“We must be even worse than that,” he replies. “I think we’re shedding a lot.”
“I lost my calluses a few weeks in,” Shepard says. “They just fell right off my feet.”
“Me too,” Kerwin says. “I guess without the regular friction on your feet…”
“What did you do with them?” I ask Shepard.
He gives me a funny look. “I saved them in my personal preference kit.”
I have no idea whether or not he’s joking.
“Shedding, though,” Kerwin says. “I am slightly concerned about the air filters. Every time I change them, they’re…caked with dead skin cells. I think we’re gonna be tight on those by end-of-mission.”
“All right. This is getting gross. Trying to eat here,” I point out.
“I’m not worried about those. We have backup systems,” Shepard says.
“Backup systems?” Kerwin asks. Spacecraft mass is always at a premium; we might have a single backup for some things, but never systems, plural.
“Our lungs,” Shepard grins.
“Jesus,” I shake my head.
“Even those can’t do anything about the…methane smell, though,” Kerwin continues.
“No, they can’t,” Shepard acknowledges.
“We might want to do something about that, too,” I add. (One other side-effect of the 5 psi environment, one most astronauts don’t talk about in front of kids, unless the kids are in a really goofy mood and you’re looking to get their attention, is this: when your digestive tract is used to operating at a certain pressure, and it’s placed in a larger system that’s running at a lower pressure, the former system tends to reduce its own pressure through the most convenient orifice available. And once that flatulence is out there, it has no place to go.)
“Like what?” Shepard asks.
“Full-system air purge?” I ask hopefully. “Maybe during the EVA?”
Shepard smirks. “I’m not sure that’s the wisest course of action, Buzz.” Again with the understatement.
It is, indeed, unwise. Doing an EVA so far from Earth is risky enough as it is; we’ll be getting back in the command module and depressurizing it, opening the hatch and allowing me to venture forth, retrieving film and instrumentation packages and doing a little television, giving the people on Earth a closer look at Venus. But we’re sealing off the manned module and keeping it pressurized all the while. We have another EVA planned for very late in the mission, so I’m sure we have enough O2 on hand to dump the rest of the atmosphere if absolutely necessary, but it’s one of those only-do-this-in-case-of-emergency things.
“That experiment…those spiders might explode in the vacuum,” he deadpans. “I don’t think the kids would like that.”
I laugh.
“I don’t think they’d explode,” Kerwin says. “We wouldn’t even explode. Pulmonary embolisms after a few minutes. And with the spiders, the exoskeleton would keep them…”
Shepard gives him a look like: I know.
“You know what we could do,” Kerwin continues. “Rather than using the CSM tanks to repress the command module, we could vent the manned module in, and then let the manned module systems bring the pressure back up. That’d cut down on the smell, at least.”
“That’s not a terrible idea, actually,” Shepard says.
So: rather than venting all the methane-laced air into space, we’d at least be drawing some of it into the command module and sealing it off. I laugh. “Jesus. The most advanced scientific mission in human history, and we’re…using all our brainpower trying to figure out how to keep from smelling our own farts. I guess we’ve all got a reason to look forward to the EVA now.”
“Yeah, we’ll be plugged in that whole time,” Kerwin observes. “Clean air for everyone.”
“You are really looking forward to this, huh?” (Our commander’s mood can be very gruff: borderline asshole, or maybe south of the border. But there are times like this, too, when he’s downright solicitous, more of an Al than a Shepard. It always catches me off guard.)
“Well…yeah. When I’m out there, I get that feeling like: ‘This is it. This is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing in life.’ I don’t always have that feeling.”
“Why is that, do you think? Why EVA and not something else?”
