“Parameters confirmed.” She grabbed her flight jacket and stood. “Shall we fly?”
“Absolutely.” I tucked another cookie into the pocket of my flight jacket and glanced at Helen. “Going up with me, or one of the other girls?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
My little Cessna 170b could carry four people. Betty had a Texan, but it wasn’t any good for conversation, so she decided that, given the topic, she’d start with us, so we didn’t have to use the radio to talk. We piled into the cockpit, and put the conversation on hold while I went through the preflight checklist.
There is something magic about takeoffs. I know people who are afraid of flying who say that the takeoffs and landings are the only hard parts, perhaps because that’s when the act of flying is most apparent. I love the way you get pushed back into your seat. The weight and the sense of momentum press against you and the vibrations from the tarmac hum through the yoke and into your palms and legs. Then, suddenly, everything stops and the ground drops away.
It never feels like I’m rising, but that the ground is falling away from me as if I were light as air. Maybe that’s what frightens people? Or maybe I’m not frightened because my dad flew with the Air Force when it was still part of the Army, and had taken me on my first plane ride when I was two years old. I’m told that I laughed the entire flight. Clearly, I don’t remember that. I do remember begging him to do barrel rolls when I got a little older.
Most kids? Their dad teaches them to drive. Mine taught me to fly.
Anyway. Once we were up in the air, I turned us in a lazy spiral away from the airfield, just to get a feel for the air today. Betty sat in the copilot seat, with Helen behind us.
Betty turned to address both of us, shouting a little over the engine. “All right. Flight Club rules are in effect. Am I right that they want to turn the moon into a military base?”
“From all the things Nathaniel isn’t saying, I think it’s actually that women are too emotional to go into space.”
Betty shook her head, and I’m fairly certain she cursed under the sound of the airplane. “Right. This is hogswallow, and we need to change it.”
“How?” Helen leaned forward in her seat.
“I can pitch this to my editor as discrimination, but that’s not going to take if I can’t also talk about some of the women who were passed over.” She looked at me. “I can do it in ways that won’t make my sources clear, and … and I can also prime Hart to ask the question and bring it front and center at the press conference.”
I glanced sideways at her. “How? I mean … that feels very direct.”
“Mr. President, with an all-male astronaut corps, is there a danger that the Communist bloc will perceive this as a military outpost rather than a colony?”
Helen raised her hand, as if to remind us that she was from Taiwan. “He’ll counter with international cooperation.”
I nodded. “We’ve got people at the IAC from Taiwan, Algeria, Spain, Brazil, France, Germany, Serbia, Haiti, the Congo…”
Helen chimed in, “Belgium, Canada, Denmark, France, Iceland, Italy, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Norway, Portugal, the United Kingdom…”
“And the U.S.”
Betty shook her head. “And none of those are Communist countries.”
“Okay … but it still doesn’t talk about the hysteria aspect.”
“No, but it does highlight the all-male astronaut corps, and that gives us leverage for a follow-up about why there are no women.” She snorted. “And it’s an election year. Eisenhower is running against Brannan, so I’m going to bet money, right now, that a return to ‘normalcy,’ with women relegated back to being ‘homemakers,’ is going to be a key election issue.”
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.
He was reading with his feet up on the desk, one of his cigars clenched between his teeth. Smoke belched around him like a misfiring engine. The book he held had a rocket in front of a dusty red landscape on the cover, and looked more like a novel than a technical paper.
“Let me check his schedule.”
He lowered the book. “Send her on in.”
“Oh—” I swallowed. Something about his crisp British diction always made me feel as if I’d come in unwashed from a field. “Thank you, sir.”
He held up the book as I approached his desk. “Have you had the opportunity to read this yet?”
“No, sir.”
“It has a Captain York in it, who sounds remarkably like your husband.” He gestured toward a chair. “Sit, sit. Have you ever met this Bradbury chap?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I think he must be a fan. The notion of an ancient civilization on Mars is rubbish, but I will happily accept any press that excites people about space.” He set the book on his desk. “The American Congress is getting huffy about appropriations again. Is that what you’re here for? Do you need another one of the IBMs for the computing department? They are offering.”
I shook my head. “That’s really Mrs. Rogers’s decision, but for myself … well, they aren’t very reliable.”
“So the engineers keep telling me. Overheating.” He grunted, nodding. “What brings you here?
“Oh—well. It’s actually about keeping people excited about Mars, sir. You see … I wanted to talk to you about considering women for future missions.”
“Women?” He sat forward and gave me his full focus. “No, no. If we want people to be excited, we need the most highly qualified pilots on these missions, or the public will have our heads.”
“I understand, but if we want to establish viable colonies, they’ll need families, and that means convincing women that it’s safe.” I opened my notebook to the chart of statistics I had drawn up. “Now, certainly, you don’t want to send the average woman into space, any more than the average man would be a good candidate. But as an example, I thought that maybe you might consider some of the WASP pilots. There were 1,027 women who flew during the war for the United States alone, and they averaged seven hundred flight hours each, with 792 of them going well over a thousand flight hours. The average fighter pilot, on the other hand—”
“No.”
“I … I beg your pardon?”
“I am not sending women into space. If a man dies—well, that’s tragic, but people will accept that. A woman? No. The program would be shut down in its entirety.”
