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

by Gerald Brennan

  Shame stabs at me. The bulk of the work of the mission so far, and we’ve pissed it away. I’ve pissed it away.

  “We needed to get you back in,” Kerwin says. “You’re alive, that’s what counts.”

  “What do you want to tell them, Buzz?” Shepard asks.

  But I still don’t know. “What happened?”

  •••

  We have scrapped most of the rest of the day’s activities. There’s nothing to do but report back to Houston, and clean up, and eat dinner.

  From the window we can still see the film canister, a white box bright in the sunlight, tumbling lazily a few hundred feet away. We were supposed to power down the command module, but we don’t. I am wondering if we’ll get permission to maneuver over to it and pick it up. I can’t imagine it would throw us off out trajectory that much: a quick translation with the thrusters, nothing that couldn’t be corrected later. Or at worst we’d change our splashdown point by a couple hundred miles. So I am hoping. Still, there is the fear that it’ll drift further away and they’ll decide to cut their losses. So it is a desperate hope.

  “Well, that was an…eventful day,” Kerwin says as we float over to the meal trays.

  “That’s one way to put it,” I reply. “Not exactly what I was hoping for.”

  “No. Not for any of us.”

  “Not at all,” Shepard echoes.

  There is a long and uncomfortable silence. I spoon food into my mouth half-heartedly.

  “I guess that’s the point of exploring,” Kerwin says at last. “If you knew what was going to happen and what you were going to see, it’d be…tourism.”

  “Yeah,” I echo. And again, the silence.

  Before all of this, I’d wondered if we were going to get a phone call from the president, like we did when we were on the moon. During the unpleasant aftermath, there were of course many other things to worry about. But it occurs to me now that it didn’t happen, and I’m wondering what that says about all of this, about us, about me.

  “I am still glad we’re here, though,” Kerwin says, repeating himself from yesterday. I’m wondering if he’s trying to convince himself.

  “It was neat to see everything,” I concede. “But I don’t know, I…” My words trail off. What else is there to say? I was already disappointed yesterday. And now this.

  We still haven’t heard from Houston about retrieving the canister. And the other one still isn’t installed yet; it’s floating tethered up there. We can’t do much on the telescope until that’s resolved, so they have to let us out again. They have to.

  But they don’t, not yet. They are deliberating.

  Meanwhile the old canister floats, out of reach, mocking me. I can’t tell, but it looks like it might be drifting off.

  •••

  There are legitimate medical concerns for people who’ve been in my situation, effects that may take many hours to manifest themselves. It’s decided that Kerwin will stay up with me to keep an eye on things, and that if all goes well, Shepard will take a spacewalk tomorrow to set it all right.

  Joe and I float lazily upstairs in the main deck, pretending to think about other things. But the silence exhausts me, and I imagine the question on his heart, the one he’s too decent to ask.

  “You want to know what it was like, don’t you?” I say at last.

  “Well…” He draws it out, as if embarrassed by his curiosity.

  “You want to know what it was like.”

  Finally he says: “You are the odd man out, in a way.”

  Something about this phrasing catches me off-guard. “That is how I feel. The odd man out.”

  “What I mean is…” He’s apologetic now. “I mean, you’ve had this experience now, but as far as the rest of it, I think the three of us, we’re all a little odd, in a way…”

  I’m used to being the one awkwardly fumbling for words, so this amuses me. But only for a second. “No. Before this, too.”

  “Well, we are…selected officials. We’re in a profession that emphasizes over and over again that we’ve been chosen. By the government, the taxpayers, the people…so essentially, by everyone we meet. So we’re always different from them.”

  “I’ve always felt different,” I tell him. “It doesn’t always feel good.”

  “How does it usually feel?”

  “Well I guess sometimes…yeah, like you said, selected.” All this talk of feelings is foreign still. “I mean, West Point, flight training, Korea. But in all of those, you end up surrounded by people going through the same thing.”

  “So it’s not such a big deal.”

