“No sir, we have almost continual communications thanks to lunar orbiting relay satellites.”
Mr. Smith raised an eyebrow even though Mr. Taylor could not see him.
“It still takes 1.3 seconds for light to travel one way from the Moon, 2.6 seconds roundtrip. But with your help, we'll have the computer programmed to handle most problems.”
“Yeah,” Mr. Smith agreed. “Pings works pretty good.”
I mouthed “Pings?” at Dr. Winkler.
He whispered back, “Sounds like an acronym for the navigation program.”
I nodded and mouthed “Thanks” back at him.
“Need to run it again with some failures?” Mr. Smith asked.
“Yes, that would be very helpful,” Mr. Taylor said. “But first let's take a break and see what questions the pilot and guidance team have for you.”
Dr. Winkler helped Mr. Smith to the sofa on the side of the office, and I sat down too. I don't know which one of us was more dazed. “Can I call my wife now?” Mr. Smith asked. “She'll probably worry.”
Dr. Winkler smiled. “She's fine. She's with her mother.”
“Oh, right,” Mr. Smith said. He looked down at his slippers. “Mother is going to be mad.”
* * * *
It was the strangest afternoon and evening I had ever spent in my life. I stood by Mr. Smith while he flew one simulation after another, with jets failed, with computer problems, with navigation errors, with popped circuit breakers. As I watched, I realized that even with his Alzheimer's, Mr. Smith still knew more about spaceflight than most people alive today. I felt incredibly lucky to have the chance to learn even a tiny bit of what he could teach me.
During breaks we ate snacks and drank decaf coffee and followed the progress of the crew on the Moon. Ms. Phillips had gotten the injured historian strapped into the module.
Dr. Winkler called my mother and asked if I could stay for dinner and into the evening. He said he had recruited me to help with a memory experiment involving one of the patients, and it would mean a lot if I were there until the patient went to bed. He'd get me a cab home. My mother fully supported my activities here, and after verifying with me that I had done my homework in study hall as usual, agreed I could stay as late as ten.
A nurse brought us dinner, and we ate there in Dr. Winkler's office. Mr. Smith fell asleep on the sofa soon afterward. I moved the simulation equipment out to the lounge and connected the big television to the NASA feed. Then I returned to Dr. Winkler’ office.
The flight team was discussing possibly changing the rendezvous sequence. Because the batteries in the spacesuits had only a few hours left, the initial decision was to fly something called a direct ascent. But Mr. Smith had advised against it, saying that direct ascent was too risky for Apollo. As a result, Flight Director Taylor ordered a special “tiger” team to investigate options and report back.
One of the tiger team members confirmed that direct ascent wasn't used for Apollo. “Although that option is the simplest, requiring only a single burn of the ascent engine to put the LM on a path to intercept the target ship a half orbit later,” the man reported, “the Apollo team felt that the likelihood of variations in the thrust during ascent presented too much risk. The short duration of the approach didn't allow much time for their old computers to calculate, and the crew to execute, the maneuvers to correct the flight path. If those corrections weren't made, the LM would miss the interception point and crash into the lunar surface.”
“Couldn't the command module have changed course and rescued the LM?” the flight director asked.
“In some cases,” the man replied. “But course changes require fuel, and its fuel was very limited.”
“I assume that the computer and fuel issues do not apply in our case?”
“That's correct,” the man responded.
“Flight, Lunar Ops,” a woman's voice called.
“Go ahead, Lunar Ops,” the flight director said.
A short pause ensued. “Thank you, sir. My main concern is time. No offense to the guidance team, but they were still making changes to the software half an hour ago. There's a reasonable chance that we will need Ms. Phillips to take manual control. I understand she has walked through the procedures in the cockpit, but that's no substitute for flight experience—especially with an untested vehicle! She needs time to adjust to the actual vehicle and environment. The coelliptic sequence gives her a whole lunar orbit to do that—and also makes my job as cargo pilot easier if I have to rescue her.” She's the one who will fly the cargo ship remotely! She's probably at the lunar south pole!
“Flight, Surgeon.”
“Go ahead, Surgeon.”