I stood, putting the notebook on his table and spinning it so he could see. “I think we could shift public perception, though. With these numbers—”
“No. You are speaking of women who ferried planes around as if they fought in combat.”
Pressing my hands against the comforting grid lines, I took another breath. He had said “combat” as if that was a consideration for the space missions, but you wouldn’t need that on a colony. I chickened out, the way I always do, and didn’t call him on that slip. “We’re doing an air show. Maybe you could come out and see it? As an example of how we could shift perception of women pilots. The amount of training the WASPs had to go through was more rigorous than the men, because of the variety of planes that we flew.”
“I appreciate your efforts, but I have to keep this project running. I do not have time for charity work.” He picked up the novel again and started to read. “Good afternoon, Mrs. York.”
I closed the notebook and bit down hard on the inside of my lip. I couldn’t tell you if I was trying to keep from yelling or crying. Probably both.
* * *
The weeks marched on and my attention was pulled away from the idea of an air show, partially from despair, but mostly because the IAC was working nonstop toward a lunar landing. While the American branch was doing that, our European counterparts were preparing to establish an orbiting space station. Teletypes flew back and forth across the Atlantic as the rocket scientists shared notes.
We were all pulling long hours. Still, Nathaniel and I tried to leave before sundown on Fridays so we could observe Sabbath. Not that either of us was especially observant, but it was good discipline.
I leaned on the doorframe to his office as the heavy gray shadows of evening dulled the parking lot outside. Nathaniel had his shirtsleeves rolled up and was glaring at something on his desk.
With one knuckle, I rapped on the inner office door. “Ready to go?”
“Hm?” He looked up and rubbed his eyes. “I’ve got a little more to do. Mind waiting?”
“You know … you’d think that we’d do a better job of leaving by sundown in the summer.”
Nathaniel spun in his chair to face the parking lot. “What time is it?”
“Almost nine.” I came into his office and set my purse and coat down on one of the chairs. “Did you take a break today?”
“Yeah … I had a lunch meeting with Clemons.” He turned back to the desk and picked up the paper he’d been studying. “Elma, if you were in orbit, would an r-bar or a v-bar rendezvous make more sense to you?”
“Okay, first of all, a lunch meeting does not count as taking a break.” I leaned over the back of his chair, so I could see the paper he was so fixed on. It was a report called Line-of-sight guidance techniques for manned orbital rendezvous, which seemed to consist of more questions than answers. “Second … what’s the assumed orbit?”
He flipped through the pages. “Um … hang on. Let’s say four thousand miles.”
Putting my hands on the base of his neck, I dug my thumbs in while I considered the question. One of the challenges of orbital mechanics was that the faster you went, the higher you orbited, and thus the slower the orbit. It was completely counterintuitive without equations or a model. So my instinct as a pilot to do the v-bar rendezvous couldn’t be trusted.
The v-bar rendezvous got its V from velocity, which you used to catch up to the target by flying in the same direction that it was speeding. I dug my finger into the muscles that ran up the back of Nathaniel’s neck. His head dropped forward until his chin rested on his chest.
But an r-bar rendezvous might work … if we dropped into a lower orbit than our target. That would make the ship move faster than the target, and we’d catch up with it. Once close enough, we could just fire thrusters to push back up toward the target, which should use less fuel.
I had a possible answer, but given the little grunts of pleasure that my husband was making, I wasn’t entirely sure he would hear me. His trapezius was a solid mass of knots down to between his shoulder blades. “I’d lean toward an r-bar rendezvous. Less fuel, plus the orbital mechanics mean there would be natural braking action if the thrusters failed.”
Lifting his head, he leaned forward to stare at the page. “See, that’s what I thought, but Parker wants v-bar.�
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My hands paused and then smoothed out his dress shirt. “Well. He’s been in space and I haven’t. As a pilot, I’d probably give his opinion more weight than mine.”
“That’s part of my problem. Everyone gives his opinion more weight because he’s one of the original Artemis Seven.” He threw the paper back on the table. “Even on things that have nothing to do with piloting. I mean … he’s still going on about the Soviet—excuse me. The ‘Communist Threat. ’”
“The long winter hit them harder than us. The Soviet Union dissolved, for crying out loud. What’s he thinking?”
Nathaniel rubbed his forehead. “The Soviet Union is gone, but Russia is as big as ever.”
“And starving.” The long winter had affected the nations closer to the poles more than others. “China isn’t in any better condition.”
“I think he’s trying to curry favor with Eisenhower by trying to … I don’t know, and I’m totally talking out of school.”
With the elections, people were starting to lose sight of the reason for getting into space. At least they weren’t dismissing the importance of a space program. Yet.
* * *
It’s not always Nathaniel who keeps us late at the office. The next Monday I got caught up in a series of equations for translunar trajectories. It was fascinating, because I was trying to account for the shift in gravitational pull as the spacecraft transitioned from the Earth’s sphere of influence to the moon’s. It affected everything, including the amount of propellant required. By the time Nathaniel and I got back to our tiny apartment, I had a head full of porridge.
Throwing the day’s mail on the table, I dropped into the closest chair. My fingers were smudged with ink but I still rested my head on my hands with a sigh. “Space sounded so romantic.”
Nathaniel chuckled dryly behind me and bent down to kiss the back of my neck. “I thought I wasn’t going to be able to pry you out of the office tonight.”
The Calculating Stars Page 10