  “Well, I guess…” I give it some thought. How do I feel? “I guess in the end, you don’t always feel particularly special, even though everybody on the outside thinks you are. You know how hard you’ve gotta work to keep it, and how much harder you’ve gotta work to stand out. And I mean, even becoming an astronaut, I thought that was…” So much of this has been wordless for so long, formless and dark. It’s so much simpler dealing with things that can be measured and quantified, scientifically proven and forced into equations. “…I mean, I was thrilled to get the news, of course, but you realize pretty soon that an astronaut who hasn’t been up here isn’t really an astronaut. You have to explain to every school group and Rotary Club that, ‘Well, I’ve been picked, but I haven’t been in space yet,’ and it’s almost worse than never having been picked, because you know that everything’s still just a hazy possibility, that one stroke of the pen by Deke or the doctor, and…”

  Kerwin smirks, something I’m not used to from him. “Welcome to my life for the past few years.”

  “Yeah.” I’ve forgotten who I’m talking to, apparently. “On Gemini XII…that at least felt like something. Up there with Lovell, the only two humans above the atmosphere at that moment. But even then, part of me felt…off…”

  “Why?”

  “Well, to be honest with you, I’m…I’m not sure if I would have made a flight on Gemini if it wasn’t for what happened to Charlie Bassett.” It feels strange actually saying this, hearing the words come out; they have spent a long time sitting on my chest. “Obviously he and Elliott See were backing up Gemini IX when that crash happened. So of course they should have been prime crew on XII, instead of me and Lovell, because that was Deke’s normal rotation. Lovell and I were backing up X, and there was no Gemini XIII, so he shouldn’t have flown again on Gemini, and I shouldn’t have flown at all. And I got that sense that nobody was really going to push for me on Apollo. But when Charlie and Elliott died…”

  “It worked out to your advantage.”

  I don’t reply but just sit there and maybe give a little nod.

  “And you feel guilty about that.”

  Something releases in me; I feel tears welling, pooling in my eyes, no gravity to pull them anywhere. It is such a strange relief to have my feelings named and described back to me.

  “And you figure you wouldn’t have gone to the moon, but for the fact that those guys had that awful thing happen to them.”

  I try to talk but can’t. I’m mute. Overcome. And…it is just a flat recitation of the facts. There is nothing beyond that in his voice, no judgment or bitterness.

  “You know it’s not your fault, right?” he asks.

  “I know that,” I say, although I’m not sure I have known it, until just now. “It’s just…”

  “You feel like you don’t deserve what you got.”

  “Is there a name for that?”

  “Survivor’s guilt. Impostor syndrome, maybe,” he says. “You know, it’s pretty normal in these situations.”

  “I did feel good in some ways after Gemini. In a lot of ways. The EVA went so well, and everyone knew how much I’d done to make it happen. That was a good feeling. But then after the moon, you get that feeling of truly being set apart. You talk to people, and there are…questions on their faces, and no matter how many times you answer, you both know that they don’t know, they don’t really
know. But you’re still you, you’re still looking at the same old you in the mirror, you’re not always sure what’s the big deal. And now this, today…it’s not good, feeling different this way.”

  “Buzz, you did a hell of a job today, just making it back to where we could pull you in,” Kerwin says. “It could have ended very badly for all of us.”

  “I didn’t do the job. Shepard’s gonna think I…”

  “Don’t worry about Shepard. None of us could’ve done better than you did, with what happened. You didn’t panic. You did what you needed to do.”

  “I…” There is a heaviness in my chest. But this needs to come out. “I felt a little water when I was coming back from the SIM bay. Based on the mission rules, I should have come right back in, rather than going up on the manned module.”

  He thinks for a second. I’m waiting for judgment. At last he says: “Buzz, there’s not a human being alive who would make all the same decisions if they knew all the consequences. You dodged a bullet. Let’s be grateful for that. This is a story we’re going to be…laughing about when we’re old men.”

  Now again things are quiet, but it’s more comfortable. I am noticing the sounds, the fans and glycol pumps. “So you want to know what it was like?”