“I dunno.” I’m not one for analyzing my feelings, and I haven’t really thought about this. “It does remind me of scuba diving. And that’s been a helpful hobby. Doing all the pool training before Gemini XII…I really think that was one of the things that allowed us to pull that off, to prove we could work out there.” (I can see the others’ eyes rolling, and I feel like I’m repeating myself, plunging into one of my old standard monologues. But it was an important thing for us, to learn how to get out of the spacecraft and actually work in a weightless environment. You could only do so much in thirty-second increments on the parabolic aircraft flights. And some of the early spacewalks nearly came to a bad end, partly because the training hadn’t been thorough enough. But I was the first to do my training underwater. And sure enough, we had a successful mission.)
“You get a lot of dives in, usually?” Kerwin asks.
“Yeah, a few times a year.”
“Not this year,” Shepard smirks. Back to being a dick.
Kerwin, at least, is dependably decent: “You go to Acapulco usually, right?”
“Yeah.”
“You really enjoy it, huh?”
I find myself unexpectedly antsy. “Yeah. It’s nice,” is all I say.
And with that, the conversation flickers and dies.
I’d prepared the meal, so the others get busy cleaning up. And I find myself floating over to the window, thinking about diving.
Even getting ready, there’s something wonderful about the whole process: checking and rechecking your equipment, preparing your weight belts and buoyancy compensators and air regulators and masks. It’s like a mechanical ritual, a ceremony with purpose. And then you get out on the boat and the water’s all blue and shimmering…turquoise in the Caribbean, but in Acapulco you see that deep Pacific blue, and the hills all hazy in the distance. And the boat goes for a while, until you get to some idyllic tropical cove or sun-baked limestone island. And you waddle and shuffle over to the edge of the boat like some sort of rubberized penguin before it’s finally time to step off into the water. There’s always that last-minute regrouping on the water’s surface, the clumsy floundering, still feeling all discombobulated with all that equipment. But then you deflate your compensator and slip beneath the surface.
When that final hiss of air gives way to the first gurgle of water, all the awkwardness slips away, and you’re somewhere else. It’s another world, a world hiding in plain sight of our own, concealing much that is strange and wonderful beneath its boring and familiar façade. There may be a few moments of peaceful passage first, down through nothingness, alone with only the sound of your breathing. But if you’ve picked your dive site well, you make it down to a reef or a wreck, and the same waters that had seemed boring on the surface now reveal themselves to be teeming with life—alien life, in a sense. Darting schools of silvery fish, or preening colorful ones, or maybe an ugly green eel emerging from its cave all crass and grumpy like some old geezer yelling at you from his front porch.
You putter around with your dive partner, and all you can hear are breathing sounds and bubbles, very relaxing. Everyone communicates with simple hand signals, and there’s only a few of them, so there’s not much need to figure out what to talk about. “Look at that.” And “Swim.” And “Are you OK?” And “I’m OK.” And you spend forty-five minutes down there, maybe, just long enough for it to start to feel normal, just enough time that you don’t get bored.
Eventually, of course, it’s: “Time to go up.”
You ascend slowly. Every once in a while you’ll be down there with some dive group with some new idiot who forgets his training and inflates his compensator on the bottom and goes rocketing up like a
champagne cork. But the idea is to take your time and swim up. Even if you’re not diving deep enough that the bends are an issue, you want to stay in control. So you scissor your legs lazily, gently paddling upwards with your fins while the dive leader winds up the rope that leads to the float that tells the dive boat where you are. And above, there’s a patch in the blue-green water, a silvery shimmering patch that gets steadily bigger.
When you’re back on the surface, you climb on board the boat and stow your gear. And you grab a sandwich and a beer from the cooler, and you notice every crumb on the bread, every bead of sweat on the bottle. And maybe then you look around again. And somehow this familiar world suddenly seems different, beautiful and sunlit and sharp, with greener greens and bluer blues than you’d remembered from a mere forty-five minutes before. Every time you emerge from the water, it’s like a baptism of sorts; the old familiar Earth becomes fresh and new.
•••
It’s my communications day. At the appointed hour, I’m floating alone on the main deck.
