Falling to Earth

by Al Worden

  I looked through the sextant and the telescope to try and find them, but sunlight in the scopes made it hard to see anything. Finally, in the corner of my eye, I spotted a flash of light in the telescope. I manually drove the instruments over to that point, and there it was—a very bright light. “I’ve got your lights now, Dave,” I told them. Soon afterward, on the far side of the moon, Dave spotted Endeavour, a dim star in the distance.

  “Oh, you’re shining in the sunlight now. Boy, is that pretty!” I called as we grew ever closer. “I believe I can even make out the shape.”

  As Falcon steadily rose to meet me, Dave and Jim gave Endeavour an extensive look-over, while I photographed them in turn. Falcon had left its descent stage on the surface of the moon and was now much smaller than when I had last seen it. The lunar module appeared fragile before, but now it looked like I could reach out and crumple it with my fist. Glinting in the sunlight, it was painfully bright to look at.

  Dave and Jim get a good view of the SIM bay as we rendezvous in lunar orbit.

  Falcon was so light, a pulse of their thrusters rattled them around. So it was easier for me to dock using Endeavour. I slowly slid toward them, so gently that we barely touched. Then, with a touch of my thrusters, I pushed forward into a hard dock.

  The rendezvous and docking had been fast, and perfect. “Good show, Endeavour,” Dave radioed to me. “Welcome home,” I replied. That might seem like an odd choice of words—after all, we were still a quarter of a million miles from Earth. But Endeavour had become my home, and Dave and Jim were returning from a great adventure. “The Falcon is back on its roost and going to sleep,” Dave added with a poetic flourish.

  I’d kept our home clean and tidy for them. But now, as I opened the hatches between the spacecraft I saw two grimy faces. Their spacesuits were dirty, and I could smell the moon dust in the air. It was a new, peculiar odor to me, dry and gunpowdery. I kept the hatch closed as much as possible while we began to transfer equipment, hoping the floating dust would not spread. I was mostly successful, but the creep of dust was unavoidable. Dave and Jim floated long sample tubes of lunar dirt and boxes of moon rocks through the hatch, which I stowed inside Endeavour under the couches. Mindful of the new rules after the Soyuz 11 depressurization tragedy, we kept our spacesuits on.

  While busily running SIM bay experiments, I also stored Falcon’s flight plans and checklists, food, priceless photos in film magazines, and—less priceless to me—Dave and Jim’s used urine and fecal bags. Of all the things to return from the lunar surface, did we really need their crap?

  Finally, Dave and Jim floated into Endeavour. I was elated to see them. But Dave didn’t look happy. In fact, while Jim looked away sheepishly, Dave began to loudly berate me about the distracting tune piped into the Falcon during liftoff. Didn’t I know I had jeopardized the whole mission, he thundered, by playing that darn music?

  This wasn’t the reunion I had expected. I could only apologize and explain that I had only radioed it to Houston, with no clue they would patch it back to the Falcon. My explanation seemed to satisfy Dave for the moment. I guess he eventually forgave me, because months later at an awards ceremony with the Air Force Association Dave bragged about playing the tune.

  There wasn’t time for me or Dave to dwell on the argument. We had too much to do. Dave and Jim were busy ensuring they had moved everything in from the Falcon. But they missed some items. Some of their PPKs, including personal items they had kindly taken down to the surface for me, were overlooked.

  We wouldn’t discover that mistake for a long time. Behind in the timeline, we hustled to close the hatches and pressurize our spacesuits. Dave’s suit did not pressurize properly on the first attempt, nor did the spacecraft hatch seal correctly, possibly due to some lunar dust on the seal. After more time-consuming checks, we finally seemed to have the problems solved, and Dave and Jim could remove their helmets and gloves. They had started their day with a demanding moon walk, and they hadn’t eaten for eight hours. They were ready to stop for a while and grab some food.

  Then it was time to finally undock from Falcon. “It’s away clean, Houston,” I reported as the lunar module separated with a bang. I felt sad to see it go; it was a magnificent spacecraft. Now it would be steered to a final crash on the lunar surface.

