My Life as an Afterthought Astronaut

by Bill Myers

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  An alarm began to sound.

  I moved for the helmet.

  “No,” he gasped, “wait for the green light!”

  No way. I couldn’t wait. O’Brien would suffocate. I had to get the helmet off. I started to reach for it, to unsnap it.

  “No!” He shook his head violently. “Follow my orders!”

  Suddenly, there was a loud hiss in the compartment, and the green light glowed. I pulled off his helmet, and we both floated there several seconds catching our breath.

  “Is everything okay in there?” Commander Phillips’s voice asked.

  “Yes,” O’Brien gasped. “We made it.” Then turning to me, he scowled. “You’re going to have to learn to follow orders.”

  I looked down, a little embarrassed.

  “Well, at least you waited for that green light before taking off my helmet.”

  I looked up. “Why, what would have happened?”

  “You would have killed me.”

  I floated there in stunned silence. The words echoed in my head for a long time.

  “Okay, Watson.” O’Brien tried to move, but he was still in a lot of pain. “Let’s get the crew compartment pressurized so we can get in.”

  I nodded and flipped the switches and knobs he called for. Soon we slid open the inside hatch that led to the mid-deck.

  Ah . . . home, sweet space shuttle.

  We got out of our suits. At last I could straighten my glasses. O’Brien seemed to do more than his fair share of wincing and grimacing. I was also doing plenty of it—but not over physical pain. It was more like mental stupidity. Would I ever catch on? Would I ever learn to just follow the rules?

  Commander Phillips suggested we rest a few hours before tackling the next job. I had no idea what that would be and didn’t particularly want to ask. After all we’d been through, taking a little rest was one order I definitely planned to obey.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t get my mind to shut down. So, doing what I always do to help me relax, I reached for Ol’ Betsy and continued my latest superhero story.

  When we last left Neutron Dude, he was about to be turned into a giant turnip (or something equally as tasteless) by the notoriously not-so-nice... Veggie-Man.

  “Be reasonable,” our hero cries as he backs away. “Think of the kids. How can you ask them to eat nothing but fruits and vegetables for the rest of their lives? It’s too unfair. It’s too unjust. Their taste buds will go through withdrawal.”

  “Too bad,” the sinister scum snarls. “Soon the entire world will be nothing but one giant health-food store.”

  He lifts up his creepy can of Health Food Spray and is about to fire....Suddenly, Neutron Dude has an idea. Before you can say, “I knew he’d come up with something, these superhero types always do,” Dude reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a giant bag of deep-fried, extra-crunchy Chipper Chippy Chips. The one he keeps handy for just such emergencies.

  Veggie-Man lets out a gasp. “Where did you get those?” he cries. “I thought I destroyed all junk food!”

  Without a word, Neutron Dude tears into the bag and pops one of the heavenly tasting artery pluggers into his mouth.

  “AUGH!” Veggie-Man screams. “Stop it, you’re killing yourself.”

  Neutron Dude grins as he crams another handful into his mouth. And then another. And another.

  Veggie-Man is beside himself. He begins to tremble, then to quiver, then to shake, rattle, and roll. It’s been years since he’s seen such awful eating habits. But mustering all of his bad-guy badness, he manages to raise the Health Food Spray and fire a single burst at the bag of chips.

  Nothing happens.

  Neutron Dude grins and continues cramming handful after handful of the grease-covered, heart-stopping delicacies into his mouth.

  Veggie-Man screams. “STOP IT! STOP IT!” With trembling hands he fires still another blast of the Health Food Spray.

  Still nothing.

  “What have you done?” he screams. “What’s wrong with my Health Food Spray? It’s supposed to turn everything into fruits and vegetables!”

  Neutron Dude answers, ”MMURRFF MOOMMERF FRUMMMMERRR.”

  “What?”

  With his mouth crammed full, Neutron Dude simply points to the words on his bag: Potato Chips.

