by Mark Kelly
* * *
“So I guess you’re happy,” Mark said.
It was later that same night, the lights were out, and the boys were in bed at last. With all the excitement, it was the first time they had been alone together since the accident. Mark had a cast on his arm. The doctor had given him a pill to take for pain, but Mark told his parents he didn’t want it.
“No, I’m not happy,” Scott said. “And that’s a mean thing to say. I know you’re disappointed and your arm hurts, but it’s still mean, so take it back.”
“I won’t,” said Mark.
“We can wait and launch when your arm heals,” Scott said.
“Ha!” said Mark. “By the time my arm’s better, the weather will be too chancy, not to mention that we can’t leave the rocket sitting out that long. Somebody will see it and ask questions. Besides, Egg’s Science Fair is in two weeks.”
“So Barry can fly. It doesn’t have to be me,” Scott said.
“You’re the only one who’s done all the sims with me. You’re flying, and I’m Mission Control, and that’s the only thing that’ll work. So, like I said, I guess you’re happy.”
“You’re right,” Scott said. “I am. In fact, you didn’t see me, but I let Major Nelson out on purpose so he’d go after Lori and you’d have to chase him and get hurt.”
There was a pause; then Mark made a sound halfway between a grunt and a chuckle. “That’s what I figured,” he said.
Scott started to throw a pillow at his brother but changed his mind at the last second. In the dark, he might hit the bad arm. “You could’ve just let Major Nelson catch Lori, you know,” Scott said. “She’d have a skinned knee, probably, but so what. Her mom would’ve put a Big Bird Band-Aid on it and she’d be all better.”
“Or maybe she’d have the broken arm,” said Mark. “He’s our dog. I would’ve felt awful. Besides, her mom was watching.”
“It’s like Grandpa says. No good deed goes unpunished,” Scott said, and—pow—a pillow hit him in the face. Who knew his brother could throw so well right-handed?
* * *
The next morning the twins were awakened by a knock on their door.
“There’s a young lady on the telephone for you guys,” Mom said after she cracked the door open. “She’s really upset about Mark’s broken arm—practically in tears. I had no idea she cared that much about either one of you.”
Mark had been wide-awake for a long time. “Come on. We can share the phone.”
Scott rolled over and asked groggily, “What time is it?”
“Seven fifteen,” said his mom. “Rise and shine!”
“I knew something was going to go wrong!” Egg moaned when the boys picked up. “Why didn’t you call last night?”
“Uh, it was a little busy last night—you know, the emergency room and everything,” Mark said.
“Oh gosh, I’m a horrible person. How are you feeling, Mark?” Egg asked.
“Most of me is fine,” Mark said. “It’s only the left arm that doesn’t work so good. Anyway, Scott can fly. We’ve got it all worked out.”
“Are you sure?” Egg asked.
“Sure, I’m sure,” Mark said.
“Uh—Scott? Are you there?” Egg asked.
“Good morning, Egg,” Scott said.
“Can you fly?” she asked.
“Mark says I can,” Scott said. “But how did you even find out what happened? We were going to call you today.”
“Your grandpa knows how important the project is to us,” Egg said. “He called my mom.”
* * *
The doorbell rang after breakfast. It was Barry. Over one arm he carried a plastic garment bag like the kind you get at the dry cleaning store. In his other arm was a square box big enough for a fishbowl.
“Uh-oh,” Barry said when he saw Mark’s arm.
“It’s okay,” Mark said. “Scott’s going to fly.” And the two of them took turns explaining what happened.
“Oka-a-a-ay,” Barry said. “If you say so.” But he didn’t look sure.
“It’s gonna be fine,” Scott said. If he kept repeating it, he reasoned, he would convince himself, too. “Come in if you want.” He stood aside and asked, “What’s in the bag?” at the same time his brother said, “What’s in the box?”
Barry held the garment bag out to Mark. “It’s for you,” he said; then he seemed to reconsider and pulled it back. “That is, I guess now it’s for you.” He looked at Scott. “And so is this.”
“Are you sure?” Scott asked.
“Sorry. You’re the same size, right? You look like you’re the same size.”
“We are,” Scott said.
“Okay, then here. Take it—take them both.” He handed the bag and the box to Scott. “Go ahead and open them.”
When Scott pulled the black plastic off the hanger and saw what was underneath he was speechless, and Mark gasped.
“Okay, now I really am sorry you’re going and not me,” Mark said.
Under the plastic was a silver flight suit with an American flag stitched to the chest. It was a beautiful thing, even though it wasn’t exactly like what the Mercury astronauts wore. Their fully pressurized suits were uncomfortable, hard to move in, and—the kids had decided—unnecessary because they didn’t have the time to make one anyway.
“Where did you get it?” Scott asked.
