“Our MSDD. An antique beauty, isn’t it?”
He explained that the system had been constructed back in the 1970s.
“It is even older than you, sir,” the technician said with a smile to Willinger, whom he appeared to know well. He gazed at Martin. “And you are reputed to be such an exceptional programmer.”
This was the first time in Martin’s life he had met a stranger who had heard of him.
“So you should be interested in the control software. We emulate a DEC PDP-11/34 programmed in FORTRAN on current hardware,” the technician said.
Martin nodded. I would indeed like to take a look at that software—definitely a true museum piece, which is rare these days. However, this was also typical of the pragmatic approach used by NASA. When the facility was built, they obviously still needed a PDP-11 mainframe to control it. Later, the mainframe was emulated on a normal PC rather than reprogramming everything from scratch. Nowadays, the control software would probably run on any intelligent power outlet.
“Why didn’t you simply recompile the FORTRAN programs?” Martin asked.
“It is all tied very closely to the hardware,” the technician explained. “Does the term Unibus still mean anything to you? Control and interface are located on two Unibus cards for which we got a Strobe Osprey. For the system, our PC now looks like a good old PDP-11. Constructing a new system would have cost millions, and the old one still fulfills its purpose. You are going to see that. Afterward, why don’t you come to my little room back there?” The technician pointed to the right.
“But,” he went on, “let’s concentrate on work first. Has someone already told you what MSDD is often called by its, ahem, victims?”
“Why don’t you tell me that afterward?” said Martin.
Willinger laughed.
“We already reserved Cabin 1 for you. Please enter.”
The technician opened the door of the capsule numbered 1. Martin bent down to enter. It was dark inside. A comfortable seat was located in the center. In front of it there were several monitors, an input console, and several control levers.
“Take this.”
The technician pressed a paper bag into his hand. Then he closed the door of the cabin behind him. A pair of headphones hung from the seat back. Martin put them on and buckled in.
The voice of the technician continued, “The purpose of this apparatus is to show you how easily your senses can be deceived. Spatial disorientation is responsible for the majority of accidents in military aviation. It is heightened by the lack of reference points, darkness, and acceleration. All of these are factors you will encounter as an astronaut. But don’t worry, you are completely safe here. If you feel sick, use the paper bag. This is also absolutely normal. We would actually worry if you did not react that way. However, if you miss the bag, you will have to clean up the mess yourself.”
Martin looked at the bag in the bluish light of the monitors and opened it carefully. Now I know why I have always avoided such rides at carnivals. He breathed in the air that seemed to have thickened since the closing of the door. Is there a sour smell left behind by my predecessors? He wrinkled his nose.
The technician said, “We are about to start.”
A roller blind opened in front of Martin—he had not noticed it before. Behind it was a pane of frosted glass that seemed to be lit by a projector. It showed a starry sky, maybe to calm him down. Martin felt the acceleration as the platform was turning. The starry sky remained in place. Nice trick. His eyes told him he was standing still, while the balance system in his ears signaled acceleration. A new force pulled at his back, and the capsule was now spinning around its own axis, first slowly, then faster. The starry sky raced past when the cabin was facing the middle. It began to change, and now the stars no longer stood still but seemed to move backwards. His optical sense was convinced this carousel was turning the other way, yet he felt the acceleration and heard a slight rumbling.
“In front of you there is a joystick. Aim it toward the direction in which the capsule is moving,” ordered the technician.
Martin grabbed the joystick. When he moved it, a reticle moved across the coordinate system on the screen. Martin could not make up his mind. Was it X axis, plus or minus? Or Y axis? From what he had seen of the device, it could not possibly move along the Z axis because the capsule only had a single pivot joint. However, the image in the window told him he was floating upward at an angle.
Martin selected this direction with the joystick and pressed the trigger.
“Totally wrong.”
A blue circle flashed at the correct position.
“Again.”
Martin had to learn to distrust his optical sense. The stars never moved from their positions, no matter how fast a spacecraft moved through space. They were much too far away. He needed to question any reference points. In space, there were neither contrails nor engine sounds. He could only rely on two inputs, the signals of his inner ear indicating his body was being accelerated in a certain direction, and the seeming change in size of an object that came nearer or moved farther away. As long as he moved with constant speed through the emptiness of space, he would not be able to determine his movement data without sophisticated machinery. He noticed he still held the paper bag in his left hand. It was needless, as he did not feel sick.
The MSDD changed the rotation of the platform and of the capsule according to a predetermined program. It made the starry sky change its position, sometimes faster, sometimes slower. Martin became more and more aware of which inputs were only meant to confuse him and which ones were genuine. Despite this, he did not always hit the target with his joystick. Human senses were not made for orientation in a three-dimensional space. For millions of years, humans and their predecessors had been moving across a seemingly flat plain. Sea creatures probably would make better astronauts than humans.
“Alright, that’s enough,” the voice of the technician said in Martin’s headphones. The sound of the rotation faded away. Soon afterward, the technician opened the door. Martin was blinded by the bright light. Willinger offered him a hand. Martin rejected it, but after his first step out of the capsule, he stumbled. For a while he seemed to be standing on an incline. Willinger caught him.