“Hey, dad, it’s Andy.” The voice comes fairly clearly through the headset; I’m amused and slightly put off by the fact that he felt he needed to identify himself. Then again, his voice has been changing; he probably thinks he sounds like Mike now. “I hope you guys are having a wonderful trip and learning a lot. I’m enjoying the last month of summer vacation and spending a lot of time with my friends. Obviously in our neighborhood…” (Crackle.) “…n’t get to brag too much, because it’s hard running into someone whose dad hasn’t been in space at least. But I’m very proud of you. I’ve been listening in on the squawk box, and I’m looking forward to the flyby. It’ll be neat to see you out there, next to a planet. But I’m hoping you guys do some more TV stuff inside, so we can actually see your face, too. I think you said last time that you had a beard going. I’m curious how that looks. Also, I know football season’s still a couple months off, but I…” (Hiss.) “…ad when I realized we’re gonna miss the whole season.”
I don’t much like it either; the Oilers games have been my go-to with him, one of the few reliable pastimes during these long years of training and planning. (You often have to fly off on Monday morning in a T-38 to Downey or Bethpage or the Cape, and you don’t get back until Friday, and on Saturday you need to pop in to the office for a couple hours to catch up on the paperwork. So it’s usually Sunday before you can catch up on parenting.)
He continues: “I know you and mom got me the tickets, and I’m grateful for that. It’s just going to be strange going with her. But everything else is going well. Oh, yeah…no new accidents.”
Then Mike comes on: “Dad, I hope you’re doing well and not too sick of all the astronaut food yet. Slodey and I have been going out for walks at night after it cools off. He still hasn’t been very well-behaved; I brought that girl Mary over for dinner the other night, and she bent over to take her shoes off, and Slodey goosed her. And it all went downhill from there. I do kinda wish you’d been here for it, though.” Here I get a little lump in my throat. Mike’s been a bit sullen and uncommunicative of late, especially in the months leading up to this flight, so I don’t expect much from him; it’s a strange relief to hear him say he wants to spend time with me.
Then, Jan: “Dad, we’ve been going…” (Crackle.) “…morning and evening like you said to see Venus. It still looks like another star to me, but I’ve gotten good at picking it out. I can’t believe how far away it looks! Mom got the binoculars down, and I was kinda hoping we’d be able to see you guys out there somehow, even though I know it’s impossible.” (More static.) “…you bring back lots of pictures from the flyby.”
Joan speaks: “OK, kids, say goodbye so I can get a minute.” And there’s a chorus of “Bye, dad” and “We love you.”
At last, Joan takes over. “Buzz, I sent the kids out of the room so I can talk to you alone. It’s been a rough few weeks. You know how it goes: we are all proud, happy and thrilled. But it’s scary, too. I’m terrified, this trip especially; it just seems so long that something’s bound to go wrong. And I’m afraid, especially for the kids’ sake. I hope you can see how much they miss you, how much they need to have a father in their lives when you get home. Andy especially. You’re missing a whole round of birthdays with this trip. And as for us…we are going to have to take a look at some things. Everything that’s happened…” Her voice catches; even across the distance, I can tell she’s on the verge of tears, and there’s a tightness in my chest, hearing it. “I’m sorry…I know we can’t change any of this right now, I should just…” There’s a long pause. “It’s hard keeping up appearances. I know you’re used to it. I guess I should be. But it’s not just another role, it’s not like I can go backstage…I…”
For a couple seconds, nothing: I wonder what else she has to say. I imagine many awful things. I wish we weren’t talking about this. Then again, I never heard “over.” I wonder if she forgot; I wonder if it’s my turn to talk, and what kind of response she expects. My mouth opens, ready to say words that don’t exist.
Then she continues, and it’s like a new conversation: “Well, we’ll have to save all that for later. Speaking of birthdays, Jan and Mike are coming up, of course. For Mike, I would say get him a car, but since you still won’t be using yours for a while…I was thinking we could get another dog for the two of them. I know, I know, you’re probably gonna say we’re fine with the animals we already have, you don’t want to come home to a menagerie, but I do think they’ll both be very happy. Anyway, I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m just gonna go ahead and get it. I just wanted to let you know so you can act like you know what you’re getting them.”
