“Crew health unchanged,” Kerwin suggests. There’s an uncomfortable undertone to the word choice: we may have more symptoms coming.
“’…Crew health unchanged. Please advise. Over.” Shepard writes it all down and hands it over, while I turn my headset to listen-only and set everything up so we can get the cleanest possible transmission.
“All right, here we go,” Joe says, and starts transmitting: Dot-dot-dot-dot and the slightest pause and then dash-dash-dash, and then all the rest of the message, and even though it’s all just information, a long series of bleeps and blips, there’s something in the transmission pattern that sounds eager and exciting and hopeful.
•••
We wait thirteen minutes. We fill the time with mindless tasks. Then: nothing.
“Jesus,” Shepard shakes his head.
“They’re translating,” Kerwin says. “Nobody speaks Morse anymore.”
And sure enough, at the fourteenth: “Explorer, Houston…” (Crackle.) “…part of your transmission. Copy possible electrical discharge…” (Static.) “…advise crew condition and spacecraft system status. Over.”
“We’re getting those dips on the signal strength,” I observe. “Just like we had upstairs.” Still, it’s something.
“I should have sent it three times,” Kerwin says. “Here, let’s go again.” And he re-transmits the sequence over and over and over, a steady and solid transmission.
We look over the radio once more. It sounds like we’re having the same steerable antenna issues, but down here, the antenna’s direction indicators are steady. It seems we’ve done all we can to catch their signal cleanly when it comes back. We try to go back to our normal business: trash in the airlock, personal hygiene. But it is hard to think about anything.
We clean.
We wait.
We check watches, and curse ourselves for doing so.
We check again, and it seems our watches are cursing us, telling us again that time does not move at our pace, but rather the other way around.
At last, a response: “Explorer, Houston. We copy electrical discharge…” (Static.) “…crew condition. Transmission breaking…” (Unintelligible words.)
“We’re getting gaps,” Shepard says.
“It’s like what was happening upstairs.” I add.
“Looks steady here, though,” Kerwin says.
Shepard: “Yeah, but it sounds worse.”
Something occurs to me, something large and obvious. “Can we actually look at the S-Band antenna?”
“The indicators say it’s steady,” Kerwin says.
“Never trust the indicators,” Shepard mutters.
Kerwin gives a pained grimace. “I thought it was ‘Always trust the indicators.’”
I float over to the window. Each steerable antenna had four parabolic dishes arranged in a quad; there’s an antenna on the manned module and another on the service module, and each one looks like two sets of Mickey Mouse ears. When the system’s in AUTO mode, the transmitting and receiving work together: a signal comes in from Earth, and the system measures signal strength in each of the dishes and then turns the antenna structure so that the strength of the signal is more or less equal across all four of them, which ensures that the antenna is pointed squarely at Earth when we transmit. The antenna on the service module’s far out of sight, and off now anyway; we can only see the very top of the one on the manned module by looking at an angle from the top of the main window.
I peer out. It stays rock steady for maybe eight seconds, then briefly dips out of sight, pitching up and down really fast, like Double Mickey is nodding yes, or falling asleep.
“It’s moving. Every few seconds. Are you seeing anything on the pitch needle?”
“No,” Kerwin says. “Steady. Signal strength is going in and out on that rhythm, though.”
“So maybe that’s it. Antenna failure and partial indicator failure. It’s like it’s losing the signal strength from the top dishes, and it steers itself all the way down to pick it up, and it bumps against the bottom and that wakes it up.”
“All right. Let’s try Track Mode from AUTO to MANUAL,” Kerwin says.
It sounds like a good plan. He flips the switch.
Except when I look out the window, the antenna has dipped out of sight. “Probably should have had you flip it when it was pointed up,” I say. “All right, let’s steer it back up.”
“I’m steering it.”
“I’m still not seeing anything.” I look over at the controls. “You’re steering it down.”
“Crap.”