  I was also acutely aware that we were now down to one engine. The big engine in the service module was our only way out of lunar orbit. So far, it had worked well, day after day. But if it stopped working.

  No point thinking about that. The separation had taken longer than planned, so instead of our scheduled rest break, we jumped back into our chores, including some more SIM bay experiments.

  Dave and Jim didn’t seem weary to me, but it was hard to tell when we all had so much to do and were zipping around getting it done. I put Dave’s slight ill humor down to his annoyance with me over the tune.

  But then we heard a familiar, gruff voice over the radio, which only got in the loop when there was something important. “This is Deke,” the voice growled to Jim. “I’d like to have you and Dave, at least, take a Seconal here before you go to sleep so you can really power down for the night. You guys need it. It’s up to Al whether he wants one or not.”

  Dave immediately looked puzzled. Seconal was a sedative drug we carried on the flight. Why would Deke ask two of us to take it and not all of us? Without an explanation, Dave decided against it. We continued running experiments and stowing equipment. Meanwhile, at mission control the doctors grew alarmed. Watching their instruments, they could see something wrong with Jim’s heartbeat. Both sides of his heart were contracting at the same moment. They’d spotted similar, minor blips with both Jim and Dave while they were on the moon. But this irregularity looked worse. Jim could be heading for cardiac arrest.

  The doctors didn’t tell us. Neither did Deke, who simply requested we take the sleeping pills. We only had one other clue that something might be wrong, when the ground told me, “We’d like to make sure tonight that Jim is on the EKG for the evening.” They wanted to keep monitoring Jim’s heart via his biomedical harness. Again, they never said why. By this time, we all felt dead tired and didn’t ask questions.

  Jim and Dave would have worked until they dropped, they were so dedicated to the mission. “We’re still trying to get cleaned up in here and get suits put away, and all that sort of stuff,” I told the ground. “It’s awfully cramped quarters, and there’s an awful lot of stuff to move around.” The spacecraft seemed very different now that three of us were crammed in again. “I kind of liked it here by myself,” I added wistfully.

  If Jim were having a heart attack, it was about as good a place as he could be—weightless, breathing pure oxygen, wired to a heart monitor. Still, the ground should have told Dave. As commander, he needed all available information about his crew. By the time we got to sleep, I’d been awake for more than twenty-one hours, and my crewmates for twenty-three. If we had known of Jim’s serious condition, we would have stopped much earlier. Instead, we slogged on for three and a half hours after Deke’s call before we finally finished our day. It was later determined that the physical stress of working on the moon, combined with the brutal training before launch, had left Jim’s and Dave’s hearts depleted of potassium.

  We felt exhausted and slept deeply for nine solid hours. But it may have been too late for Jim. We can never know for sure, but it is possible Jim’s heart was permanently damaged that day, and the countdown to his premature death had already begun.

  The next morning, we all felt much better. Still wary of Jim’s condition, the ground asked him to continue to wear biomedical sensors, instead of a planned switch with Dave. Without an explanation given, Dave overrode the request. He knew how uncomfortable the sensors could be after a number of days and gallantly took Jim’s place.

  Because I had changed orbit to rendezvous with Falcon, we now passed over new regions of the moon. “Dave and I are looking like mad and taking pictures,” I told missi
on control as we glided across the ever-changing landscape. The laser was failing, so we cycled its power switch in a last futile effort to keep it working. I still struggled with booms refusing to retract. Equipment was starting to deteriorate. But with three of us in the spacecraft, we could run SIM bay experiments and take photos out of the window at the same time, so we stayed very busy. I wasn’t too upset about the failing equipment. We’d already gathered so much information, I was just happy with what we had.

  With all three of us scrambling to accomplish tasks, my day seemed much more complicated. I felt very happy to have Dave and Jim back alive, but I began to miss working alone, when we didn’t all have overlapping tasks.

