Island of Clouds: The Great 1972 Venus Flyby (Altered Space Book 3)

by Gerald Brennan

  I have to risk letting go.

  I push myself over to the stem of the antenna. My fingers fumble for a second and I’m worried I’m going to bounce off of it. At last I get a good grip, and breathe.

  I pull myself up a little, up the stem on the side away from the receiver horns. The water blob seems to have clung to my skin, but with the water flow to my cooling garment turned off, I’m getting hotter now, and there is sweat stinging my eyes. It occurs to me that the hair loss means my eyebrows can’t trap the sweat, can’t keep it out of my eyes. I don’t want to be up here blind again. I blink hard.

  I can clasp the antenna stem with my feet now and work with both hands, and this makes all the difference; I turn the truss up towards the heavens, in position to receive. With the motor and tracking issues, we’ll still have to leave it in manual mode, but we won’t have to repoint the ship nearly as much.

  “Antenna repointed,” I say. “Heading back to the handrail.”

  I pull myself over and my fingers fumble.

  I bounce off the side of the spacecraft.

  I am moving away, off into space, at the mercy of the umbilical, and I grab blindly, and somehow get a grip.

  I pull myself over to the telescope housing. The camera film is in there, the second batch that I was supposed to install, the batch that Shepard did in fact install. I know I can retrieve it. I know we can save it. We can get it into the command module now and have something to show for that telescope time, the photography of the flare and the CME on the day that nearly killed us. I can set things right.

  I’m reaching up for the film latches when Kerwin’s voice stops me. “We’re outgassing faster than expected. I don’t know if it’s a valve in one of our suits, or…”

  “How much time?” Even as I talk, I work. I am trying to slide the latches and they are not moving. I’m sweating harder. I blink and blink and blink again.

  “We need to get you back in. Now.”

  I take one last long look at the film. I want to be the hero and bring it in, the Lone Ranger saving the day.

  “It is really dropping,” Joe says.

  His voice reminds me that I am not alone. It occurs to me that this is not about me.

  “Coming back inside,” I say, flat and calm. Reluctantly I turn back for the main hatch and pull myself back down past the solar panels. I am not coming back in with the film, but I am coming back in, under my own power this time. That counts for something, at least.

  And now I am back at the end of the manned module, coming back head-first, and I pull myself over the edge and I can see the command module hatch now, and Joe’s voice freezes me.

  “We aren’t going to be able to do a full repress. Unless we use the reentry bottle.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  It feels like an awful dilemma: use our reentry oxygen now, buy ourselves a few months, and maybe run out on the way in, minutes from safety, once we’ve cast off the manned module. Or else suffocate now because we don’t use it. A catch-22. For a second I think: this cannot be the end.

  My eyes are stinging. I breathe, hard: “There’s enough in the manned module, right?” For a second I envision the next few minutes (and possibly the last) of my life: a partial repressurization to who knows what, then trying to take the hoses off and close the valves and get down there fast, still with air in the suit, but CO2 building up, wanting to pass out…

  “Of course. I don’t know if we can get down there, though.”

  I look down at my umbilical. “I can.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “I’m on the umbilical, I can get down there through the tunnel. It’s long enough.”

  I hear the hesitation in his voice, the doctor’s skepticism of a man who was on his deathbed a few short days ago. “An internal spacewalk,” he says. “That might work.”

  “It has to.”

  I am at the hatch now and looking in, the old familiar scene new and exciting again, looking normal except of course we know what it all means, there is nothing outside the helmet, no air and no sound, and nothing inside but our voices and our breathing and our heartbeats.

  I flip up the gold external visor. “All right, let’s go.”

  Coming in, I see Joe’s head in the clear glass of the goldfish bowl, watching the gauges intently; he looks at me and smiles, just for a moment.

  And I am easing myself on down past the console, all the electric lights of the gauges and buttons, and now past the notch in the bottom, and around the bend slowly, slowly, slowly, carefully, and I want to not get tangled up and keep moving free, but now there is a reluctant tug.