I look back out and the antenna’s still not visible. “You can bring it back up.”
“I’m steering it.”
I look back and sure enough, he’s doing the right thing now. But when I stare back out into the blackness, there is nothing. “Not responding.” I check my watch: we have a few minutes before the next transmission’s due back. “Let’s cycle the breakers.”
Again, the easy stupid hopeful solution. But no luck. The antenna remains stubbornly pointed down, away from Earth.
“OK, Track Mode back to AUTO,” I suggest.
“AUTO,” Kerwin confirms.
Still nothing. I am wondering if it’s somehow stuck from running the controls the wrong way. If Shepard had done it, I would mention the possibility, but since it’s Kerwin, I don’t. He probably feels bad enough as it is.
“We must’ve burned out the motors.” Shepard’s kind enough to say “we,” even though we all know it’s a “you,” and we all know who. “Running the controls the wrong way.”
“Yeah,” Kerwin swallows heavily.
The transmission comes in but it’s a garbled series of words, completely unintelligible.
For as bad as things seemed last night, this is arguably worse: we can’t even listen any more.
We don’t even bother with a response.
“We’re going to have to repoint the spacecraft,” Shepard says. “Point the antenna that way.”
The answer’s so obviously correct that none of us bothers to discuss it.
“Maybe 120 degrees around the z-axis,” Kerwin suggests.
“That sounds about right.”
Kerwin plugs in the commands and the gyros go to work; the window has been pointing almost directly away from the sun, but once the maneuver’s over, I see a scythe of light along one edge, and then a shaft stabbing into the cabin.
“All right,” Shepard pats Kerwin on the shoulder. “Let’s go again. ‘Houston, Explorer. Repeat your last. Transmission garbled due to high-gain pointing failure. Spacecraft repointed to allow cleaner reception. Believe we have lost all S-Band amplifiers due to electrical discharge. Crew health unchanged.”
Kerwin keys it all in, another series of dots and dashes; he transmits it again and again and again, not excitedly this time but not wearily, either, just solid and steady and even.
We take turns floating over to use the bathroom. We wait and wait. We try not to think.
And yet there is something about all of this that feels more comfortable to me than the days before and after the flyby: shared effort in the face of shared peril.
After another interminable delay, Houston’s answer comes back, more crackly and muddled than we’ve heard before. But it sounds like they copied our transmission, at least.
“We could repoint the stack a little,” Shepard says. “Fine-tune it based on the signal strength.”
“A steerable spaceship, instead of a steerable antenna,” Kerwin comments.
I like it. “We’ll have to get them to talk a little longer first. Have one person watch the signal meter and another working the fine adjustment attitude controls.”
“Better than nothing,” Shepard says. “All right. ‘Houston, Explorer. We…’ What do we want to say?”
“’Houston, Explorer. Reception still garbled.’” I dictate. “’Attempting attitude adjustments to increase signal strength during reception. Please keep talking during n
ext transmission to allow fine tuning. We…’ I don’t know…what else?” By now I’m feeling slightly warm. I’m wondering if this is the onset of new symptoms, or the fact that the sun’s now hitting us differently, missing the sun shield and hitting the main window and heating us up a little. Another thought occurs to me, and I look over at the voltmeters from the solar panels. They are low, practically at zero.
“The buffer batteries should be picking up the slack,” Kerwin observes, reading the concern on my face.
“Yeah.” It’s not the end of the world; we can run on batteries for several hours before we have to get the panels back perpendicular to the sun so we can recharge. But it’s another thing we’ll have to keep in mind.
“Let’s go ahead and transmit,” Shepard says. “’Please keep talking to allow fine tuning…’ What else?”
“Give our love to our wives and children,” Kerwin says. “Tell them we’ll be home soon. Over.”
We transmit again, and again, and again. I do feel warmer. I can hear the environmental system straining to keep up with the increased thermal load. I’m getting a little antsy about the power situation. I know they know it’s an issue, but I want to make sure they know how much of an issue it is.
