by Terry Fallis
One week later, I was at Toronto’s Pearson airport, sitting in an Air Canada departure lounge waiting to board AC #235 to Houston. A steady stream of people flowed down the wide corridor towards my gate. It was about ten minutes before we were to board, when I heard the noise.
“Mr. Stewart! Yoohooo! Mr. Stewart!”
I can’t really describe the sound of her voice when she pushed it to full volume. It didn’t really sound like her normal talking voice amplified. Rather, when she cranked it up to 11, it was more like a howler monkey at full wail.
I finally saw her. She had eschewed the moving sidewalk as too slow and was burning up the marble floor with long strides and a determined look. The crowd parted in front of her in self-defence, or perhaps it was simple fear of the unknown. I’d have gotten out of her way, too, had she been barrelling down on me.
“Coming through. Sorry, plane to catch. Pardon me. Coming through!”
When I’d last seen her, she’d been dwarfed by a de Havilland Beaver. So standing there on her own, she now seemed physically bigger than I’d remembered her. I understood why when I got a look at her from the side. She was wearing a bright yellow rain poncho that didn’t quite cover the old green canvas backpack slung over her shoulders. From the front, the ensemble kind of made her look like a giant yellow pepper or perhaps the peanut M&M character.
When she finally broke free from the crowd, aided by how quickly the crowd was trying to break free from her, she rushed over to me, sporting a broad smile. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed all the air out of my lungs with a Hulk Hogan bear hug. It was a submission hold, and the pressure on my spine ricocheted the word “paraplegia” through my mind.
“Mr. Stewart!” she gushed, holding me out at arms’ length for just a second, before pulling me back in for a second bear hug. “You have made me happier than I think I’ve ever been. You did it. Your media manipulation turned the trick and flicked the switch.”
“Whoa, Landon! Always with the jokes!” I said in a loud voice for the sake of the hordes watching us. Then I leaned in to whisper in her ear.
“Keep your voice down. And please, ‘media manipulation’ is a phrase that should never cross your lips again, or the closest you may come to the space shuttle is on a guided tour of the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.”
I glanced around the departure lounge in case she’d been trailed by some photogs or vidcam shooters, which was a distinct possibility, given her newfound fame. But thankfully, everyone else seemed preoccupied with their own travel plans.
I pulled back to look at her. She nodded quickly with very wide eyes, her entire countenance exuding contrition.
“Sorry,” she hissed. “I’m still new at this.”
We both relaxed.
“It’s great to see you,” I said, genuinely pleased. “How was your flight?”
“Well, I really just wanted to get there, I’m just so tickled. But the flight was fine. It’s always a bit strange flying as a passenger in somebody else’s plane,” she replied. “But I have to say that the wings of my old baby are a lot more rigid than the ones on that Airbus.”
“That’s quite the carry-on bag you’re lugging around,” I observed. “I can’t wait to see what you checked.”
“I decided not to check my bag,” she replied. “This is the only one I’ve brought.”
“You certainly travel very light for an eight-week trip,” I said, trying not to think of the two large suitcases I’d already checked.
“Well, as I recall, the NASA folks make you wear their fancy astronaut jumpsuits from dawn to dusk anyway, so I only brought along a few changes of clothes.”
I helped her lower the backpack to the ground, nearly dislocating my shoulder in the process.
“Is it an entirely chainmail wardrobe? This thing weighs a ton,” I complained. “Why didn’t you check this and save the strain on your back?”
“Check it? Not on your life. I’m carrying precious cargo in here. I don’t want Air Canada rerouting it to Kuala Lumpur by mistake,” she declared, patting the side of the backpack. She unlaced the top, reached in, and pulled out a magazine. “I decided to bring along my first twenty years of the Baker Street Journal for you, 1953 to ’73. I haven’t looked at them for years and thought you might like them.”
“No way! Landon! That’s amazing!” I shouted, completely forgetting our “keep your voice down” rule. “You lugged eighty issues of the BSJ all the way from Cigar Lake for me?”