“Sir, I understand Lunar Ops’ concern, but an extra hour trapped in that spacesuit may mean the difference between life and death for the injured historian, Dr. Canterbury. We're also concerned about Ms. Phillips’ state of mind. She was severely traumatized by the death of the pilot and is barely able to follow simple directions. The sooner both of them get out of those suits, the better their chances for survival.”
Guidance assured the flight director that the new software would support direct ascent, especially after the simulations with Mr. Smith. The flight director decided to stick with direct ascent.
“Flight, Lunar Ops.”
“Go ahead, Lunar Ops.”
Another short delay followed that I now understood was because of the distance the signal had to travel. “I understand and will do my best to support the direct ascent. But I have a request. No offense to the guidance team, but speaking as a pilot, I'd feel a lot better if we have that Apollo astronaut do any flying that's necessary.”
“You mean have Mr. Smith input the commands to the autopilot program? I'm not sure he'll be up to it. Doctor Winkler, what do you think?”
“Sir, I'm sorry,” Dr. Winkler said. “But I don't know what state he will be in when he wakes up from his rest. I have some medication I can give him that should help, and George and I will do our best to remind him of the circumstances. But I suggest that you go with your original plan to have one of your astronauts run the autopilot and talk Ms. Phillips through any problems.”
“Excuse me, Flight,” the flight surgeon interjected. “How about if we have Mr. Smith serve as a coach for Ms. Phillips? Being a historian, having an Apollo astronaut looking over her shoulder could keep her calm and also give her the confidence she needs.”
“That's an excellent idea,” Lunar Ops said.
“Doctor Winkler?'
He glanced over at me. “George, you know how he usually behaves after his afternoon naps. Think he can do it?”
I gulped. The fate of two people might depend on my decision. I looked at Mr. Smith sleeping peacefully. Usually, a nap “reset” his memory. But given the right “props,” I could probably get him back into his astronaut mindset in time for the launch, now only forty-five minutes away. I took a deep breath and nodded yes. I hoped I wouldn't regret this!
Doctor Winkler and the capcom, who was a current astronaut with lunar experience, agreed to do a voice check and let Mr. Smith talk to Ms. Phillips before the launch. At that time, we'd decide if he could continue on the live loop and be given command authority to the autopilot.
I stood up. “Dr. Winkler, I'm going to get Mr. Smith's shoes—his slippers remind him of his mother.”
The doctor nodded in understanding. “While you're up there, see if he has a white shirt. And bring a belt too. People used to dress up back then.”
“Roger!” I said, and dashed out for the elevator.
When I returned, the liftoff was only a half hour away. Dr. Winkler was talking on his cell—something about a security team. He disconnected when he saw me and said, “Time to wake our famous moonwalker.”
Dr. Winkler set a wind-up alarm clock (no voice controls!) next to Mr. Smith and let it ring. Mr. Smith immediately nabbed it and shut it off. He blinked and stared at Dr. Winkler, who had donned his white lab coat. “Do I know you?
” he asked. Dr. Winkler explained that he was a NASA flight surgeon. He regretted waking him, but Mission Control needed Mr. Smith's assistance.
“There's a mission on?” he asked, straightening up.
“Yes, and they're in trouble,” Dr. Winkler said as he handed him the white golf shirt I'd brought. The doctor explained what had happened to Ms. Phillips, and that Mission Control wanted him to talk her through a lunar ascent and rendezvous. Mr. Smith looked confused. “We beat the Russians, and quit flying to the Moon,” he insisted.
“Yes, we did,” the doctor agreed. “But then we went back to the Moon as partners. Ms. Phillips was visiting the Moon when the accident happened.”
I cringed. I wish he hadn't used the word “accident.” It might evoke memories of Mr. Smith's wife. But Mr. Smith was more focused on the first part of the sentence. “Partners? With the Russians? Like Apollo-Soyuz?"
“That's right,” Dr. Winkler said. “Like Apollo-Soyuz, only on the Moon.”
“Okay,” Mr. Smith said. “And they got in trouble?”
“Yes,” Dr. Winkler repeated. I helped Mr. Smith with his shoes and then his belt. I combed his thin white hair. He suddenly noticed me and stared at my badge. “What kind of badge is that? Are you press? Reporters aren't allowed in here.”
