Space

by James A. Michener

  HOUSTON: Altair, our double-domers have come up with something everyone here thinks has merit.

  ALTAIR: I’m listening.

  HOUSTON: They think it would be good for the nation, and for you, too, if you would turn on your television camera and let the people see what you’re doing.

  ALTAIR: I wouldn’t want to leave the controls and move around.

  HOUSTON: No, no! Fixed focus. (A long pause) It was our unanimous opinion ...

  ALTAIR: You suggesting this to keep my mind occupied?

  HOUSTON: Yes, I recommended it. Strongly.

  ALTAIR: You usually know what you’re doing, Hickory.

  HOUSTON: Tomorrow can be a very demanding day.

  ALTAIR: What could I say on television?

  HOUSTON: You have a thousand things to say. Read your emergency notes. Let them see.

  ALTAIR: Does Cater concur? He’s a solid citizen.

  HOUSTON: We present it to you together.

  ALTAIR: The hours pass very slowly. They are very heavy. (His voice sounded weak and hollow.)

  HOUSTON: That was our guess. Altair, set up the [641] camera. Make some notes. Get your ideas under control, and in forty minutes we go.

  ALTAIR: Does Dr. Mott approve such a scheme?

  HOUSTON: He says it’s obligatory. It will bring you all together.

  ALTAIR: Roger.

  At nine o’clock on the night of 30 April, prior to the time when Pope would make an important course correction, he turned on the television that stared down at him from a holding place on the bulkhead just aft of his right shoulder, and no more effective spot could have been found, for the camera did not reveal his full face, but it did display most of the capsule, especially the welter of switches and devices which confronted him.

  He could not bring himself to use the pronoun I, so he fell naturally into the we, and this produced a riveting effect: “We are bringing this great spacecraft back to Earth after an abbreviated visit to the other side of the Moon.” It was clear to everyone who saw the missing seats whom he meant by we.

  “Dr. Linley should be in the right-hand seat, over there. And our commander, Randy Claggett, would be riding in the middle seat. He brought us to the Moon. It was my job to bring us back.”

  Then came the most dramatic segment: “When we lifted off from Cape Canaveral our two spacecraft, this one and the one going down to the Moon itself, weighed 17 tons empty. We carried 35 tons of fuel, just for these two little machines. We had to know where 40 miles of electrical wire ran, in and out. We had to memorize how 29 different systems worked, what every one of them did and how to repair each of them. Look, we had 689 separate switches to flick off and on. We had 50 separate engines to speed us through space. And we had, I believe, more than 4,000 pages of instructions we had to memorize, more or less. No one, I’m sure, could memorize that much.”

  Although it was not looking at his features, the camera gave an excellent portrait of an astronaut: smallish, slim, shirt sleeves, short hair, strong, firmly set jaw which flexed now and then, showing muscles, small hands which moved masterfully, a sense of competence and a startling command of detail: “I have a diagram here of the spacecraft [642] as it was when we started out on what will be a 200-hour voyage. Here it is, 363 feet in the air. In the first two minutes we threw away the entire Stage I. Its job was to lift us into the air, and when that was done, we didn’t have to use the escape tower, fortunately, so we dropped it off at three minutes. It had no further purpose. Stage II was finished after eight minutes, and down it went. Stage III, which sent us off on our way to the Moon, lasted for about two hours, then we got rid of it. The lunar module had two parts, one we left on the Moon on purpose. The other was supposed to rejoin us, but as you know, it didn’t. If it had, we would’ve dropped it, too.

  “So that leaves us only these two small parts, the service module, which carries all the things that keep us going, and tomorrow we’ll throw that away. That’ll leave this little portion I’m sitting in, and we’ll fly it down through the atmosphere backward, to fight off the heat. It will be 25,000 degrees outside tomorrow, but we won’t even feel it in here.

  “And then a drogue parachute will open, a little one, and it will pull out a bigger one, and we’ll land west of Hawaii like a sea gull coming home at the end of the day, and ships will be waiting there to greet us.”

