Earth Bound (15 page)

July 1962
 

Parsons watched as in the chair beside his, Kit Campbell shifted. Campbell settled himself, pressed his shoulders back… and then uncrossed his legs and tried again.

It was like watching a kid in the front pew at church who didn’t want to be there. But despite the fact that Parsons knew better than to wiggle uncontrollably when you were on display, he couldn’t blame Campbell. He would have assumed Congress would give the witnesses—at least the hero ones—a more comfortable place to sit when they called them to testify. The chairs Parsons, Campbell, Joe Reynolds, and Stan Jensen occupied looked like gleaming mahogany, but they felt like steel. Then there were the lights: at least twenty trained right on the witness table. The harsh glow reflected off the ink-blotted marble behind the senators and was almost blinding.

But they didn’t really need to see in order to smile and answer questions.

The senators had a passel of queries for ASD’s most famous astronauts and director—though surprisingly few for the chief engineer.

It was just as well. Parsons had been nervous they’d been called here so Congress could hold him responsible for the heat shield scare during Campbell’s mission, but instead the senators had struck a warm, jovial tone. Hell, he half suspected they’d invited them here in order to shake Campbell and Reynolds’s hands.

Their wives sat among the spectators, looking cool and polished, and in the case of the new Mrs. Campbell, a little bored. She didn’t yet have Mrs. Reynolds’s expertise in being utterly blank every second of the day.

“Now tell us, Commander Campbell, there’s been a lot of speculation about the Soviet women, the female cosmonauts,” one of the senators said.

“Yes, sir,” Campbell answered.

Parsons didn’t allow himself to roll his eyes. If there’d been a question in there, he wasn’t sure what it was.

Campbell gave Joe Reynolds a quick look. The other man gave a very slight shake of his head. Parsons’s fists tightened on the table. He hoped this train wasn’t about to run off the rails.

The senator then came out with it. “Do you think it would benefit the American Space Department if lady astronauts were added to the corps?”

Oh damn. The woman question had marched itself into this hearing. Parsons hadn’t been expecting that. He gave Stan Jensen a sidelong look, but Jensen was as frozen as a statue. Of course.

Parsons shot Campbell a glance. For his part, Campbell was coughing. He then took a long sip of water. “Why, sir? Is there any problem with the astronauts we have?”

Let’s see: our current astronauts are arrogant little shits
. But of course that wasn’t what Campbell or the senator had meant.

“I can answer that,” another senator piped up. “There’s nothing wrong at all. Our astronauts are perfect.”

Hearty laughter filled the chamber, but no one from ASD joined in. This thing could still go badly wrong.

The first guy shook a finger at his colleague. “Don’t laugh. Some of these women have been tested, and I have a report here.” He extended a hand, and a staffer sitting behind him handed him a thick file folder. He held it up. “It says the women as a group met and in some cases exceeded the marks given to Commanders Campbell and Reynolds and the other Perseid astronauts.”

Parsons leaned forward, too intrigued to play it cool.
Exceeded?
 
Where had the senator gotten those test results? Who had tested these women and who were they?

Campbell shifted again in his chair—but Parsons wasn’t going to blame him for that anymore. “Oh did they?” he finally said, his voice fainter than usual.

“If I may, sir,” Reynolds said, but no one paid any attention to him, and he trailed off.

The senator flipped through the papers in front of him. He eventually found the spot he wanted, and he began reading. “‘Because the women have less mass and have lower rates of respiration, in addition to their equivalent raw talent, it would behoove ASD to add women to the ranks of the astronauts.’” He closed the report’s cover. “So? What do you think?”

Parsons was torn between frustration at the line of questioning and interest in the report. His palms itched to grab it from the senator. He wanted to know who these women were, what their flight experience was, but of course the senator’s reasoning made sense. And the women couldn't be as arrogant as the men… but that wasn’t the point.

Next to him, Campbell was regaining his composure. He chuckled and said, “I’m a Navy man, sir. It’s considered bad luck to have a woman on a boat.”

“A rocket isn’t a boat.”

“It’s the same principle. Women do fly, and some quite well. But they aren’t used to combat or other high-stress situations, sir. They can’t serve in the armed services or fly military jets. Being smaller or able to operate a crop duster doesn’t mean someone would perform well in space. The conclusion that we need women astronauts doesn’t follow from what they found from some tests.”

“But isn’t it worth finding out? The Soviets are.”

Parsons wanted to interrupt, but he wasn’t sure what he’d say. He gave Jensen a hard look, but the director’s eyes were locked straight ahead and half-closed. He was wishing himself a million miles away from Washington right now.

Campbell at last said, “I don’t see what we would have to gain. It seems like a distraction, sir, from the moon. That’s our real objective. I mean, my mother might do well on some astronaut aptitude test, but that doesn’t mean she belongs in orbit. Space is a man’s realm, and—”

“I find this line of questioning bizarre,” one of the other senators interrupted. “Of course men, military men, belong there. In some far distant future, when space travel is safe, routine, then maybe the ladies can go. But men are natural explorers.”

“I agree,” added another senator in a southern twang. “The Soviets are going to do… well, whatever it is Soviets do, but we don’t want to follow their lead. No sir, we want to show them our way is correct one, the one ordained by our maker and all.”

“Do you agree, Commander Reynolds?” the one with the report asked.

Oh good. Joe Reynolds was much better at this poise and public speaking bit than Campbell—well, actually Reynolds was better at every part of being an astronaut than Campbell. Or at the very least, Reynolds was dedicated, professional, and humble.

Reynolds nodded, his mouth a hard line. “We’ve assembled a team to achieve an objective. We’re going to get the job done, sir. But at some point in the future, the question might merit… revisitation.”

Revisitation? That was wishy-washy.