“That’s a typical aftereffect,” he said, laughing raucously.
October 23, 2045, Pensacola
“Tomorrow you are climbing Mt. Everest. However, you can leave your hiking boots and your backpack at home,” Willinger had announced yesterday. Once again they were to meet at the building of the Medical Institute.
Extreme height meant low air pressure. So, Martin was not surprised when Willinger led him to a room with a large tank. It was a pressure chamber. A doctor was in charge here, and he addressed both men. “Low pressure and low oxygen saturation have different effects on different people. The purpose is to have you notice these signs yourself. Maybe sometime your spacecraft will lose pressure and the sensors will fail. Then you must start a countermeasure before it is too late. You certainly won’t have much time. If your brain does not receive oxygen for three minutes, you will be dead.”
The man in the white lab coat, who had not introduced himself by name, led them into the basement. Willinger seemed to know him because he sometimes whispered to him. The sign at the door the doctor finally opened with his chip card read, HAI Lab. The room was classroom-sized and was mostly filled with a sort of gas tank, a horizontal cylinder with an entrance at one end.
“This is our HAI, or High-Altitude Indoctrination Device. Others might call it a pressure chamber. You know how the military loves acronyms,” said the doctor.
I almost forgot. We are still at a Navy installation, Martin thought.
“Well then, let’s go inside.”
The doctor pulled at the handle of the hatch, which opened with a creak.
“This really should be lubricated sometime,” he mused.
The chamber was surprisingly spacious on the inside. LEDs on the ceilin
g bathed it in a warm, white light. At the left and the right stood benches, and the walls behind them were padded. Pipes ran across the ceiling. Some of them led to oxygen masks hanging from loops. At the front end of the chamber stood a tripod holding a video camera that could watch the entire room.
“First we are going up to two and a half kilometers to see how you handle low pressure. Eventually we will reach eight kilometers.”
In his head, Martin thought about what these numbers really meant. Eight kilometers; like on a peak in the Himalayas, but without the cold and the wind.
“In order to protect Willinger and you against the bends, you will breathe pure oxygen for a while before you go up. This will lower the partial pressure of nitrogen in your blood and prevent bubbles from forming in case of rapid changes in pressure. A pulmonary embolism is no joking matter. So, if you please.”
The doctor gave both of them oxygen masks, pulling one at a time down from the ceiling on its elastic cord.
“Put these on and continue breathing normally. Have a nice flight.”
The man left the pressure chamber. Martin heard the pressure lock creak. For a while, nothing happened. Then he felt the deep rumbling of a machine that was probably drawing off air.
“Two point five kilometers,” the voice of the doctor said through the loudspeakers. “Is the pressure equalization working?”
Martin had never had any problem with this. He simply had to swallow, and his ears would pop.
“Everything is fine,” he said.
“Leave the mask on. Answer with hand signals.”
Martin formed an OK with his fingers, as divers do.
“We are moving up. This will take a bit longer.”
Martin swallowed several times. Even so, the pressure difference eventually became so great he had to breathe strongly through his nose to equalize it.
“Here we are, at eight kilometers. Welcome to Mt. Everest. Take off the mask when I give the sign. Continue breathing normally. The goal is a maximum of four minutes. Don’t be too ambitious, though. We don’t want to do unnecessary damage to your brain cells. During this session, I will present you with a few tasks. Please watch yourself for symptoms of hypoxia. Let me remind you what you learned; dizziness, tiredness, extremities feeling numb or tingly, nausea, and breathing difficulties are possible, though those might not be the only symptoms. Every person reacts differently. Okay, now take off the mask.”
Martin took another deep breath and took the mask off his face. Willinger gave him an encouraging smile. The older man leaned against the wall with his legs outstretched. He looked relaxed but didn’t say a word. Martin’s first breaths didn’t feel different than those at a lower altitude. That’s surprising, he noted. His body was not yet aware that each breath transported two thirds less oxygen than usual into his lungs.
However, the oxygen level in his blood was rapidly decreasing. The tissue likely to be affected soonest consisted of the nerve cells in the brain—and it was his little gray cells that warned Martin of the danger. I am having a hard time concentrating on the doctor’s questions, he noted. Multiplying two-digit numbers should have been easy, but he kept forgetting the intermediate results. A minute later he started feeling a pounding headache. He massaged his temples, which helped a bit. These were the effects of getting too little oxygen.
The biggest problem was that Martin clearly identified these symptoms, and he unconsciously tried to compensate for it by breathing faster. The respiratory system, though, does not work that way. The gas exchange in his lungs could not be accelerated by taking faster breaths. Martin knew this, but his mind, struggling with a bad oxygen supply, did not manage to get that across to his body. He kept breathing faster and still got less and less air. Suddenly Willinger sat up, leaned toward Martin, and placed a hand on his mouth. Now Martin could not breathe at all. “Slowly, quite slowly,” the astronaut said, and then removed his hand and leaned back. Martin concentrated and took a slow and deep breath. He felt calmer.