  We still had a lot of film left, so we eagerly recorded many interesting geological features. While we did, the ground continued to ask cryptic questions about Jim. “Can you guys give us any estimates on the water that you and Jim consumed on the surface,” mission control asked, “and any differences between this and what Al’s been consuming?” Still unaware of the reason for the questions, Dave brushed them off with, “I think that is probably a good discussion for the debriefing after the flight.”

  We were once again asked to take sedatives for the sleep period, and once again Dave responded, “I think that’s unnecessary.” The nearest to an explanation we received was, “We are anxious for you all to continue eating and drinking well, because of the EVA yet to come.” If they had told us the truth, we would have shared their anxiety and probably followed their requests.

  Instead, oblivious, we continued with our science objectives, mapping and measuring the moon until mission control told us, “You’re ready for sleep and we’ll tuck you in.”

  We were up the next morning raring to do more of the same. We zoomed in on the shadowy amphitheaters of crater rims and floors, prying out their secrets with our lenses. “As we go around in lunar orbit,” Dave told our geology team back on Earth, “I could just spend weeks and weeks looking. And I can pick out any number of superb sites down there.” Almost misty-eyed, he continued, “There is just so much here. To coin a phrase, it’s mind-boggling.” I couldn’t have put it better myself.

  We were pleased to hear from Karl Henize that our flight was making front page news around the world. Perhaps the public was still interested in moon exploration after all. He also told us that, back in Houston, they’d been soaked with rain all day. “Going to be a lot of grass cutting to do when you get back down here, guys,” he quipped.

  “Oh, yeah, but we’ve sure got nice sunny weather up here,” I replied with a chuckle. “It’s just as clear as crystal.” Besides, what did I have to worry about? I lived in an apartment. No lawn.

  We began our final lunar orbits, operating the panoramic camera until the film ran out. No sense in wasting it, and who knows what it might pick up. Somewhere below us, a Soviet robot was driving around on the surface making discoveries of its own. Perhaps we would capture it on film and have a cool photo to present to the Russians.

  “We’ve powered up the drugstore to receive the film when you get home,” Joe Allen joked from mission control.

  “Better get a couple,” I quipped. We had a mile-long roll of film to develop.

  It was time to raise our orbit a little, so the little satellite we were about to deploy could circle for a year before it was tugged down by gravity. A quick three-second burst from our engine raised our orbit by more than ten miles.

  In our last hours around the moon, I received a heart-warming message. “I have a message for Al,” Joe Allen radioed from Houston, “from the King.”

  “Go ahead, Joe,” I replied, curious to hear what Farouk wanted to tell me.

  “The message to you is to stand by to copy your final exam grade in orbital science and observation,” Joe replied. “It’s an alpha-plus, with a subnote of: well done.”

  “Tell the King thank you very much, Joe,” I responded with a grin. “I expect to see him back in Houston soon.” I was delighted that Farouk was so happy with my work.

  It was time to launch our small subsatellite from the side of the service module. Launching an unmanned spacecraft from a manned spaceship around the moon had never been attempted before. I carefully aligned Endeavour, flipped a switch, and from its cradle inside the service module I could hear the satellite whipping along a curved groove in its spring-loaded release device like a bullet in a rifle barrel. By the time it spun off the end and into its own lunar orbit, the little tubular satellite was rotating fast enough to push out three whip-like arms which stabilized its wobbling spin. We watched it leave from our windows, its tiny solar panels glinting in the sunlight. Dave cried “Tally Ho!” to mission control, an old pilot’s phrase for spotting another aircraft, adding “a very pretty satellite out there.” Scientists on Earth would track the satellite for months to come, learning more about the moon’s gravity field, Earth’s magnetic field near the moon, and solar particles. The moon’s gravity would eventually drag it down to make a new crater, our mission’s final touch of the lunar surface.

  I had enjoyed my six days in lunar orbit. It sounds like a hell of a long time, but there was so much to see and explore that I never grew bored. The sunlit part of the moon shifted as the days went by, so there were always new places to view. I could have happily spent a few more days there—the same feeling I get at the end of a great vacation. But it was time to go home.