“Well, you’ll need something to read while I’m studying and being poked and prodded and spun,” she commented. “I think you’re going to be bored silly.”
Diane had briefed me fully the week before. I was to be attached to Landon at the hip for the duration of the training and until the mission itself was over – that is, if she passed through the program and was cleared to fly. The only time we’d be apart would be during the shuttle mission itself. My job was simply to make sure Landon did nothing or said nothing to imperil the program or tarnish the NASA brand. This had required an unanticipated increase to the budget that TK shared with NASA. While I’d be with Landon every waking hour in the coming couple of months, we’d bill NASA for only five hours each day, which conveniently coincided with my daily billable target. So I’d spent an hour or so on my computer the night before I headed to the airport, pumping five-hour days into PROTTS so Amanda could invoice NASA even while I was gone.
Houston was hot. And I don’t mean the famous Texas “dry heat.” This was full-on humid hot. Every time I breathed, it was like inhaling the exhaust of one of the shuttle’s solid rocket boosters while swimming in a pool of my own perspiration. We’d just walked out of the air-conditioned comfort of the airport into the blast furnace of just another day in Houston. I looked up and I saw, shimmering faintly like a mirage at the head of what seemed an endless line of taxis, a limo parked at the curb. A uniformed chauffeur held a sign that featured what looked like the NASA logo, but I was too far away to make out the name beneath it.
“That’s it,” said Landon, staring at the sign in the distance. “Percival.”
“You can read that from here?” I asked.
“Of course. Can’t you?”
I pulled my two wheeled suitcases towards the limo, losing ground with every step to Landon as she race-walked ahead, shouldering her backpack that weighed only slightly less than a standard refrigerator. When I caught up to her, I’d sweated off about five pounds and was delirious with dehydration. Landon seemed unaffected by the trek and the temperature. She grabbed and loaded my suitcases before the chauffeur could even put away his sign.
“Let’s go! We’re burning daylight.”
The Johnson Space Center is a sprawling complex with heavy security. We were granted entry courtesy of our passports and the close scrutiny of a beady-eyed marine at the gate. It felt like Checkpoint Charlie in the years before the Berlin wall came tumbling down. But we were in. Landon was like a schoolkid on her first field trip. She gawked out the windows of the limo and kept whacking my leg to point things out to me.
They gave us adjoining rooms, which I thought was taking my minder role a little too seriously. The rooms were quite nice, configured not unlike a high-end motel. There was a queen-sized bed, a spacious closet and dresser, a very nice flat-screen TV, a bar fridge, a desk, high-speed Wi-Fi, and a view of the next building. My newly acquired vintage Baker Street Journal copies were stacked precariously on my bedside table, ready for reading.
There was a knock on my door. When I opened it, in the corridor stood a teary-eyed Landon wearing NASA orange astronaut-in-training coveralls. Official patches for NASA, the Canadian Space Agency, and the upcoming mission itself were sewn over her heart. A Canadian flag and “Percival” in upper-case letters were embroidered on the left side. Clothes really do make a statement.
“There were five pairs of these in my closet,” she whispered, almost overcome with emotion. “It’s really happening. I can’t believe it’s real
ly happening. I’ll never wear anything else again.”
“You look very much like an astronaut,” I said. “I only got this very official-looking lanyard. It won’t get me onto the shuttle, but I’m told it’ll get me everywhere else around here.”
She leaned in to eye the photo on my card.
“Why didn’t you at least smile?” she asked. “You look like you just robbed a train.”
A door opened farther down the hall, and out stepped Eugene Crank, decked out in his orange coveralls. I recognized him immediately from the photos I’d seen in the media coverage. Landon did too, and pulled herself together.
“Mr. Crank, I presume,” said Landon stepping towards him, her hand extended.
He looked our way, gave a little smile that seemed close to a smirk, shook his head, and walked over.