“Batteries are running down a little faster than they should be,” I say at last.
“Maybe we can reduce our load for a bit,” Shepard says. “Pull the cooling system offline.”
We do so, and the warming increases. Soon, I notice the others glistening, and feel beads of sweat forming on my own forehead. This is the first time on the entire trip that the spacecraft’s felt uncomfortable, temperature-wise.
“We may need to power the command module back up just to talk to them,” Shepard says. “Use the omnidirectional antenna.”
He might be right. I don’t like it, but he might be right. “We will really have to budget that out, if that’s going to be the case. We can only draw so much power from the fuel cells.”
“Can’t we run power back from the manned module to the command module? Power the radios that way?”
“Not if the command module’s powered down.” Given the months still ahead of us, it may be the case that we have to talk to Earth only when absolutely necessary, rather than whenever we want.
We watch the voltmeters. The batteries are still draining faster than I’d hoped. The air is thick, and the heat seems to be activating unpleasant smells, all the filth we’ve not completely cleaned. I feel awful, not sick, but thick and irritable, somehow anxious and lethargic at the same time. I want to go somewhere. I want to do something. I am overwhelmingly conscious now of how miniscule our resources are, on the grand scale of everything. If we let the batteries run too low, we won’t be able to use the gyros to get the solar panels pointed back at the sun. But the others aren’t saying anything. I’m trying to keep my mouth shut, be a good crewmember.
“We’re going to need to repoint soon,” I say at last.
“Soon,” Kerwin echoes.
“Another couple rounds and we’ll go back,” Shepard says.
I am not satisfied with this answer. “We are gonna eat into the margins on the batteries.”
“We need to get a clear plan for the next 24 hours,” Shepard says. “We’re gonna need to try the course correction again.”
“We can do that tomorrow.”
“As long as symptoms hold off,” Kerwin says. “We’ll mention it next transmission. See what Houston has to say.”
I am not happy with any of this. My body grows sticky. Even as I float, weightless, I can feel a heaviness settling in to my bones.
•••
We retire early to the sleeping chambers. We have spent much of the day determining the length and width and breadth of our predicament. There is a tentative plan to power the command module back up and try the course correction tomorrow, and I am hopeful we can get back to some semblance of normal mission tasks soon. But for now it is time to take stock.
I am not sure if I am feeling quite normal. I do not say anything to the others. I am not sure if they’re feeling normal. I do not ask.
I root around in my books, but I do not find anything new. “Got anything to read?” I ask Kerwin.
“I did just finish a little exploration story,” he says.
“Sounds fun.”
“I don’t know if ‘fun’ is the right word. It’s about the British expedition to Antarctica, Scott’s expedition.”
“That’s the…he died, right?”
Shepard’s been eavesdropping, and now he chimes in. “Hey, don’t spoil the ending! I might want to read it.”
“Yeah,” Kerwin says. “Reached the South Pole after Amundsen, and died on the way back, along with the whole rest of the polar party. The other members of their expedition eventually found them, found their journals. One of them wrote this about the expedition. It was a big suffer-fest, for all concerned.”
“Sounds fun,” I say again. It should keep things in perspective, at least.
He flips the book towards me; it tumbles, weightless, free.
I read the title: The Worst Journey in the World. “So much for English understatement, huh?”
“I know, right?”
I open it up, and see something I want to share: “’Polar exploration is at once the cleanest and most isolated way of having a bad time which has been devised.’ I have to say, I now have grounds to challenge that statement.”
“We’re not as clean as we used to be,” Kerwin points out.
I settle in and read some more.
I make it a point to stay still. If I don’t move, I don’t have to think about the fact that moving doesn’t feel normal.
•••
I wake up paralyzed.
On second thought, it only feels like paralysis because motion takes so much effort. I can move. I just really really really don’t want to.