  Great green beans! Holy huckleberries! (And you thought I’d run out of these.) Veggie-Man suddenly realizes that somewhere amidst all of the grease and salt in that bag there are actual microscopic pieces of potatoes. And, as we all know, potatoes are...drum roll, please...vegetables!

  “NO!” Veggie-Man screams. “IT’S NOT POSSIBLE, I’VE BEEN HOODWINKED!”

  Our hero tosses away the empty potato chip bag and reaches into another pocket.

  “Now what?” Veggie-Man cries.

  Neutron Dude pulls out a different type of bag and tears it open.

  Veggie-Man fires off more Health Food Spray.

  More of nothing happens.

  Neutron Dude smiles and turns the bag around to reveal the words: Corn Chips.

  “OF COURSE!” Veggie-Man gasps. Corn is a vegetable, too.

  Neutron Dude continues grinning and chomping away on the goodies.

  “Please!” Veggie-Man drops to his knees. “Please, I beg you...don’t eat any more of that awful junk in front of me....”

  Filled with compassion and understanding (something they teach the good guys in the best good-guy schools), Neutron Dude lowers his bag.

  But it’s a trick! (Something they teach the baddest bad guys in the bad-dest bad-guy schools). Veggie-Man points his spray at the tiled floor and fires. Suddenly, the tiles melt into pools of safflower oil. Neutron Dude’s feet slip out from under him and he falls to the floor, dropping the chips.

  Now Veggie-Man goes in for the kill. With all his chips out of reach, Neutron Dude has no defense. In a matter of seconds the world will be reduced to nothing but fruits and vegetables. Soon, kids will be blowing out candles on birthday cantaloupes. They’ll be going to the fair and eating cotton-candied cauliflower, watching movies while munching on hot, freshly buttered radishes.

  Closer and closer Veggie-Man comes. He aims his spray directly at our hero’s skull and sneers. “So, how would you like to become the first living Mr. Potato Head?”

  And then, when all appears lost——

  “Wally? O’Brien?” It was Commander Phillips’s voice. He was still over at the space station. With the hatch still broken and sealed shut, there weren’t a lot of places he could be.

  “I’ve just talked with Control. They feel the best thing to do is scrub this mission and send up the next shuttle with appropriate tools and crew to pry open our hatch and rescue us.”

  “You guys have enough provisions to last that long?” O’Brien asked.

  “Plenty. The Atlantis is planned for a launch soon. They’ll get us out, and we’ll hitch a ride home with them. Unfortunately, it means you’ll have to bring the Encounter down on your own.”

  “We might have a problem with that, Skipper,” O’Brien said.

  “How so?”

  “My arm is pretty banged up. I don’t have much use of my right hand.”

  “You have Wally there. He can help.”

  Pilot O’Brien and I exchanged looks. Finally, he pressed his intercom button and said what we were both thinking.

  “I don’t know if help is the right word, Commander.”

  “Well, it’ll have to be. McDoogle will have to help you land the shuttle. It’s our only option.”

  I swallowed hard. Well, at least I wanted to swallow hard. Unfortunately, at the moment, my swallower didn’t have much to swallow.

  Chapter 9

  Homeward Bound

  . . . Maybe

  “Okay, Willy,” O’Brien said, sighing. “Leaving orbit and reentering the atmosphere is the most critical phase of the f light. You have to listen to my orders. One foul-up and we become human charcoal.”

  I nodded, trying my
best to pay attention, but at the same time wondering when I’d have time to write out my Last Will and Testament.

  “First, we have to store all the equipment. When I fire up the engines to slow us down, things will shift radically.”

  I nodded and started to work. I stored everything exactly as he said. Well, everything except Ol’ Betsy. I had to keep her handy. I knew I wasn’t exactly following every order, but what harm could a little 5.3-pound laptop computer do?

  I’d soon find out.

  We climbed into some pants with a bunch of air bags stitched into the legs. “They’re Anti-G suits,” he explained. “We’re traveling at 17,300 miles an hour. When we slow down, all the blood in our bodies will rush down from our head to our feet. By inflating the air bags in these trousers, we’ll keep the blood in our upper body so we won’t pass out.”

