She complied. She wrote about her ideas on outflow channels, and on searching for water under the Martian regolith, and what that would mean for the future colonization of the planet.

She shaved her essay to exactly five hundred words; she’d had previous dealings with government agencies, and she knew that breaking the smallest rule might cost her her chance.

She wasn’t taking the application too seriously, in the privacy of her own mind. But she wanted to get as far as she could: maybe put herself in a position where she could give herself a choice of pursuing that crazy option — a career in the space program — or not.

York read in Science that fewer than a thousand scientists sent their names in response to the National Academy of Sciences flyer: far fewer — according to the press — than NASA had been hoping for.

York could understand that. A scientist’s career was brief, in terms of productive years: the peak time was late twenties to early thirties. Right where York was. Losing that time could be very damaging, in terms of a long-term career.

And scientist recruits had been given a rough enough ride by NASA in the past. Not one of the first batch of scientist-astronauts, who’d signed up in 1965, had made it to the Moon with Apollo.

You’d have to be crazy to risk your career, your reputation, on the slim chance of a flight into space someday, with an organization of engineers and pilot jocks like NASA.

Of course you would.

A few weeks after submitting her essay she received a letter from the Academy.

She wasn’t rejected yet.

She had passed their preliminary screening, as regards age, height, and health, and she was scientifically qualified for the program, with proven expertise in a relevant field. She was sent more forms to complete: an application for federal employment, an aeromedical survey form designed for Air Force pilots, several others.

And she was invited to go for medical examinations at Brooks Air Force Base in Texas.

To the lair of the hero test pilots! Jesus. I’m getting close.

Texas, as she descended toward it, struck her as a pancake-flat plain. It was a hot June day; stepping out of the plane to walk the few yards to the terminal building was like walking through a furnace.

She met the other candidates at the Best Western where they’d been lodged. They intimidated the hell out of her. There was a chemistry department chair from Caltech; a Princeton M.D. who was also a Ph.D. candidate in physiology; a physics professor from Cornell; a Ph.D. physiologist who was also a jet pilot; an M.D. who was also a jet pilot. And so on. It was obvious that the “scientists” whom NASA was considering largely had “operational” bents, too; they were mostly pilot-scientist hybrids.

York was the only woman.

Jesus. White male pilots with professorships. What chance do I have?