  I busily checked the temperatures and pressures of our main engine’s propellant tanks. If there was ever a time that I felt particularly tense or nervous on the spaceflight, this was it. With no lunar module, we were down to one engine. If it failed, I’d be looking at the lunar surface for the rest of my life, which would be as long as our oxygen lasted. In addition, without Falcon attached to the nose, Endeavour was a much lighter machine. If our engine’s control system did something wrong, I would have to react instantly, or we could be quickly rocketed in the wrong direction.

  As Earth began to set on the lunar horizon and we prepared for our final pass over the lunar far side, Joe Allen wished us luck with a final nod to James Cook’s era of exploration. “Set your sails for home,” he told us. “We’re predicting good weather, a strong tailwind, and we’ll be waiting on the dock.”

  “Thank you very much,” Dave replied. “We’ll see you around the corner.” Mission control would not know the success of our engine firing for sure until we emerged from behind the moon.

  Then we lost radio contact with Earth for the last time. I thought back to my television interview with Fred Rogers. A child had wanted to know if I’d be scared flying to the moon. It was important to be honest. Yes, I replied, risky work can be scary.

  When the engine lit, it was a real kick in the pants. I could feel the steady acceleration as it burned for over two minutes. I warily watched the gauges that told me our engine was burning smoothly and steadily, speeding us on the correct curved pathway out of lunar orbit and back to Earth.

  To my relief, the burn was beautifully smooth. Soon we rounded the far side again and, as we climbed away from the moon on our new course, Dave could announce “Hello, Houston. Endeavour’s on the way home.”

  We shot away from the moon at more than fifty-seven hundred miles per hour, turning the spacecraft so we could look back and use up much of our remaining film on the rapidly receding moon. “We’re almost speechless looking at the thing,” Dave told mission control. “It’s amazing—looks like we’re going straight up,” he added, commenting on our new burst of speed. “We’re leaving, there’s no doubt about that.”

  It was clear from my first glimpse out of the window that the moon was shrinking. And the dramatic sun angle highlighted new features for our parting glimpses. Parts of the lunar south pole and the immense crater Tycho were visible for the first time, and I took pictures with a mixture of fascination and sadness. I’d never get to see them up close again.

  “That’s a pretty good view after all those days of going around and around, isn’t it?” Dick Gord
on radioed from mission control.

  “Yeah, boy,” I replied, scanning the rugged terrain that bulged out in our direction. “We’re looking at new territory.” For the first time in a week, I could gaze at the entire sphere of the moon in one window. “You can see it all in one big gulp, and boy, what a gulp!” I continued to describe lava flows that we had not spotted before, until the details were too hard to make out anymore.

  I fiddled with some SIM bay experiments, placed the spacecraft back into barbecue mode, then settled in for our three-day coast back to our home planet. Mission control signed off, reminding us that “our ever-watchful eye will be on you while you sleep.” Before the day was out, Dave shared a pleasant thought with Houston. “We’ve got another unanimous vote up here. That was really a great trip.”

  It almost sounded like the mission was over. But as I went to sleep, I knew that tomorrow would be one of the most important days of my astronaut career. I would make the first-ever deep-space EVA.

  When I woke the next morning, I first had to carry out some navigation. We had one shot to get back home, and I wanted to be on course from the beginning. While Houston kept an eye on us to make sure we didn’t stray out of a general path of certainty, I hoped to prove that it was possible to navigate to and from the moon without their help. I was aiming for a narrow sliver of horizon on a planet tens of thousands of miles away, and there was no margin for error. This far from Earth, the tiniest changes in direction could result in huge errors once we had traveled the remaining distance in our voyage.

  I used my sextant and measured the angle between Earth’s horizon and my preselected stars. However, I also had to choose the right place on the horizon. Our planet is about eight thousand miles across, and the horizon is only fifty miles thick. That sounds tiny, and it looked tiny from so far away, but fifty miles was too wide for what I needed to do. I needed more accuracy.