  “Watch it. Here, lemme get the umbilical,” Joe says. “There. Free to keep moving.”

  And now I pull myself down, see the hatch cover stowed, the latch that tore a hole in the outer layer of Shepard’s suit, and if we had thought of this yesterday, we would have moved everything out of the way, we would have done a reconnaissance of our route with this in mind, looking out for sharp edges, anything that could threaten the suit’s integrity, and we’d have moved what we could and taped up what we couldn’t, but of course we did not do that, and there is no time for regrets.

  “Umbilical is clear and hatch is closed,” Joe says, and it warms my heart: he is not anxious; he is not panicking; he is doing his part.

  I pull myself down slowly, carefully. I keep waiting to feel a tug, but: nothing.

  And now I am in the tunnel, the bright round familiar tunnel, and my face is really sweating now, and my vision feels a little dim, not lack of oxygen, but exertion, after so many days of weakness and sickness.

  Joe’s distant voice. “All valves closed. Waiting on you.”

  I stop. I take a few breaths. I press on.

  And now back through the hatch into the manned module, the metal hallway of our temporary home, harsh and airless now. I catch the glint of broken glass: some gauge has broken somewhere.

  “Almost home.”

  I start to pivot back upright. I am feet from the environmental control system now, feet from success. To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield…

  Something stops me: a tug on the suit, down by my legs.

  I review my mental imagery, trying to remember what’s there: the curtain from the toilet? I move as gently and slowly as possible, but then I kick a little and feel something: a tear?

  “Hold on a sec,” Joe says. Then: “Go.”

  I look down at the pressure gauge and see the needle start to dip.

  I do not have much time.

  But I am free and clear and I float the last little way forward into the main deck, and of course there is silence here, too, all the pumps and motors that were keeping me up last night now voiceless, nothing but my breathing, except I hear a whisper down by my feet…an airy hiss…

  And now I am at the controls, and the sweat salt stings my eyes, and I am almost blind, but I start with the large beautiful white dials, and my breathing’s getting harder, or maybe it’s the strain, and my vision’s getting dimmer, but I keep turning, and soon I have turned the last dial, and the whisper sound is slowing down, and then suddenly I start hearing wonderful sounds outside my helmet, all those wonderful machine sounds that had sounded so obnoxious last night now fading back in, wonderful and bright, and I see the pressure coming back up, climbing, climbing, and soon I hear the Morse, all those happy dashes and beeps, Kerwin transmitting back on the omnidirectional antenna that we are ready to align and do the course correction, and all the sounds are coming back to normal and I know at last it is all going to be all right.

  INTERLUDE:

  MOSCOW TO HOUSTON

  It is December of 1973. Richard Nixon is president. We’re in Moscow, heading to Star City, the seat of the Soviet space program; we’ll be the first Americans to see it.

  I’m not sure what I’m doing here, or in general; for years now, I’ve been thinking about leaving NASA and returning to active duty. It’s been on my mind ever since I almost became the se
cond man to walk on the moon; I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever get back up there. But there’s hope in this trip. And it has been interesting, at least: flying behind the Iron Curtain; disembarking at the drab airport; being driven through the dreary winter city streets with their paucity of cars.

  Dave Scott’s with me; the Soviets seem most interested in him, of course, because he not only walked on the moon, but drove a car on it. He’s always been a cool customer, though, a man to keep his feelings guarded by concrete walls and barbed wire, guarded even more closely than mine.

  Our Zil limousine is by far the largest car we’ve seen here; it looks vaguely American, like an old Packard. There’s a translator sandwiched between us in the fair-sized back seat, a young American kid from the embassy. There’s a cosmonaut in the front passenger seat, Pavel Belayev. Our driver, I can only assume, is KGB. And even if he’s not, we’re working under the assumption that the car’s bugged. Still, Dave and I chatter a little as the city flashes by.

  “This place makes West Point look colorful,” I say.

  Dave gives a wry little half-grin. “I guess it’s paradise if you don’t like traffic.”