“Two more minutes,” the doctor’s voice announced.
Martin could barely believe only half of the time had passed. The seconds seemed to stretch on endlessly. Once his breathing normalized, the less he thought about it. He looked at his fingers; the tips seemed to tingle slightly. He thought of a steak and felt hunger rather than nausea. He could no longer multiply, but he could still follow directions.
“Lift your left arm and point to your nose with your ring finger.”
No problem.
“Cross your arms. And now change the direction of the crossing.”
Finished.
“Left hand to right knee, right hand on left shoulder.”
Finally, the doctor said, “Very good. Your time on the summit is over. Please put your mask on. We are going to descend.”
October 25, 2045, NASA
“I would like to talk to you about the rest of your training.” Yesterday, Willinger had announced they would be meeting an important NASA official today. The man’s name tag read, Walter Cusack. He appeared to be way past retirement age; white hair, a weathered face, and a somewhat stooped posture, but a still-energetic gait.
“Our quality standards are high, very high. I am not trying to offend you, but under normal circumstances...” Cusack began.
Willinger wanted to contradict him, but the man stopped this with a wave of his hand. Willinger leaned back in his chair. Martin had never seen him this tame.
Cusack continued. “No matter that the circumstances are extraordinary. The Europeans are trying to avoid an internal struggle and are glad you are a candidate favored by several important arguments. First of all, you are one-half German, which is enough for them. India, on the other hand, would be glad to reduce expenses. The war with Pakistan is putting a lot of stress on them. They would welcome the unexpected saving of several billion dollars right now.”
Martin thought he had misheard. “Did you say several billion? That can’t be.”
“No, you heard that right,” Cusack said. “You are worth several billion dollars. Each region sending an astronaut must participate in financing this expedition. We were lucky to find a private sponsor for you at the last moment.”
Some billionaire was willing to pay several billion so I can fly to Saturn in a spacecraft? Martin was puzzled. Couldn’t this person have sent me a thousandth of that sum and just been happy about saving his money?
“Be that as it may, we have to streamline your training. Normally, you would get a jet pilot license first, but that would take weeks, and it wouldn’t help you anyway. Who knows if you’ll ever return?” Cusack waited to see how he would react.
He seems to have expected some kind of shocked expression, Martin thought, showing no reaction.
“Well. You seem to realize what your chances look like. We are flying without any safety nets. So far, neither the spacecraft nor its drive has been really tested. You already saw what teething troubles Valkyrie had. Compared to this, the moon landing was well-prepared back in its day.”
Martin knew his history well. In retrospect, it had been by sheer luck that the American astronauts had made it to the moon and back.
“Are you trying to talk me out of doing the job?” Martin asked.
“For heaven’s sake, no. No one knows his way around the drill vehicle like you, as both of your bosses have assured me. You are our first pick for that position. Of course, we are also training a substitute, in case you drop out at the last minute. Just think of what happened to the Sikh.”
“I would like to meet the guy you are training as my substitute.”
“The person is a woman, and you are not supposed to meet her. She has been a member of the Astronaut Corps for a while and will participate in a mission to Mars unless you drop out here,” Cusack said.
“So what’s going to happen next?”
“Right, let’s not waste any time. Next week you will meet all of your colleagues for the first time. They are all waiting for that moment. We will s
end the entire group of you on wilderness survival training.”
It won’t help me if I know how to light a fire with wet wood, neither in space nor on Enceladus, Martin realized, though he knew the main goal was to test them as a group.
“Afterward there will be underwater training in spacesuits, and then off into space. We are going to skip the parabolic flights. Otherwise we won’t be able to meet the deadlines. You will get plenty of zero-gravity training aboard the Chinese Tiangong-4 station.”
Martin asked, “Will I still be here for Christmas?”
“I wouldn’t count on it. The construction of your spacecraft is proceeding unexpectedly smoothly. If we manage a December launch, your journey will be as short as possible. If we wait any longer, your journey will take longer, since Saturn wouldn’t be in such an advantageous position.”
“Well. I would like to have a week off before launch.”
“If you promise me you won’t go skiing or mountain-climbing ...”
“No, I am just going to visit my mother.”
“You do that, Mr. Neumaier. We trust you.”
Martin and Willinger shook hands with Cusack when they said goodbye.
“Typical for NASA,” Willinger whispered to Martin when they were in the corridor. “I could have told you all of that. Instead, they fly in some guy from California.”
“He probably had nothing else to do,” Martin mused.
Willinger nodded. “What would you think about going out for some drinks tonight? You will leave us the day after tomorrow, and we haven’t even had a beer together.”
“Sure,” Martin nodded. “Are you going to pick me up? I don’t have a car here.”
“I will be in front of your door at eight.”
Willinger was punctual. “You’re not one of those vegetarians, are you?”
Martin shook his head.
“That’s good, because I would like to take you to PJ’s. It’s steak night there tonight. And tonight they don’t have karaoke scheduled, or football or baseball on TV, so we’ll even be able to have a decent conversation.”
Ice Moon 1 The Enceladus Mission Page 6