  I quickly slipped on the pants. The last thing in the world a guy wants to do in the middle of dying is to pass out. I mean, what if you get to heaven and they have all these accident forms you have to fill out?

  After closing the cargo bay doors, we strapped into our seats—O’Brien in the commander’s chair, and me to his right in the pilot’s chair. It felt kinda cool, like being in one of those sit-down jet-fighter video games. Although this time I didn’t expect to be firing any rockets or doing any fancy flying.

  Wrong again.

  O’Brien grabbed a couple of notebooks and handed one to me. “These cue cards give us the step-by-step on what to do. Most of it’s handled by computer, but we still have to fly a little ourselves.”

  He loaded the “Landing Program” into the computer and grabbed the control stick in front of him. It was just like the one I had in front of me. Slowly, he maneuvered the stick and turned the Encounter completely around. Soon we were at the exact angle the numbers on the computer screen called for.

  “I’ve turned her around so when we burn the engines, we’ll slow down. Of course, we’ll have to turn her back after the burn.” He switched a couple hundred more switches and pressed the intercom button: “Control, this is Encounter. OMS engines are armed.”

  “Roger,” came the answer, “OMS armed.”

  “Well, here goes,” he said. “Once I press this button and those engines fire, there’s no turning back.”

  I nodded.

  He reached for the computer keyboard and pressed the EXEC key. I reached for the arms of my chair and held on tight.

  More numbers appeared on the computer screen, and O’Brien pressed his intercom button to read them out loud. “Control, this is Encounter. Countdown to OMS burn in five, four, three, two, one . . .”

  There was that old familiar WHOMP sound of the engines firing, the same WHOMP that sent me crashing into the wall with my juice just a day earlier. Fortunately, this time I was strapped into my seat, safe and sound. Unfortunately, Ol’ Betsy was not. As we suddenly slowed, Betsy suddenly floated into view and started flying toward the back wall.

  I had to catch her. We’d been through too many adventures together to let her be smashed into tiny microbits. I lunged for her and managed to bat her back in our direction. Well, actually, in O’Brien’s direction.

  “Willy,” he shouted as he turned toward me, “what are you—”

  “AUGH!”

  K-LUNK

  “Uh-oh.”

  The “AUGH!” was what he said as he saw Ol’ Betsy speeding toward his forehead.

  The K-LUNK was the sound Ol’ Betsy made when she hit his forehead.

  The “UH-OH” was my realizing maybe I should have followed his orders just a little closer and stored Ol’ Betsy away. I grabbed my computer and shouted, “Mr. O’Brien, Mr. O’Brien, are you all right?”

  If the guy was all right, he wasn’t letting anyone in on the secret. His eyes were closed and his arms floated up like he was unconscious or something. My incredible intellect put together all these facts and came up with the staggering conclusion:

  HE WAS UNCONSCIOUS OR SOMETHING!

  “Mr. O’Brien,” I cried. “Mr. O’Brien, wake up!”

  No answer.

  “Mr. O’Brien!”

  “Wally.” It was Commander Phillips’s voice. “Wally, are you all right?”

  “It’s O’Brien; he’s unconscious!”

  There was no answer. I quickly secured Ol’ Betsy and shouted, “Commander Phillips, what do I do? How do I shut this thing off ?”

  Another long pause and then a very short answer. “You don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Once you commence OMS you must continue your descent.”

  “But I don’t know how to land this thing!”

  “You’re going to have to learn.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll talk you through it. I’ll be right here with you the whole time.”

  “That’s what we tried with the jet pack!” I cried. “You saw how I fouled that up!”

  “That’s because you weren’t following my instructions. Wally, you must listen to everything I say. You must follow every word to the letter.

  Don’t do anything different than what I say, don’t think anything different, don’t breathe anything different. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I know you’ve had trouble following instructions before, but if you don’t obey this time . . .” He paused.

  “What?” I cried. “What will happen if I don’t obey?”