  The driver doesn’t flinch. I don’t doubt he speaks English, but he’s got a good poker face. Belayev turns to the translator and says something that, in my limited Russian knowledge, sounds like: What did they say? And the translator says something I don’t understand.

  Then, to us: “I told him you like the clean empty streets.”

  And here at last, I see an ever-so-slight reaction from the driver; his cheek lifts in what might be a tight little smile.

  We stop in the center of the city for a brief ceremony, to lay a wreath for Gagarin. I’m more than a little jet-lagged, but it’s fascinating just to be here and see all of this: Lenin’s red granite tomb, the onion-domed cathedral, the massive brick fortress walls with their square towers, all these targets we once dreamed of bombing.

  After that, it is a good hour’s drive up to Star City.

  I try to stay awake, to pay attention; it is a strange trip down forested country roads, far from anything resembling civilization. I think of executions and secret prisons and gulags. There is nothing, then there is a gate in the snowy woods, and on the other side, buildings and cars and street lights, the Soviet version of the future.

  •••

  After we deposit our bags, there’s a mellow reception at a dingy banquet hall, with vodka and caviar, and more vodka, and more vodka.

  Dave has a hard time keeping up; I start feeling more and more at home. At one point, I wander over to him and place a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I’m starting to like the Soviets.” It’s meant to be a discreet whisper, but it comes out somewhat more loudly, so much so that a few cosmonauts and KGB types turn their heads. “You OK?”

  “The vodka’s flowing like water,” he says.

  “Not exactly.”

  He gives me a look like: how do you mean?

  I laugh. “There are places in the world where water is a scarce resource.”

  •••

  “A joint mission to the moon?” Belayev’s translator says tiredly the next morning.

  We nod, although nodding hurts. Morning hurts. Life hurts.

  The translator listens to more from Belayev, then speaks: “I’m assuming we would do some sort of orbital rendezvous. Launch separately and go together.” He sounds pained and reluctant. I’m comforted by the fact that the Soviets are hurting, too, but it is a cold comfort.

  “We already have a proven system to get to the moon,” Dave Scott says. “There’s no need to make things too complicated and try something else.”

  Again, hushed discussions between Belayev and the translator, and another man by Belayev’s side. Then, from the other side: “So this would be an American mission, on an American rocket, with one Soviet crewmember?”

  “Yes.” Dave speaks. “Buzz here’s already made the voyage, with Gus Grissom. He did everything but get out and walk around. He could command, and your cosmonaut would be in the role Buzz had before, of Lunar Module Pilot.”

  Again, hushed discussions, although with the frowning faces, I know the answer before I even hear a nyet, much less a translation. Then, at last: “We need a mission we can do together, equally. A mission that will make us both look good.”

  The day dissolves into an ugly blur of headaches and negotiations. Technical discussions of rendezvous missions in low Earth orbit, and training visits and atmospheric mixtures and docking collar specifications.

  •••

  There is more drinking at dinner, toasts to everyone’s health, to the success of our venture; that gets me feeling better, at least.

  Afterwards, there is another event planned, a film screening in a small auditorium. There is still drinking, of course, but it’s somewhat more mellow; we serve ourselves from a small table in the back and then take our seats. Belayev makes a brief announcement; the translator explains that this is a science fiction movie called Solaris, and it’s basically their equivalent of 2001.

  The movie unfolds at a languid, dreamlike pace. I’m struck by the earthly imagery: crystal waters with long aquatic grass gently undulating beneath; a middle-aged man in a fog-shrouded meadow; a beautiful cabin, its reflection mirrored in a pond’s tranquil surface. There is dialogue, helpfully subtitled in English. The middle-aged man, whose name is Kris, is lost in thought, haunted; he stands outside, and a rainstorm comes; it ruins his tea and soaks his clothes, and he doesn’t seem to care.

