Lucifer's Hammer - Larry Niven [47]
" … nothing new about the idea," his wife was saying. "Science fiction writers have been talking about big space colonies for decades." She was tall and very black, and she wore her hair in the tiny braids called corn rolls. Delanty could remember when she straightened her hair.
"For that matter, Heinlein wrote about them," Gloria Delanty said. She looked to Rick for confirmation, but he was busy at the grill, and remembering his wife when they were both students in Chicago.
"It is new," said a member of a very exclusive club. Evan had been to the Moon—almost. He'd been the man who stayed in the Apollo capsule. "O'Neill has worked out the economics of building these giant space colonies. He's proved we can do it, not just tell stories."
"I like it," Gloria said. "A family astronaut project. How do we sign up?"
"You already did," Jane Ritchie said. "When you married the test pilot there."
"Oh, are we married?" Gloria asked. "I wonder. Evan, can't you people in the training office ever manage to keep a schedule?"
John Baker came out of the house. "Hey, Rickie! I thought I had the wrong house. There wasn't any sign of action from out front."
There was a chorus of greetings, warm from the men who hadn't seen Colonel John Baker since he went off to Washington, not so warm from the women. Baker had done it: got divorced after his mission. It happened to a lot of the astronauts, and having him back in Houston set the others to wondering.
Baker gave them all a wave, then sniffed. "Do I get one of those?"
"I'll take your order, sir, but unless there's a cancellation ...
"Why is it you never serve fried chicken?"
"I'm afraid of being stereotyped. Because I'm—
"Black," Johnny Baker said helpfully.
"Eh?" Rick looked at his hands in apparent dismay. "No, that's just hamburger grease."
"So who are they picking for the big comet-watching flight?" Evan demanded.
"Damned if I know," Baker said. "Nobody in Washington's talking."
"Hell, they're sending me," Rick Delanty said. "I have it on good authority."
Baker froze with his beer half opened. Three other men nearby stopped talking, and the wives held their breath.
"I went to a fortune-teller in Texarkana, and she—"
"Jesus, give me her name and address, quick!" said Johnny. The others smiled as if hurt and went back to talking. Johnny whispered, "That was a terrible thing to do," and giggled.
"Yeah," Rick said without shame. He began turning the hamburgers with a long-handled spatula. "Why won't they tell us earlier? They've had a dozen of us training for weeks, and still no word. And this'll be the last flight for anyone until they finish the Shuttle. Six years I've been on the list, and never been up. Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it."
He set the spatula down. "I wonder, and then I remember Deke Slayton."
Baker nodded. Deke Slayton was one of the original Seven, one of the first astronauts to be chosen, and he never went up until the Apollo-Soyuz handshake in space. Thirteen years before a space mission. He was as good an astronaut as anyone, but he was better in ground jobs. Training, mission control; too good on the ground. "I wonder how he stood it," Johnny Baker said.
Rick nodded. "Me too. But I am the world's only black astronaut. I keep thinking that's got to be worth something."
Gloria came over to the grill. "Hi, Johnny. What are you two talking about?"
"What," Jane shouted from near the beer cooler, "do astronauts always talk about when there's a mission planned?"
"Maybe they're waiting for the right moment," Johnny Baker said. "Race riots. Then they can send up a black man to prove we're all equal."
"Not funny," Gloria said.
"But as good a theory as any," Rick told her. "If I knew how NASA picks one man over another, I'd be on every mission. What the hell brings you back from the five-sided funny farm, anyway?"
"Orders. Start training again. I'm in the pool for Hammerwatch."
"Hmm."