My mind’s fogged with fatigue.
I don’t understand it. This is not supposed to be happening. I am waiting for the others to come floating over to see what’s wrong, just like after the flyby, when that strange lethargy inexplicably overcame me. I am waiting for judgment, condemnation, or even those puzzled looks that say: what the hell is wrong with you?
But this feels different.
At last it occurs to me that this is the onset of the later phase of symptoms, the crash in blood cell counts, the long second phase where you just have to wait for things to get back to normal. So the others aren’t in any hurry to get out of bed, either. And there’s a strange sense of relief in this. (As a cadet, you realize there is comfort and safety in group action. If you’re the only person doing something, you’re a lot more likely to get in trouble than if everyone else is doing exactly the same thing.)
I stay there, hanging and floating, for what feels like hours.
I survey my sleeping quarters as if seeing it all for the first time: the small fluorescent light above my head (caged in metal to protect against accidental breakage), the burn-proof Beta cloth bag of books tied to the wall so it won’t float away, the metal tube of the vertical bedframe, the brown sleeping bag, the loose straps binding us up to give some illusion of security and snugness while we’re hanging there weightless. It is by no means roomy. But I don’t particularly want to go anywhere.
Eventually some combination of bladder pressure and concern for my crewmates pushes me out of these cozy confines.
Shepard still sleeps, somehow serene in repose. Kerwin is up, at least, but still in his sleeping closet; he looks like a high school student shoved into a locker.
“Do you feel as awful as I do?” he asks.
“Yeah. This is it, huh?”
“This is it.”
I float off to the bathroom, eager to use it and get back to motionlessness. Everything else (communication with Houston, course correction) will have to wait.
•••
We eat breakfast a little after lunch. Getting out the trays and heating them up feels like a
Herculean task. At first, it’s just Kerwin and I.
“We are going to have to transmit a message soon,” I tell him, between small lethargic bites of sausage and dried fruit.
He looks over at the voltmeters. “Buffer batteries are still charging back up. We’ll see what Shepard says.”
“I thought we were going to have another day at least before all this kicked in.” Meaning the symptoms.
“I thought so, too.”
I take my time formulating a question. “What happened?”
“If I had to guess…the background radiation. We weren’t starting at zero, dose-wise. We’ve been irradiated at a lower level for the past five months. We’ve probably been showing some of the other signs of that already.”
“Like what?”
“Confusion.”
“You never talked about that.”
“Very funny.”
I think back to some of the small errors of the past few weeks: Kerwin steering the steerable antenna the wrong way, me drinking from the container I’d thrown up in. What is the average error rate of a 42-year-old brain? What’s my failure rate, normally and now? How much of any recent increases might be due to the long-term effects of cosmic radiation, versus the short-term effects of solar radiation? Not easy questions to answer. The scientific process has its limits: you don’t have a large enough sample set for every experiment. You don’t get a control version and an experimental version of your own mind. Maybe in a parallel universe…
Shepard joins us, but he doesn’t say much.
“How long is this going to last?” I ask.
“Weeks?”
“Weak weeks.” I am not looking forward to anything. Not for a long time. “What are we going to do?”
“Obviously not much.”
After lunch, we do the least amount of cleaning that seems prudent.
Then we repoint the spacecraft stack, directing the stuck antenna Earthward so we can tap out a quick message to Houston advising them of our status, and listen for their response. NASA has every right to be upset at how the mission’s proceeding, and I’m curious to get some sense of their level of frustration with all of this waste: the communications outages, the cancelled experiments, the lost telescope time, the massive decreases in our workload and productivity and output. In those long and silent minutes, I imagine all the responses to our failures that must be pouring forth: angry letters from taxpayers, newspaper editorials lambasting the program, maybe another furious song from that yahoo who wrote “Whitey on the Moon.”
Island of Clouds: The Great 1972 Venus Flyby (Altered Space Book 3) Page 22