  He answered quietly. “Then you’ll never have a chance to obey again.”

  I caught his drift. No more fooling around. I was determined to follow every single direction, obey every single command. I was also determined to ask for a little help. . . .

  Dear God, I silently prayed, I’ve sure been messing things up. No matter how hard I try, I keep breaking some rule or another. Please . . . help me. Help me do right. Help me follow the instructions.

  “What are you doing?” Commander Phillips asked.

  “I, uh . . . I was praying.”

  There was a pause and another quiet answer. “That sounds like a good idea, Wally. That sounds like a good idea for all of us . . .”

  After a moment he came back on. “Okay, Wally. Listen very carefully. We’ll get you down, but you’ll have to trust me. Do you see that flight stick in front of you—the one identical to O’Brien’s?”

  “You mean the one that looks like it’s from a video arcade?”

  “That’s the one. Do you play a lot of video arcade games?”

  “Sure, all the time.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “In fact, I have the reputation for spending more quarters than anybody just to get the worst score.”

  His silence said that maybe it wasn’t such good news.

  I cleared my throat. “I take it we don’t have any spare quarters?”

  “That’s right, Wally. No spare quarters. We’ve got one time and one time only to do this right.”

  I took a deep breath and waited for my instructions.

  After a long talk with Control, Commander Phillips had me switch a bunch of switches. He told me exactly where they were and exactly when they should be switched. I obeyed every word.

  No more foul-ups.

  Not this time.

  Next he had me enter some numbers and stuff into the shuttle’s computer. Again, no problem.

  “Okay, Wally, this next step is a little tricky. We’re going to have to turn the shuttle around nose first. So, take hold of the stick in front of you and gently, very gently, push it toward the lower left.”

  I took the stick and did exactly as he said.

  “Slowly . . . slowly . . .”

  Sure enough, the shuttle started to turn.

  “Slowly, . . .” he kept saying, “nice and slowly. . . .” Now, I don’t know what got into me, but after a few eternities of this “slowly” stuff I could clearly see what Commander Phillips was doing. I could clearly see where I was heading and where we were going. So I figured I could help him alo
ng a little. Not a lot. Just a little. By pushing the stick just a little farther to the left, we’d be done just a little sooner.

  I know, I know . . . I wasn’t exactly following the program, and I should probably have my head checked for a brain, especially after all I’d been through. But this was so easy. All I did was move the stick another half inch. It wasn’t a big deal. He wouldn’t even know. I just wanted to give him a helpful hand.

  “Wally! You’re turning too fast! Pull it to the right!”

  So much for helpful hands. I pulled the stick to the right. Unfortunately, it was just a little too hard, just a little too fast. It was just like being in the jet pack all over again! Only this time it was the entire shuttle that began to twist and turn in the wrong direction.

  “What’s going on?” I shouted. “What did I do?”

  I could see the Earth’s horizon coming up in the window. It was followed by more space, which was followed by more Earth again.

  “You’ve put her into a spin!” Commander Phillips called. “Wally, you’ve put her into a spin! You’ve got to pull out of it!”

  I yanked the control stick the other direction, which only made things worse.

  “No . . . Wally . . . you’re overcompensating.”

  “But I’ve got to stop it!”

  “Put the stick back into its neutral position.”

  “But I’ve got to—”

  “Now, Wally! Put the stick back!”

  “But—”

  “NOW!”

  It was against my better judgment, but I finally did what Phillips said.

  And just as I suspected, nothing happened. I looked out the window and saw the Earth and outer space still doing their tumbling routine.

  I had to do something. I had to stop it. I reached for the stick. But, as if reading my mind, Commander Phillips shouted. “No, Wally, do what I say . . . obey me!”

  With all of my willpower (and maybe some extra from above), I was able to pull my hands away.

  Commander Phillips came back on. “Now, gently place your hands on the stick. Gently.”

  I did.

  We were still spinning.

  “Push up and to the right . . . gently.”

  I did, but nothing happened. The spinning grew worse. I wanted desperately to push more. “Commander Phil—”