  He then turned and looked directly into the camera. “Some years ago a hundred and ten of us, all test pilots, volunteered to be astronauts. Six of us were lucky enough to have been selected. Harry Jensen, perhaps the best of us, all round. He was killed by a drunken driver with God knows how many previous accidents. Timothy Bell, the only non-military man among us, flew into a radio tower. Randy Claggett, who was a legend long before this flight, got hit by a wayward Sun. That leaves Hickory Lee of Tennessee and Ed Cater of Mississippi, and me, and if the three of us could persuade NASA to send us to Mars in a craft as good as this one, we’d lift off tomorrow.

  “Mankind was born of matter that accreted in space. We’ve seen dramatically these past few days how things far off in space can affect us deeply. We were meant to be in space, to wrestle with it, to probe its secrets. I’d like especially to say to Doris Linley that her husband was coming home with a multitude of secrets and new theories, and we feel his loss most grievously. The world will have to wait till next time, Doris!”

  [643] He turned back to his console with its 689 separate switches, and he let the camera run, ignoring it as he went about his work, and after a while on Earth they stopped transmitting.

  The men at Houston who were guarding his welfare had been prudent in asking him to make the television broadcast, for he awakened on the morning of 1 May relaxed and eager to start his last demanding tasks, and although he was now approaching an operation which had previously proved exacting for three men, he neither brooded about it nor sought to avoid thinking about it.

  When the time came for his stripped-down craft to plunge into the atmosphere at the tremendous speed generated by a return from outer space, it would have to hit that semi-solid layer, upon which all life on Earth depends, at exactly the right angle. If it came in too directly, pointed straight at Earth, it would encounter so much opposition, it would burn up almost instantly, and if it came in at too shallow an angle, it would fail to cut into the atmosphere at all and would become like a stone that boys skip across a pond of water: the craft would bounce once, twice, five, six times, and go careening off into space, flying endlessly, Never to be seen again, and when the limited supply of oxygen vanished, the man would lie there in his couch, unbroken, unsullied, uncontaminated, moving through space forever.

  Pope checked the approach once more: No steeper than 7.3° or we burn up. No shallower than 5.5° or we bounce off. This means hitting a corridor 27 miles in diameter at the end of 238,000 miles at a speed of better than 24,000 mph. Let’s hope our computer’s working.

  Laymen, when they first heard of this delicate problem of reentry, often asked, “If you come in too shallow and bounce off, why not turn around and make a second try?” and they were shaken by what astronauts told them: “You won’t believe what we do just before we try to reenter.”

  John Pope was now preparing for this remarkable act of faith. With about ninety minutes before scheduled splashdown, he consulted his computer and fired rockets briefly to make the final small correction in his orbit. When the computer confirmed that his capsule had responded correctly, he activated explosive devices which [644] blew off the service module, blew it right off into space. where it would burn up as it entered the atmosphere. This left him without any support system, any large supply of fuel, any of the instruments he would require for extended flight. If he missed the proper angle at reentry, he could do nothing to correct it, for all the impedimenta of flight would have vanished with the explosion. He was alone and almost powerless in a speeding vehicle heading for near-destruction.

  He had rockets left for one life-saving maneuver; he co
uld turn the capsule around so that it flew backward. presenting the big curved end with the ablative material to the incredible heat.

  HOUSTON: Lee here. You never looked better, Moonshiner.

  ALTAIR: Things going so well I’ve got my fingers crossed.

  HOUSTON: This is your day, Moonshiner. Bring her down.

  ALTAIR: I intend to.

  With quiet confidence he slammed into the atmosphere. and even though he had been warned many times that it would be tougher than Gemini, he could scarcely believe it when it happened. Great flames engulfed the capsule. wiping out the sky. Huge chunks of incandescent material. 25,000° hot, roared past his window, reveling in the oxygen they were finding for their flames. More colors than, a child has in a crayon box flashed past, and at one break in the tremendous fireworks he caught a glimpse of his trail, and he calculated it must be flaming behind him for five hundred miles.

