian woman—Jacira Paz-Viveiros—and Sabiha Gökçen. Seven, all told, to match the original seven men.
If Ida hadn’t primed me for it, I don’t know if I would have noticed that there wasn’t a black candidate in the group.
Clemons, Parker, and two other gentlemen that I didn’t know walked in together. Clemons clapped his hands together. “There are my beauties. First of all, ladies, congratulations on being chosen as astronauts in training.”
One of the men I didn’t know, a slender fellow with a shiny white forehead and ears that stuck out past his regulation crew cut, started passing out binders.
“Now. Our first task is to get you ready for the press conference. This is Mr. Pommier.” He beckoned toward the other fellow, who was in his mid-fifties and had that steel-gray hair that some men acquire as they age. “He’s your stylist, and will help you select your wardrobe and hair for the event.”
I exchanged glances with Nicole, but neither of us raised our hands to ask why we needed a stylist. They had probably gotten one for the men and kept him on for us. If I were going to rock the boat, which seemed inevitable, then it would be over a bigger question.
“Mr. Smith is handing out press kits for each of you. We’re going to go through sample interview questions to prepare you for the conference.” Clemons turned to Parker. “Colonel Parker here is in charge of all the astronauts, as well as you lady astronauts-in-training. He’ll be able to help you understand what’s expected of you in your new role.”
Parker gave one of his trademark earnest smiles. “Good morning. I wish all conference rooms looked this lovely when I walked in.” He caught my eye. “Now, I know some of you are used to being able to say anything you want, but we’ve got to be careful with the information that goes out of the IAC. Besides our security interests, we also have an exclusive contract with Life. Isn’t that right, Miss Ralls?”
Betty nodded, her eyes on the table and her cheeks red. “Yes, sir.”
Well, bless her journalistic heart. Betty hadn’t made the cut. She’d cut a deal.
“To control the image of the space program, all communication with the press must go through the front office.” Parker held up a finger. “And just to be clear, ‘the press’ includes entertainment broadcasts.”
This was not the hardship for me that he seemed to think it was.
“Wait a minute—” Sabiha’s voice cut through the room. She had her binder open and was frowning at one of the pages. “This question. What is this answer? ‘No. I am not an astronaut. ’”
I grabbed my binder and flipped it open, amid the sound of pages shuffling and covers slapping against the hard wood of the conference table. Sure enough, under the heading “Approved answers to common questions” were a variety of questions about what it was like to be an astronaut.
“Thank you, Colonel Parker. I’ll take it from here.” Mr. Smith, the fellow with the jug-handled ears, had a voice like a revival preacher. The deep resonance rolled out at complete odds with his slight build. “You’ve already opened your binders, ladies, so let me explain. We’ve realized that it would be confusing for the public if we start calling trainees astronauts. It would be like calling someone a pilot when they’d just signed up for flight school.”
“When, exactly, are we considered astronauts?” My voice left frost on the table.
“Fifty miles.” Parker shrugged. “When you’ve been fifty miles above the Earth’s surface, you’re an astronaut. That’s in conjunction with the IAC and the Fédération Aéronautique Internationale in Paris. Until then, you’re astronaut candidates. Abbreviated as AsCans.”
Of course. All nice and proper and completely legitimate. I couldn’t even complain that it was unreasonable—except, of course, that the rule hadn’t applied until they’d added women to the corps.
At the press conference, I stood in the shadows backstage with Nathaniel holding both of my hands. A film of sweat separated us. The murmur of the crowd rumbled through the curtains at a constant low-frequency hum. You could feel it through the floorboards, like the buzz of an engine. Around me, the new astronauts—excuse me, the new AsCans—milled about in uncertain patterns. The seven women nearly vanished among the thirty-five men they’d chosen. Why had I signed up for this?
Nathaniel stood directly in front of me. “197 times 4753?”
“936,341.”
“Divided by 243?”
“3853.255144032922 … How many decimal places do you want?” The dress that the stylist had asked me to wear had a tight-fitted bodice. It had seemed to fit well enough when I’d tried it on, but now I could hardly draw a breath.
“That’s fine. Square root? To five decimals … if applicable.”
At least I wasn’t the only one who was nervous. “62.07459.”
Sabiha Gökçen paced back and forth, shaking her wrists out. She kept touching her hair as if she’d be happier to have it back in a ponytail instead of the bouffant it had been teased into.
“What is the optimal pitchover angle for the gravity turn when entering low Earth orbit?”
“Gravity turn … With what rocket engine and configuration? And what should the final altitude be?” Bless him for trying to keep me distracted.
“Jupiter class, with a dual-Sirius engine. Final altitude would be—”
He probably said more than that, but Clemons walked onto the stage and through the curtains. The uproar from the audience rose to critical. I closed my eyes and swallowed and swallowed and breathed through my nose and swallowed down the bitter acid that coated the back of my tongue. Not now. Not now not now not now …
Nathaniel breathed into my ear. “1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 9—”
“That’s wrong.” I clung to him. “The Fibonacci sequence adds the prior number to the current one, so it should be 3, 5, 8, 13 … Oh. Clever man.”
“I can do more bad math, if that will help.” He gave me a squeeze and stepped back to look at me. “Just remember that the astronauts get to fly T-33s.”
I snorted. “Here I thought you were going to tell me to remember that you loved me.”
“Eh. You know that. But a T-33? A jet? I know where I stand in relation to—”
“Elma! We’re up.” Nicole grabbed my hand and pulled me with her to the stage.
T-33s. Even as an astronaut candidate, I would get to fly a T-33 jet aircraft. As we walked onto the stage, I tried to hold the image of the cockpit in my head. The flashes going off were just lightning. I could keep this steady, and hold the course.
That image lasted long enough for me to make it to the table with the other women. They had us seated in front, with the men standing in two rows behind us like a frame. This was just another interview. It was just like the ones I’d given before. I’d even been trained this time.
3.14159265359 …
T-33. Teeeeeeeeeee-thirty-three. Astronaut. Astronaut. Astronaut. T-33.
“Dr. York? What does your husband think about your new occupation?” came a voice from the front row.
The speaker was a man with a rumpled gray suit surrounded by nearly identical men with rumpled gray suits. I had no idea that reporters had uniforms. Nicole kicked me under the table.