  Next, we see Kris reviewing a piece of film with another man. They watch black and white footage of scientists explaining recent events on a space station orbiting the planet Solaris. A pilot had gone missing on an exploratory flight over the planet’s ocean, and they’d sent helicopters went out to search for him. One of the rescue pilots, a man named Burton, returned traumatized. The scientist explains: “He was in a state of shock, which was highly unusual for a man with 11 years experience in spaceflight.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat; I get up and go back to the drink table; I mix myself another in the dim flickering projector light.

  Onscreen, Burton gives his report. He describes being lost in a fog over the ocean of Solaris, a thick fog, colloidal and viscous; he couldn’t see the sun, only a red smudge. The ocean started seething and boiling. “I was being drawn into the fog, so I had to struggle against this for some time,” he explains. “When I looked down, I saw a form of garden.” The scientists review a film of the flight: black and white, with sun on the ocean, and ice fields. There are seething clouds, or maybe it’s the ocean again; it looks brainlike. “But we don’t understand. You filmed clouds,” one of the scientists asks Burton. “Why did you film clouds?”

  Burton launches into a monologue. His eyes are troubled; he’s seen things he cannot explain. Most of the scientists say he’s suffering from a hallucinatory complex, and symptoms of depression. But one man says they’re morally obligated to continue the exploration of the alien planet. Solaris represents disjointed facts that strain credibility, he says. Then: “We’re talking about the limits of human knowledge. By limiting movement forwards, we facilitate movement backwards.”

  I take my seat next to Dave; I can’t help but notice the KGB man is sitting behind us now, close enough to eavesdrop, if he wants to.

  The movie moves on, through discussions about the morality of science. There are shots of Burton, older now, driving fast through a black and white city. It looks a little familiar; I catch glimpses of Japanese characters on the road signs: they are in Tokyo. Burton speeds through tunnels and under overpasses; the film switches between color and black-and-white; we see expressway lights, red and white, rivers of traffic forking and splitting.

  I lean over to make a crack to Dave: “Tokyo must look like the future to the Soviets.” He chuckles.

  Onscreen, we see Kris burning pictures of a woman. Then: Cut to stars. He is in space, flying to the Solaris station.

  We
see Kris disembark at what looks like a landing pad inside the station. Nobody’s around. Kris explores the station: the stark metal corridors are in some disarray, full of debris and sparking electrical wires. It occurs to me that Kris didn’t arrive in a spacesuit—he’s wearing normal clothes, and a leather jacket.

  “The latest in Soviet space technology,” I mutter; Dave grins a little, and there is some shifting in the seats ahead of us.

  I have to admit, despite the cheesy sets, the movie’s unsettling. Kris wanders the corridors until he finds one of the station’s few remaining residents, who tells him one of the other occupants, Dr. Gibarian, is dead—a suicide. “He was almost always in a state of deep depression ever since these disturbances began,” the psychiatrist explains to Kris, then adds: “If you see something out of the ordinary, try not to lose your head.”

  We see Kris in a rounded white room; it reminds me of what the future looked like five years ago. Then he goes to the dead doctor’s room. It’s in complete disarray: paper ticker tape everywhere, rugs draped over furniture and up on the walls. There’s a note for the psychiatrist…a suicide note? And a silver pistol on his desk. Kris plays a video message from the dead doctor. “By now you are at the station and you know what happened to me.” Doctor Gibarian says. “I wouldn’t want it to happen to others. I’m of sound mind. I’m telling you this so if it does happen to you, you will know it’s not madness.” The message ends.

  I get up and fix another drink. I’m not quite comfortable with all of this.

  I try to pay a little less attention to the movie. I don’t feel like I can leave, not quite yet, so I sit there in the dark and try to avoid the images, and my thoughts.

  Shots flicker by: Kris talking about a proposal to bombard Solaris’s ocean with radiation, Kris staring out into the darkness. We glimpse unexplained characters, people who don’t correspond with any of the station’s inhabitants: a midget, then a beautiful woman. We see creepy camera pullbacks in the darkened corridors, and the woman’s face in a frosted window, and the body of the dead doctor—the suicide.