“Well, well, Mrs. Percival. I figured you’d be holding a news conference by now, to keep up with your clippings,” he said.
He reached down to her to shake her hand, but his heart wasn’t in it.
“I’ve never been married, actually, and I’d be quite happy never to see another reporter or photographer in my life,” Landon replied. “Congratulations on winning. I’m looking forward to sitting next to you for lift-off.”
He smirked again. It was definitely a smirk.
“Well, Ma’am, there’s a lot of sheep to shear before you’re on the launch pad. Good luck. I’ll see you at the news conference.”
He turned and walked away from us.
“Well, he seems nice enough,” Landon said when he was gone.
“You think so? I thought he was a bit of a jerk.”
Kelly Bradstreet ended up chairing the official news conference the following morning to introduce the two citizen astronauts. She’d told me in confidence that Scott Chandler, NASA’S head of astronaut training, was supposed to run the newser but had refused, calling the whole program a sideshow. It gave me a glimpse into what her life was like trying to drag the reluctant NASA old guard into the new millennium. Eugene Crank and Landon Percival sat alone at the blue-skirted table with the mission crest on the backdrop behind them. The room was filled to capacity with about fifty reporters, including twelve cameras perched on a bank of risers along the back. I stood at the rear, next to a CNN camera, and even got to meet fellow Canadian and famed CNN host Ali Velshi when he came back to chat with his vidcam shooter.
Kelly introduced herself and then walked the reporters through the Citizen Astronaut program and the goals that underpinned it. She reviewed how popular the program had been with Americans and Canadians, noting the impressive number of entries in each country. Then she introduced, first Eugene Crank, running through his bio, and then Landon Percival. Kelly joked that because Landon was somewhat older than Eugene, it would take her a little longer to get through her bio. Everyone chuckled except for Eugene. Finally Kelly made a big deal of reminding us all that the two contest winners would not be flying the shuttle unless and until they successfully passed the training program and were approved for launch. Both Eugene and Landon nodded.
Then it was time for each citizen astronaut to say a few words. My heart rate spiked until it became clear that Eugene Crank would go first. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and then leaned into the mike placed on the table in front of him. The vibrating paper in his hands, along with his stilted delivery, betrayed his anxiety.
“Good morning, everyone. My name is Eugene Crank and I’m from Wilkers, Texas, where, um, as the little lady already said, I’m a deputy sheriff. I truly believe I’m the right man to fly on the shuttle. I live with danger every day. I’ve been decorated for bravery on the job. I’m an outstanding athlete, and keep myself in tip-top physical condition. I can handle whatever the good folks at NASA can throw at me. This training is going to be very demanding, and I worry some about my elderly colleague beside me here. But even if there’s an empty seat next to me on launch day, I will be on that shuttle when it heads up to the space station in eight weeks. And I’m doing it for God and country. Thank you.”
He carefully folded his cheat sheet and returned it to his pocket, his hands still trembling a bit. Landon just stared at him for a few seconds before turning to face the horde of reporters. Eugene ignored her and looked straight ahead. She had no notes and appeared calm even after listening to Eugene. My heart started pounding again, and I was clenching every part of my body that could be clenched as Landon began to speak.
“Well, that was some opening, Mr. Crank. I certainly do appreciate your concern for me, misguided as it is. And I can report that these nice journalists, the rest of the world, and I are very excited to learn that you’re an outstanding athlete. Thank you for letting us in on that,” she opened with a smile to Eugene.
Some reporters smiled, others snickered, still others laughed out loud. None of them missed the shot across Eugene’s bow. His face clouded over but he managed a weak smile for the cameras as Landon continued, still turned towards him.
“I sincerely wish you well in the arduous training ahead and I truly hope we’re both on the shuttle when it launches. I should add I certainly hope we’re both on it when it lands, too.”
She paused like a pro until the laughter in the room subsided. Next to her, Eugene looked liked he’d just started a drug-free colonoscopy.