  Nothing. A polite nothing.

  “You want to know. It’s OK. I’d want to know, too. It was…it was hell.”

  “I bet.”

  “Especially when the headphones cut out. I already had my eyes closed, because I couldn’t see shit, but when the headphones shorted out…” I take a deep breath. It is done, after all, although it still feels real. “It was just this…alone feeling. My thoughts were getting narrower and narrower, until all I could think about was that breath I knew I wouldn’t get. And it was hell. Hell is cold and wet and dark and quiet.”

  He gives a little friendly smile. “Nothing like the pictures, huh?”

  I smile a little, at last. “No, not at all.”

  After all this, I’m feeling better, until I make the mistake of looking out the window. The canister has drifted off a ways; it’s a distant star now, the only one twinkling. I make a pathetic wish.

  •••

  We set alarms and wake every hour so I can tell Kerwin how I feel.

  It is a surreal night, a kaleidoscope of frantic dreams and tired examinations. And sooner or later in those situations, you wake from a sound sleep and need to go to the bathroom, and the mere act of moving leaves you irrevocably alert, the way you get when young kids are crying in the night and you’re running around just a little too much to fall back asleep easily.

  And tonight there’s a lot to think about. That never helps.

  Somewhere in there, I look out the window for the film, and now I can’t see it, now I’m wondering if we’ve truly lost it at last.

  So I spend the last few hours anxiously floating between sleep and wakefulness, trying not to bump into Kerwin as he floats lazily on the other side of the main cabin. He’s in the default zero gravity position, the one you fall into when you’re not restrained in a sleeping bag: legs bent at the hips and knees, arms out in front, like a dead man floating face down on the surface of the ocean.

  Eventually he’s up again for the last checkup. Everything’s fine. Which means we should have tried to retrieve the canister yesterday.

  We blink and try to shake off our numb tiredness; we pull up the light shades and get started on our day. Soon Shepard joins us and we make breakfast in silence.

  “Explorer, Houston,” Crippen says when the morning broadcast comes on. “It looks like it is…uhh…not your normal news day. There’s breaking news out of Washington that President Johnson was found unresponsive in his room. We’ve got a couple TVs on down here, and they’re saying there will be a press conference shortly. We will keep you advised, over.”

  “Jesus,” Shepard says.

  “I wonder if they can patch that in for us. The broadcast.” I’m eager to hear it, even though I think I know what they’re going to say; for all my profoundly mixed feelings about Johnson, it’ll be another one of those days where everyone remembers where they were and what they were doing. I imagine the scenes across the country, all the morning routines: men shaving in their bathrooms with one ear tuned to the transistor radio next to the sink, hand on the faucet but not turning it, just so they can catch the bulletin; others heading to work already, walking past the TVs in the department store displays, slowing down as they see the screens; women pouring cereal for the kids, then stopping, forgetting the milk so they can smoke a cigarette and listen. It feels odd to know that we’re not a part of it.

  Shepard flips a switch. “Houston, Explorer, we copy about the president. If there’s any way we can listen in, please make it happen, over.”

  We wait.

  “Jesus. Johnson.”

  “Wow,” Kerwin chimes in. “This is…”

  “We don’t know anything yet,” Shepard points out.

  We wait.

  “Well, I guess our little…event won’t even make the news,” I say. The words feel wrong coming out, and I immediately want to take them back. “I do have a bad feeling.”

  We wait.

  And then at last: “Explorer, we copy your request. Stand by.”

  We wait again. Then static, and: “…appears the president suffered a severe myocardial infarction sometime between 5:00 and 6:30 a.m. Upon discovering him unresponsive at 6:30 a.m., Secret Service personnel attempted to resuscitate him, without success. He was rushed via ambulance to George Washington University Hospital, where he was pronounced dead on arrival. Vice President…excuse me. President Humphrey has taken the oath of office. We have no further statements at this time.” And with that, and a brief eruption of unacknowledged questions, it was over.

  I float numbly. “Jesus. Johnson.”