“I'm not a reporter, Mr. Smith. I'm George. I'm uh, a member of the guidance team,” I said quickly in an attempt to use an appropriate term. I thought of adding that I was in charge of the “manual” system, but stopped myself.
“Then don't call me Mr. Smith,” he barked. “Makes me feel old.”
“Okay, Bob,” I said with a wink.
Dr. Winkler handed him a cup of coffee spiked with some of that pink medicine. Mr. Smith sipped it gratefully. “Ready?” Dr. Winkler asked.
“Where are we going?” Mr. Smith asked.
“To the hotel lobby—we've set up a direct link to Mission Control. We're going to help a young woman take off from the Moon.”
“Better call my wife,” he said. “She'll be worried.”
“She's visiting her mother,” Dr. Winkler explained.
“Oh? That's good,” he said.
I heard a thumping sound as we approached the double doors at the front of the building. “Whoa,” I said. “There's a helicopter in the parking lot!”
“Darn press,” mumbled Mr. Smith. His hands curled into fists.
“No, sir, that's Homeland Se—I mean the Air Force,” Dr. Winkler said. So that's who he was talking to on the phone! Wonder what they're doing here.
“Oh, of course,” Mr. Smith said, his hands relaxing again.
A man in a black suit with a security bud in his ear was asking Yvonne a question. With her eyes as large as saucers, she pointed in our direction. The man turned toward us. I thought he looked like one of those guys who guard the president. Maybe he did. He saluted Mr. Smith as we walked past, and Mr. Smith acknowledged him with a curt nod. Then Mr. Smith blew a kiss at Yvonne, who blushed deeply enough to match the purple of the front desk.
Would she guess who Mr. Smith was now? Even if she did, I realized that I would not be able to confirm her suspicions without breaking my word. I'd always thought of security as keeping bad guys out, not good guys in!
Is that why DHS was here? To make sure no one tried to kidnap Mr. Smith? Age and Alzheimer's had kind of done that already. Or were they here to keep the media out in case someone leaked that one of the original moonwalkers was alive and helping them? Or both?
At the doorway to the lounge, another man in black stopped us. Mr. Smith waited patiently while he asked me to raise my arms and ran a metal detector over me like they do at airports. He confiscated my phone, saying no recordings or photos were allowed. Did I understand?
I didn't know if this was an act for Mr. Smith's benefit or not, but I quickly replied, “Yes sir!” Lakewood did not to allow the taking of photos or videos of the residents by non-family members, anyway. Now I understand just how important that rule was to someone like Mr. Smith.
A nicely dressed middle-aged woman stood up as we shuffled Mr. Smith into the darkened lounge. She pecked Mr. Smith on the cheek. “Good to see you again, Flyboy!” she said. With an exaggerated wink, she added, “Name's Ruth, in case you forgot.”
Mr. Smith didn't show any signs of recognizing this woman, but he returned her wink and said, “I never forget a beautiful woman!”
Dr. Winkler explained that Ruth Pressa was the relative who had granted permission to contact Mission Control. She shook my hand warmly and whispered in my ear, “Thank you for being such a good friend to my great-grandfather. It means a lot to our family.”
Her great-grandfather? “It's my privilege, ma'am,” I said. Her badge sported the seal of the DHS and her last name at the bottom in capital letters, “PRESSA.” I wondered what kind of work she did for them?
While Dr. Winkler escorted Mr. Smith to a chair, Ms. Pressa handed me an old-fashioned wired headset and a speaker box. “This is a Mission Control headset and speaker box from the Apollo Restoration Project. I rigged up an interface so you can plug these into your laptop.” She pointed to a rocker switch on the cord. “This is the push-to-talk button that he'll use to talk to Ms. Phillips. If he starts spouting nonsense, just unplug him from the laptop—he'll hear a click. Tell him we lost the signal.” I nodded, hoping I'd not need to do that.
She continued. “The speaker box is set to broadcast and receive. The flight director and all the team will hear everything said in this room, so be careful to always call him Mr. Smith.”
“I understand,” I said. I decided not to tell her I didn't know his real name anyway.