  It was impossible to tell Houston of the great fire; the heat was so intense that all radio communication was blacked out; this was the flaming entry that astronauts had to make alone, and the flakes of ablated material became so thick that he felt sure that everything was going to burn up, but the interior temperature did not rise one degree.

  The flames stopped. He could feel the G’s slacking off as the capsule was braked, and when he activated the drogue parachute, he felt with satisfaction and almost joy its first sharp grip.

  USS TULAGI: We have you in sight, Altair. Three good chutes.

  [645] ALTAIR: Quite a reception committee you arranged. All the Roman candles.

  USS TULAGI: Looks like you’re going to splash down about six-tenths of a nautical mile away. Perfect landing.

  ALTAIR: That’s what I intended.

  The NASA high command was outraged when they learned that the intrusive Japanese newspaperwoman Cynthia Rhee intended being present at Arlington when Marine Colonel Randolph Claggett was to be buried, as it were, and Dr. Stanley Mott and Tucker Thompson of Folks were sent to her hotel in Washington to try to dissuade her from attending.

  In the cab on the way, Thompson said, “I’d call it the biggest surprise of my life. The way this Debby Dee has risen to the occasion. Hard drinker, hard talker, you’d have expected her to louse up the whole procession, but what does she do? She comes on like Melanie in Gone With the Wind. Perfect picture of genteel Southern womanhood.

  “I’ve been through nine NASA tragedies now, and no astronaut’s wife has played her role better than Debby Dee. It would be disgraceful if that goddamned Dragon Lady showed up to ruin the funeral.”

  Thompson had proved twice that Folks knew how to handle the funerals of its astronauts, once in the Jensen case, once when Tim Bell flew into the tower; he knew where to catch the young widows to evoke the awful loss, how to photograph the kids, the minister at the graveside, and he better than most sensed what a jarring note it would be if Debby Dee were confronted by her dead hero’s mistress: “I wouldn’t blame her if she swatted Madame Butterfly right in the kisser, but I would sure hate to see it photographed. Especially by Life. They’d drive us into the ground with a shot like that.”

  He explained, when the cab neared the hotel, how diligently he had worked to keep the threatening scandal out of the press. “You got a man like John Glenn, a winner like John Pope, they stand for something. People make fun of us for cultivating the Boy Scout image, but dammit, that’s what this nation wants. This man Pope, bringing that Apollo back alone, that’s heroic. Give me two million bucks, I could elect him President.”

  In Cynthia’s room, an inexpensive one rented by the [646] day, Mott spoke first, and in his gentlest voice: This is terribly embarrassing ...”

  “Not for me,” the Korean girl said softly.

  Thompson then launched his campaign, as unctuously as possible: “Now, Miss Rhee, we know how you slipped back into America ... illegally ... and we know where you came over the border ...”

  She moved a step nearer her tall adversary, a porcelain hand grenade ready to explode. “Mr. Thompson, don’t talk like a fool.”

  Tucker sucked in his gut. If it was to be warfare, he was prepared with some salvos of his own. “You show your face at this funeral, Madame Butterfly, out you go ... right on your ass.”

  “Why?” she asked brazenly.

  “Because the senators do not want a scandal.”

  “Don’t they have one already?” When Dr. Mott looked bewildered, she said, “I mean your young farmer, Sam Cottage. I’ve been talking with him about the warnings he tried to issue, but I suppose your spies have told you that.”

  “Rumors,” Thompson said. “We’ve already looked into the Cottage case.”

  “You hope it’s rumors. You hope there’s nothing in writing.”

  “Miss Rhee,” Thompson said in a fresh attempt at conciliation. “When America has two bona-fide heroes like Claggett and Pope, you wouldn’t want to ...”

  “I am attending the funeral,” she said firmly.

  “Then Senator Grant is going to order you arrested.”

  “What for? Hundreds of people slip across the border from Canada ... and Mexico, too.”

  “I’m warning you that he’s going to hit you with the heavy stuff. Like being a prostitute.”

