Slowly, she began her answer.

She summarized the main thrust of her work, the geological surveys based on Mariner data, and how she’d helped formulate a hypothesis that maybe Mars had once had surface water, in liquid form, and maybe that water was still there, under the oxidized soil. And how, if the first crew could find incontrovertible evidence of that water, it would all but assure the continuation of the exploration of Mars. Find water, and there will be lots more flights, guys. Seats for you all. But you need me to find the water.

Chuck Jones was staring at her. She was sure he remembered her from that field trip.

She tried to seem relaxed, to smile, to meet their eyes. All she got back were cold stares. But as she spoke about her work, she grew in confidence; some of her awe rubbed away. The men were just that: men. Even Joe Muldoon. And, looking at them that way, she became aware that three of them, at least, were discreetly checking her out, glancing at her chest, and following the line of her legs.

She was asked follow-up questions. Then Jones asked what criteria she would use to select a Mars landing site. Another loaded question, but she was getting more confident. She smiled at the panel, from one end of the long table to the other.

“My goal, obviously, will be a successful science program on the first mission,” she said. “And the scientific worth of a site will be a key criterion. But it’s also obvious that the first landing is going to be extremely difficult. So we must primarily choose a site which will enable the crew to land in safety.” She rattled through a brief checklist: the site ought to be on a smooth, unbroken plain, with no highlands nearby to interfere with the final landing approach, and the winds should be low, and the season should be chosen to minimize the prospect of dust storms, and so forth.

“We need to get a scientist on Mars. But a dead scientist on Mars wouldn’t do anybody any good.”

That actually got a smile. As well it might; it was a deliberate echo of Deke Slayton’s famous justification of his policy of keeping scientists off the early Apollo missions. It was all part of the message she was cumulating for them, in word, gesture, and subtext. I’m a scientist, and a good one, with very relevant experience. But I’m prepared to help you guys achieve your own dreams. More than that — you need me, in order to achieve those dreams.

Now, tougher questions started to hit her.

“Doctor York, would you submit to a two-year journey to Mars?”

“I… Sure. I’d want a reasonable chance of success. But I would love to go, for scientific reasons. And I feel I could maybe articulate the experience better than—”

“Is that a yes or a no, Doctor?”

“Huh?”

“I asked you a question. Would you take the trip to Mars?”

“I guess so. Yes.”

“Doctor York. Suppose I tell you that the chances of surviving the trip are one in two. Do you go?”

“You can’t know that. The statistics are so uncertain, the analyses—”

“Assume I know it. Do you go?”

“One in two?” Tell the truth, Natalie. “Absolutely not. I might accept, say, one in twenty, if it could be demonstrated.”

“One in ten?”

“If it could be demonstrated.”

“How are you going to balance your two careers, as an astronaut and a scientist? Won’t there be incompatibilities?”

“Sure. But the opportunities are so great.” On Mars, you would only have to look around to make discoveries. You’d be Darwin in the Galapagos… “But I need to keep some momentum in my career. I’d be looking for some kind of split.”

“What kind of split?”

“Maybe one-third to one-half of my time should be spent on my own research.”

Chuck Jones leaned forward. He had black eyes that seemed to peer right into her. “Dr. York. You aren’t married.”

What the hell now? “No, I’m not.”

“What is your view of the forthcoming National Women’s Conference?”

“…What about it? I’m sorry, I don’t follow—”

“You must know it’s coming here to Houston in November. I understand there’s going to be a parade through Houston — the First Lady, Billie Jean King… If you’re here then, working with NASA, will you be attending?”

“Perhaps. I doubt it. I’m a little passive about such things, I’m afraid.”

“Will you be supporting it — passively or not, Dr. York?”

Are you one of these newfangled feminists? Jesus Christ. Do I have to answer this? She let her anger show in her voice. “I support the Equal Credit Act of 1974, and I’d like to see it enforced. I support full employment, flexible child care, other basic provisions. Hell, yes, I’ll support the conference, if you want to know.” She glared at them, challenging. And if that counts against me, to hell with you, you assholes.

“Would you like to tell us about your relationship with Michael Conlig?”

She felt a cold sweat break out across her palms. My God. It gets worse. It was just outrageous. For a half minute, she considered walking right out of there.

Then, slowly, she gave them a brief, factual account of her on-off relationship with Mike.

“And you’re together now?” Jones asked.

She thought of bluffing through. What would be a better answer? Yes or no? She could probably get Mike to back her up later…

Ah, the hell with it. “I don’t know, sir. It’s complicated.”

Jones held her stare for a few seconds. Then he leaned back in his chair. “Okay, Doctor. Michael Conlig works for one of our main contractors, on the NERVA 2 project. As you know. You could well find yourself working together.”

“I guess.”

“Do you feel your complicated relationship would cause you any problems?”

Her anger flared, and she let them see it. “No, I don’t. Frankly I resent the implication, sir. Mike is dedicated to his work. In fact he has tunnel vision about it. As I do about mine.”

Jones’s eyebrows went up. “Is that the source of the complications?”

Screw you. “We both have goals to pursue. We would both do our jobs, to the best of our ability, whether we worked together or not.” She glared around at the panel defiantly, as if daring them to ask more follow-ups.

But that seemed to be an end of it. The next question was for more detail about water on Mars.

When they were done, she felt a cold satisfaction.

She had no idea whether she’d won through or not. There were too many factors beyond her control, including the culture and politics of NASA; too many things over which she, with all her qualifications and experience and persuasiveness, could exert not the slightest influence. But she felt, at least, that she’d done her best.

She felt kind of soiled, though. Those damn questions about Mike. She wished she’d found some way of not answering.

But the only choice had been, answer or quit right out. She’d chosen to answer. As the adrenaline rush faded, she felt as if she’d somehow let herself down. She’d made the first of many compromises she’d have to accept, she suspected, if she got into NASA, and she was to survive there.

As she got up to leave, the moonwalker winked at her, long and slow.

The response from NASA arrived — at last — just after Christmas.

She stood in the hall of her Berkeley apartment, looking at the crisp white envelope, with its blue NASA logo.

It was suddenly one hell of a moment in her life. A real branch, a fork in her destiny. One way lay the space program. Maybe even Mars. The other -

Somehow she couldn’t visualize what might lie down the other track, what might follow if that letter, that slim, high-quality white envelope, turned out to contain a rejection.

She put it down on her desk, unopened.

She went to make coffee, to open her other mail. Somehow it didn’t seem right to open The Letter just like that.

Mike was out at Santa Susana, buried in the latest test runs. York hadn’t even heard from him for a couple of weeks.