“Okay then, I'll let you get to work.” She settled into a chair next to Dr. Winkler.
I motioned Mr. Smith to join me standing behind the simulator. Our interface to Mission Control was the same set-up I'd used earlier, except that I'd added some bar stools in case our feet got tired. Also, I'd left the projector off since we had live images from Mission Control. The view from Ms. Phillips’ helmet cam was in the center of the screen. On the right was a graph of data from the spacesuits showing power and carbon dioxide levels and stuff like that. On the left was a plot of the planned trajectory of the direct ascent rendezvous. It looked pretty simple; an arc from the surface that intersected a dotted circle around the Moon. The cargo ship was marked by a yellow Pac-Man that was slowly eating its way around the dotted circle. I smiled. Someone on the flight control team had a sense of humor.
“I saw that movie,” Mr. Smith said, looking at the TV. “Isn't that the one with Tom Hanks in it?”
“No,” I said. “This is a live image from the Moon. There's a woman who needs to fly to lunar orbit.”
“What's a woman doing on the Moon? Is this some Russian stunt?”
“No, she's an American,” I replied patiently. Had he forgotten everything we'd told him already? My heart rate climbed. “What's important is that if she doesn't rendezvous with a cargo ship in lunar orbit, she and the other passenger will die. Unfortunately, she's not a pilot.”
Mr. Smith frowned. “She'll never make it.”
“Not on her own, she won't,” I said. “That's why we need you. NASA has set up the computer to fly the ascent automatically—you know, like ‘pings'?” I hoped I had the term right.
He nodded. “Pings works great,” he said.
I continued. “Yes, and pings was recently updated so that it can do all the calculations really fast. But it can't fly like the best LM pilot alive.” No need to say the only one. He smiled at this praise. “So NASA needs you to help this woman—her name is Ms. Clara Phillips—with the launch and rendezvous.”
“I can do that,” Mr. Smith said, placing his large hand on the stick, just like he'd done hours earlier. I let out the breath I'd been holding.
I looked over at Dr. Winkler who gave me a thumbs-up sign. Mr. Smith donned the old-fashioned headset like he wore one every day. I plugged it into my laptop. If Mr. Smith got confused, I'd be respo
nsible for literally pulling the plug.
“Houston would like to do a voice check of their secure line,” I said.
“Hello, Mr. Smith, this is Houston Capcom. How do you read?”
“Roger, Houston, read you five by,” Mr. Smith answered.
“Good. The flight director would like to speak to you.”
“Go ahead,” Mr. Smith said.
“Hello, Mr. Smith. I'm Flight Director Keegan Taylor,” he said. “We appreciate you helping us in this emergency. Time is short, so let me fill you in on a few details.”
Mr. Smith listened intently as the flight director explained that they were going to do a direct ascent, and that they might need him to take over manually.
“Understood,” Mr. Smith said.
“Oh, and if you're willing, we'd like you to talk to Ms. Phillips, tell her what to expect before it happens—keeping in mind the 1.3-second signal delay, so she'll stay calm. Can you do that?”
“Sure,” Mr. Smith replied simply.
“Good. Then I'll have Capcom patch you through to Ms. Phillips. Her first name is Clara.”
The capcom's voice came over the speaker, “Clara, this is Houston on Private Channel Alpha, do you copy?”
A second later, she responded, “Yes, Houston, I hear you. My hands are shaking so badly, I'm afraid I'll press the wrong buttons!”
“Clara, you will do fine,” the capcom assured her. “You just press PROCEED at T-5, and the computer will take it from there.”
“But this LM was never tested under real conditions, and I'm not a pilot!”
“We know that, Clara. But that engine worked on every Apollo flight, and the systems are looking good. To reassure you, we've asked a very special person to come out of retirement. I'm going to patch him through to speak to you. He wishes to keep his name secret, and goes by Mr. Smith, but we have verified that he is in fact one of the original Apollo moonwalkers.”
A second later, she said, “But that's impossible! The last one died in a car crash with his wife. I went to their funeral!”
“Apparently, only the wife actually died in that crash. Mr. Smith was sent to a secret location to spend his last years free of media scrutiny.”
Analog SFF, July-August 2010 Page 15