  She laughed. She had been a world-ranging newspaperwoman, and that was all. True, she had traveled with the six astronauts exactly as she had traveled in Europe with Fangio and the other racing drivers in order to catch their unadorned stories, but if any senator tried to expel her on trumped-up charges, she would create a real scandal. “A great man lies dead on the Moon. I loved him, and it matters very little who knows it. Because one day I shall write about him, and his widow will thank me.”

  [647] Thompson grew furious. “For you to appear at Arlington ... Scandal sheets are just waiting for something like this.”

  “It will be very difficult for you to stop me, or for your senators, either.”

  Dr. Mott felt he had to speak. “This is a solemn moment, Cindy. I’ve always aided you, when I could. Now I’m begging you to stay away.”

  “Impossible. Because I’m being escorted by John Pope.”

  “Pope?” Thompson yelled. “Have you been messing around with Pope, too?”

  “During the flight to the Moon, Randy told John-I’ll let him tell you. He’ll be here shortly.”

  Within a few minutes Pope entered, accompanied by Penny, and as soon as they saw Mott and Thompson they could guess what was happening. Pope said, “We’ve come to take Cindy to the ceremonies,” and Mott protested: “Senator Grant and Senator Glancey expressly asked that she be kept away.”

  “I believe I was Randy’s best friend, and I’m prepared to say who-”

  “John,” Mott interrupted, “you could make some people very high in NASA most unhappy.”

  “This is the funeral of my friend. The nation is honoring a sensational man, and I know he’d want Cindy to attend.”

  “How can you know such a thing?” Thompson asked, red of face.

  “Because on the flight to the Moon he told Linley and me, “Soon as I get back to Earth, I’m chucking NASA and the Folks contract and marrying the Korean.” When we argued against it, especially Linley, who’d seen a lot of interracial marriages fail, Claggett said, ‘When I was flying in Korea, I shacked up with this Jo-san-’ ”

  “What’s a Jo-san?” Penny asked.

  “A Korean whore,” Thompson interjected, and Pope stared at him venomously: “You use that word again, Thompson, I’ll take you apart. I met Claggett’s Jo-san. Two years of college. Caught up in the war. Impossible to live, so she took a job slinging hash for the American flyers and Claggett fell in love with her. Told Linley and me she was the best loving he’d ever had, and he was mortally ashamed he hadn’t married her. Told us he didn’t want to lose happiness twice, so he was going to marry this other [648] Korean woman,” and he bowed toward Cindy.

  “Mrs. Pope,” Thompson pleaded. “Can’t you bring some sense-”

  �
�I can vouch for what my husband has just said because after you men and my two senators put the arm on Randy not to leave Debby before the flight, he took me aside in the committee room and said, and I quote with great accuracy: ‘Tell your boys they win now, but when I get back they can all go fuck a duck.’ ”

  Thompson gasped. “Are you in this with your husband?” he asked weakly.

  “I sure am. And so is Debby Dee, it may surprise you to hear. I had the decency to warn her over the phone that John was determined to escort Cindy, and she said, ‘Bring the slant-eyed sonnombeech along. I think Randy would’ve had a lively time with that one.’ ”

  “Pope!” Tucker Thompson shouted. “I warn you, the big men aren’t going to like this!” and Penny said, “My husband’s a big man now, and I’m his wife, and we’re taking Cindy right into the front row where she belongs.”

  “Your senators will fire you if-”

  “I work for my senators,” Penny said. “I do not allow them to dictate how I behave.” And when Debby Dee arrived, mascara running and blouse awry, Penny took charge. “Debby Dee, this is Miss Rhee,” and Debby Dee said gently, “I suppose you could say we’ve already met ... through a third party.”

  Tucker Thompson charged right into battle. “Mrs. Claggett, do you want this woman at your funeral?” And he jabbed an accusing finger at Cindy.

  “I invited her,” Debby said. “Wouldn’t I look cheap as hell if I disinvited her?”

  Before Tucker could launch his moralities, Senator Grant entered, bearing on his arm the beautiful widow of Dr. Paul Linley, a tall ebon-faced woman of thirty. His voice choking, he said, “I encouraged my dear friend Gawain Butler to place his nephew in our NASA program. So in a sense I feel responsible for his death.”