And here something comes over me, some great and confusing feeling I don’t want to feel, along with a tightness in my chest.
“It’s strange. They rigged up that squawk box in the kitchen. When it’s on, we can hear every transmission. We hear you talk more now than when you’re back on Earth. But either way, it’s not all that easy to have an actual conversation with you. I…” Her voice breaks. “…I know it’s not fair to bring all this up now. But I feel like when you are here, I can’t…” (A static-y noise that could have been caused by her.) “…ry, I told myself I wasn’t going to do this. I need to stop now. I should let you say your piece, at least. Transmission over.”
This, of all things, sets me off: I’ve told her a million times that you don’t have to say “Transmission over,” that it’s redundant, that “over” is enough, and I’m experienced enough to know that she’s talking about the whole transmission. But maybe she’s just trying to rile me up...
I breathe, and try to will some cheerfulness into my voice.
“Joan, it’s good to hear from you…” I start, then stop. It’s strange, talking at these distances. Somehow it’s more like writing letters than conversing; you say more words at a time, and you think more about getting them right, rather than getting them out of your mouth right away. Under the assumption Joan’s still alone, I give the paternal stamp of approval to the dog, but obliquely enough that the secret will still be safe in case she messes up and lets the kids back in the room while my words are still in transit. But in case they are still out in the hallway, I tell her to bring them back in so I can talk directly to them; I give her a minute to do that, three minutes from now. And I start talking again. I speak of discoveries, observations of the sun, other stars, galaxies, and the universe, all across the electromagnetic spectrum: gamma ray and X-ray and ultraviolet and visible, infrared and microwave and radio, the unseen rainbow beyond the rainbow, so much more expansive than any of us can comprehend. I tell about the filmstrips we’re filming, all those explanations that will make it all make sense. I talk about how much I miss pizza, and order them to make their mom order one so they can eat vicariously for me. I tell them of my love, and hint at wonderful birthday surprises to come.
When that’s over, I float over to the food vent and remove the grating to do some cleaning. Hopefully
in six minutes there will be another message, thanks and goodbyes, some warmth transmitted across the void. Until then, I’ve got time to kill.
•••
14 JUL 1972
Conversation with home. Birthdays remembered and arranged. The illusion of normality.
Some flicker-flashes last night. The others have seen them now, at least. I’m not losing my mind. At least not about that.
If it’s radiation, though, that’s cause for concern. Do you lose brainpower over time up here? Or does it change your personality? How much of you is you, and how much is the machine, the circuitry? Strange pathways with no schematics…if only you could let someone take a look. Maybe they could tell you: all you need is a resistor here, a capacitor there, some shielding here, and you’ll be all set.
•••
The flyby’s drawing closer.
“You ready there, Buzz?” Kerwin asks. He and I are both in front of the camera this time.
I scan my script one last time, stroking my beard. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” Kerwin’s jotted down some general notes, but I’ve printed out every word I want to say precisely, on index cards I’ve taped to a clipboard.
“I can do this one solo if you want. I don’t mind.”
“No, it’s all right.” I place the clipboard in front of me, just below the camera’s field of view.
“All right,” Shepard says. “Lights, camera, action.”
The red light comes on and I start talking.
“Hi, kids. Today we’re going to talk about physics, about the laws that set our spacecraft in motion and determine how long it’ll take for us to get home. These same laws apply to the exciting things in life, the rockets and spaceships, and to the boring and mundane events as well. You may not always stop to think about it, but every time you drop a pencil off a desk, or release a balloon to go shooting around the room, you’re seeing physics in action. These laws of physics govern our lives. It’s been that way since the dawn of time, but many of them were only set down by Sir Isaac Newton.”
Island of Clouds: The Great 1972 Venus Flyby (Altered Space Book 3) Page 8