“My decision to enter this contest and my boundless gratitude to NASA for this opportunity are driven by the very simple fact that I have always been more at home above the Earth than on it. As Ms. Bradstreet kindly outlined already, I’ve been flying the mountains and lakes of northern B.C. for fifty-seven years. I’ve been a physician for forty-five years. Looking at me, I know it’s hard for all of you to accept that I’m actually seventy-one – I can scarcely believe it myself – but I know it to be the truth. I freely admit I’m not happy about my age, so I just don’t dwell on it much. I’ve wanted to travel to space for, well, for a very, very long time. I remember my father and I would lie on our dock on Cigar Lake, British Columbia, and look up into the night sky. I just wanted to be up there among the stars, the moon, the planets, and everything else that inhabits the world beyond our own. I applied to become one of Canada’s first astronauts when that door opened back in 1983. But I didn’t make the cut. Now, nearly thirty years later, fate has given me another shot. So, here I am, for my father, for anyone in the world who feels that age has cheated them out of a dream, and I’m here for me. I’m grateful for the chance that has been given me, and I don’t intend to waste it.”
Landon sat back from the microphone. I’d like to say that I coached her through that perfectly balanced and beautifully delivered statement, that we’d rehearsed it together until it rang true with the intended power. But alas, I had nothing to do with it. Nothing. I’d tried to offer her direction on what she ought to say. I even provided her with draft talking points so that we might get out of the gate smoothly. I gave her some unsolicited tips on public speaking and how to deal with tough questions from reporters. She thanked me, smiling, but rather firmly told me she had it well in hand and that I was not to worry.
Not to worry? Sure. No problem. I proceeded to worry so much I’d barely slept that night. But I did learn all I ever wanted to know about acne on an overnight infomercial marathon. I lay there analyzing why I was so anxious. I decided I just didn’t want to give Crawford Blake the satisfaction of watching the wheels fall off on our very first day. I wanted to get through at least a week or so before we had to wave the white flag. So you can imagine how surprised I was when Landon spoke with such simple eloquence, passion, and even a little emotion. To put it kindly, she’d blown Eugene Crank and his self-centred soliloquy right out of the water.
While the reporters were clearly impressed, they didn’t let the silence after Landon finished hang for too long. Kelly stayed at the podium to field the questions and maintain some kind of order in the proceedings. Landon looked serene. Eugene towered over her, even when seated. He looked relieved now, as if
the doctor had finally pulled out the scope. The reporters’ questions were, for the most part, predictable, run-of-the-mill queries, including the vacuous classics “How do you feel?” and “Are you excited?”
Kelly answered the more technical questions about the program itself and the rules governing it, but referred most questions to Eugene and Landon. When the news conference seemed to be winding down, Kelly called for a last question to keep us on schedule. Always beware of the last question.
“Phillip Lundrigan from The Family Word,” said the middle-aged, balding, average-looking guy towards the back. “Question for Landon Percival.”
I’d taken a quick look at the media sign-in sheet but had not remembered a reporter from The Family Word listed. This publication had become a popular vehicle for the Christian right in the U.S. I had no idea why they might be interested in the Citizen Astronaut program unless it was to suggest that a woman’s place was in the kitchen, provided that kitchen was not orbiting the Earth.
“I was doing some online research in preparation for this news conference, and I stumbled upon a photograph of you, purportedly from 1968. It’s a shot of you holding hands with another woman. No big deal, right? But the caption on the photo, which incidentally is posted on a public Facebook page, reads:
‘My amazing Aunt Samantha and her partner, Auntie
Landon, quietly leading the sexual revolution back in 1968.’
“Dr. Percival, my question is a simple one. Are you a lesbian? Is that your sexual choice in life?”
There was much murmuring and sharp inhalations from the other reporters.
“Hey!” somebody shouted from the back. Wait, I recognized that voice. Okay, it seemed that I had just shouted “Hey!” from the back.
Luckily, Kelly leapt in from the podium before I had time to finish the sentence I had started on pure instinct and anger.