“No, sir,” Campbell said, cutting Reynolds off. “It’s a bad idea. It’ll be a bad idea for a long time.”

Parsons didn’t think Campbell was right on the merits, but he could appreciate that the man said what he thought.

“All right, all right,” said the senator. “I only thought we ought to look at what the science says.”

“It’s a question of common sense, not science,” another senator put in. “Women in space? Sheesh. Commander Campbell, can you tell us more about how prepared you felt for your mission?”

After a few minutes, the senators agreed to give the witnesses a break, and that suited Parsons fine. He and Jensen needed to discuss whether that little stunt was going to create a firestorm—not that Parsons cared much about firestorms.

And he still wanted to get that damn report.

When he stood to go, however, he found himself facing a female fire squad in the form of Mrs. Frances Reynolds and Mrs. Anne-Marie Campbell. So Mrs. Reynolds did have a setting beyond robotic, then.

Parsons gave Campbell a firm pat on the shoulder. “Well, best of luck, gentlemen. Your wives look pissed.”

That thought was enough to amuse him for the rest of the day.

Meetings, meetings, and more meetings. Parsons sometimes wondered how he got anything done with all these meetings he had to attend.

Well, he knew how he got things done—he worked after everyone was gone and he could finally have some quiet time to think.

But for now, he had yet another meeting and was on the way to Jensen’s office.

“Good morning, Mr. Parsons,” Stan’s secretary said as she rose from her desk. “He’s waiting for you.”

Jensen’s office always seemed like a waste of space. A large desk that held absolutely no work, a sitting area to one side complete with coffee table, and on the other side, a full-sized table with four chairs around it.
 
With the attached bathroom and closet, the man could house a family of four in here.

Parsons’s own concession to decadence in his office was his ratty old couch, which he used for sleep, not entertaining.

“Ready to waste a little time?” Jensen said by way of greeting, gesturing Parsons toward the sitting area.

“How so?” Parsons didn’t think meeting a potential female astronaut was such a waste of time. And he’d finally get hold of their test results.

“Oh, this is all to appease the women agitators. Nothing will really come of it.” He tossed a file to Parsons. “This is the one we’re meeting today, along with Bart Miller. He's got this entire shadow program running to test these women pilots. I have no idea how he got the authorization.”

Well, the shadow program bit explained why Parsons was only now hearing about this. The Air Force was still sore that ASD was a civilian agency and liked to fund things just to prove they had their hand in the space race too.

Parsons flipped through the file. Geraldine Brixton. Thirty-two, with over 20,000 hours of piloting. Rated to fly multi-engine aircraft. Psych profile said she was quiet, self-effacing, but determined. He thumbed through until he came to the test results—

“She spent ten hours in the sensory deprivation tank?”

That was… Parsons couldn’t even imagine that a person could last that long. Dunsford had made it three hours before he’d started hallucinating, and that was thought to be an untouchable record.

Jensen waved that off. “Like Campbell said, it’s only a test.”

Parsons didn’t agree. He didn’t crave human contact—
except for Charlie
, a whisper came from deep inside him—but even to him, the sensory deprivation tank sounded like pure torture.

And ten hours of that? She was either going to be the craziest person he'd ever met or the sanest.

Jensen’s secretary poked her head in. “Mr. Miller and Miss Brixton here to see you.”

Parsons stood but hung back as they entered, and Jensen glad-handed the both of them. You’d never know that Jensen thought this all a waste of time from the way he greeted them.

Parsons had met Miller before; he was a shorter, heavy-set man of about fifty who worked on the medical side of ASD. And ran shadow programs for the Air Force in his spare time, apparently.

As for Miss Brixton, if he saw her on the street, he probably wouldn’t look twice. She radiated quietness, with her average looks and mousy hair and pale eyes. And yet, she wasn’t shrinking. Her handshake was firm, and she met his gaze easily enough.

“Mr. Parsons.” She was low voiced, although quite loud enough to easily hear. She sat herself down and waited. No fidgeting, no smiling… only steady patience.

Hmm. He already thought her promising.

“Now, Miss Brixton,” Jensen started off, “we’re here to discuss your piloting experience and some of your test results. You understand this doesn’t mean we’re accepting you into the astronaut program? This is really more of an informal meeting.”

She nodded.

“Good, good. Now let’s talk about your aircraft experience.”

“She’s an instructor at a flight school, has thousands of hours on multi-engine planes, and also has hours in a jet,” Miller said.

Miss Brixton didn’t even open her mouth.

“Astronaut training is a more than full-time endeavor. Will you be able to leave your family for so long?”

“She’s not married, has no kids. And the flight school is willing to give as much time off as she needs. This is great publicity for them, having the first female astronaut there.”

Jensen looked alarmed. “I thought we agreed—”

Miller waved a hand. “Oh yeah, we know. Only if she’s accepted will she be the first.” It was clear Miller thought that a foregone conclusion.

“All right, so Miss Brixton can clear her schedule. But what about the rest of these girls you’ve been testing?”

“I'm sure something can be arranged.”

Since Miss Brixton didn’t seem likely to get a word in, Parsons kept quiet himself and studied her. She had a serene sort of confidence—she was assured, but not forward. None of the male astronauts would have let someone else do the talking for them.

“But back to Miss Brixton,” Jensen was saying. “It says in your file you’ve flown jets. That’s unusual for a lady.”

This time, Miller kept his mouth shut and Miss Brixton spoke as if she’d been answering all of Jensen’s questions. “I’ve had twenty hours in an F-86. And fifteen in a T-38. Which I know several of the astronauts have experience with.”

Now that she was talking, Parsons had some questions for her. “How did you last so long in the sensory deprivation tank?”

He didn’t care so much about her flight experience; anyone could learn to fly the capsules. But temperament couldn’t be taught.