  “Wow,” Kerwin says. “He’s one of those people, it almost doesn’t matter whether you love him or hate him, you just…assume somehow that he’s always gonna be around.”

  I think back on my conversations with him: the moon, the White House, back at the LBJ Ranch. “I doubt we’d be here without him.”

  “Probably not,” Shepard says. “There’s something about all this that really…struck his fancy. I was in a motorcade with him, not that long after my first flight, when he was still veep. Just one of those…ridiculous, overwhelming motorcades, heading into this arena in Houston, and it was hot as hell, and still the people had turned out in droves. Cheering, cheering. And I said to him, ‘Is this what it’s like being a politician?’ And he said, ‘It’s never like this. My God, these people love you!’ Like that was all that mattered.”

  “You know what De Gaulle said at Kennedy’s funeral,” Kerwin chimes in. “‘This man Kennedy, he’s the mask America wears. But this man Johnson, he’s the face behind the mask.’”

  “I’m curious what they’ll say now.” I give up on my meal and start readying the remainder for the trash airlock.

  “Lotta mixed feelings, I’m sure. But nobody says all of it at a time like this. People respect death, even if they’ve stopped respecting the man.”

  Shepard looks around at the spacecraft, as if appreciating it anew. “I will say this. Johnson was the type of asshole to do something like this just because people said it couldn’t be done. I can respect an asshole like that.”

  “Well that’s a…hell of a eulogy.” I chuckle. “If Houston asks us for our response, we should pass that along. Comments from our fearless leader.”

  Shepard gives me a dirty look.

  •••

  Eventually we get the go-ahead for the second EVA. Since the old film canister’s drifted off, it is decided that we’ll just complete the installation of the new one.

  Because we haven’t entirely determined the cause of my water malfunction, it’s decided that I’ll suit up without my undergarment and play the role Kerwin had played yesterday. Meanwhile Kerwin gets to keep an eye out while Shepard performs the spacewalk. I d
on’t even get to stick my head out the hatch this time.

  We perform the same sad routines, somewhat tiredly this time.

  And soon we’re depressurizing again, and Shepard’s heading out, and I’m just floating there mutely in the command module, staring through my helmet at the brightly-lit vacuum, trying not to mope. Shepard’s doing the work, but everybody’s anxious about me.

  Everything goes perfectly this time. I’m happy, to a point.

  •••

  “Buzz, can I talk to you for a moment?” Shepard asks once everything’s done and the command module’s finally powered down.

  “What’s up?” I look around and realize Kerwin’s off in the bathroom. This feels like a setup of some sort.

  “The issue with the food inventory the other day. We do have to deal with that.” Now that he’s talking about it, I can tell he’s upset: the coldness and sharpness of tone are both at levels that I would call historically high.

  Was I insubordinate? I’m trying to be a good crewmember, to have some teeny tiny bit of say in what we do and how we do it, and there’s no need to apologize for that…is there? I take a deep breath. “It was something we needed to look at. If something’s happened down there…”

  “Exactly,” he says. “And I think the only fair way to deal with this situation is to have you do a complete inventory. Solo. Top to bottom. Inspect every food tray, every packet. Write down the numbers and compare them to where we’re supposed to be. If this is such an important issue for you, I figure it’ll benefit from your close personal attention.”

  “That’s gonna be quite a job…” I imagine it: a mess, very difficult, trying to unload all the stacks and corral the trays and put them all somewhere else in a way that doesn’t screw everything up.

  He smirks. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  •••

  For the rest of the day, I’m unloading the stacks, one at a time, counting every meal. It’s the part after the counting that’s the headache; you can’t just stack things in neat piles, so I’m forced to go section by section, ten at a time, putting the trays in a loose floating cloud, an airborne constellation. When each section is done, I scoop up the group in a clean Beta cloth bag and bring it up to the vacant command module; when each stack is done, I reload it. It’s mindless and repetitive, and although I can appreciate Shepard’s artful matching of punishment and crime, it still rankles me, a bit.