“Tommy was some kind of spy-plane pilot. They wore these fancy suits, and he remade his for you. It’s only partial pressure, but it’ll give you some protection.”
“More important, it looks totally cool!” Mark said.
Scott was so overwhelmed, he didn’t know what to say—so he said something dumb. “I didn’t know Tommy could sew.”
“He can now,” Barry said. “He taught himself, but I guess it wasn’t easy. There are three layers of nylon, then a layer of fireproof fabric on the outside. You should have heard him yelling at the sewing machine. And there’s something else, too.”
He tapped the box. Now that the twins had seen what was in the plastic, they had a pretty good idea about what was in the box. And they were right: a space helmet!
“Cool!” Mark said, and with no hesitation, Scott tugged it down over his head.
Barry laughed and called out: “Hello in there! Is it a little big?”
Scott put two hands on the helmet and wiggled it. It moved, but not too much. Then apparently he spoke, but whatever he said could not be understood.
“Take it off!” Mark said. “Is there a mike in there? Speakers? I mean, I know it’s a lot to ask . . . .”
“That can all be rigged up, according to Tommy,” Barry said. “It’s for a pilot—not an astronaut. But it’ll protect your head, at least.”
Meanwhile, Scott was tugging the helmet off. When at last his head was free, there was a big smile on his face.
CHAPTER 31
* * *
The launch was scheduled for Saturday, October 25. The night before, Friday, the twins and Barry slept in Twin Territory.
Staring out the ten-inch-high window at floor level the next morning, Mark thought he had never been so happy to see the sun rise. Lying in his sleeping bag on the mattress on the floor, Mark had been staring out for what seemed like hours, waiting for any glimmer of gray sky. At first, when the black began to fade, he thought he was imagining it, but little by little he realized his wish had been granted. At last it was getting light.
The throbbing in his arm hurt more than ever—more, even, than on the first night after the accident. He wondered if worry caused that. He had tried reminding himself that whatever happened, it would be over by noon today; that tonight, when he crawled into bed, he wouldn’t have to worry about the launch anymore—wouldn’t have to worry about remembering what all those switches, knobs, dials, and gauges did.
He wouldn’t have to remember how to help his brother through all those procedures that they’d made up themselves, or wonder which detail they’d forgotten or which part of the space
craft might fall off during launch. He wouldn’t have to worry about whether the parachutes would open at the right time (or at all), or about his brother getting hit by some space rock while hurtling around the planet. He wouldn’t have to worry whether Barry and Howard had accurately calculated the trajectories and guidance parameters, not to mention whether Howard actually knew how to program a computer.
For all any of them knew, Howard might be entering nonsense into the machine and today his brother would end up at the bottom of Greenwood Lake, or on the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, or pancaked into another continent somewhere on the planet.
Most of all, he wouldn’t have to think about how upset their mom and dad would be if something bad happened to Scott.
Mark vowed then and there that he would be a happy-go-lucky TV-watching kid forever after. Cs were fine with him. If his team lost the baseball championship, he wouldn’t mind. No more stress and strain. He was not cut out for this.
All this ran through Mark’s head—and then one more thing. He wished he were the one going into space. It wasn’t that he wanted the glory. All thoughts of glory were long since done with. It wasn’t that he wanted the excitement, either. It was just that going into space was the dangerous and lonely part, and he didn’t want Scott to have to endure it.
Then he had a final thought: If he didn’t know what he had to do by now, he never would. And so it would have to be okay.
Scott, meanwhile, slept like a rock and dreamed about starlight on the ocean; about Planet Earth, the blue color he’d seen in photos from the Apollo moon missions; about the smiling faces of John Glenn and other famous explorers. The images floated by framed in a small square, the outline of the window of Crazy 8.
“Christopher Columbus,” he murmured, and rolled over.
Barry heard him. He was awake, too, though not quite as anxious as Mark. It wasn’t his brother who was going to be the first kid in space.
“What? What did you say, Scott?” Barry whispered.
But Scott just murmured something unintelligible and pulled up the covers.
* * *
Egg’s research had turned up something interesting about an astronaut’s diet: before a mission, they always ate the same breakfast. As the boys got dressed in Twin Territory, the smells coming from the kitchen told them Grandpa Joe was following Egg’s menu: steak, eggs, and toast.
A few minutes later, the three boys dropped downstairs and found breakfast on the table. Grandpa himself was standing at the kitchen counter, attempting to pour orange juice through a strainer into a pitcher.
“I’m doing this because Egg told me I had to,” he said. “But I’ll be darned if I know why.”
“It’s only Scott that has to have his OJ strained,” Mark said. “For Barry and me, it doesn’t matter.”
“It’s for his, uh . . . digestion,” Barry said.
“What does orange juice pulp have to do with—?” Grandpa Joe started to ask; then he thought better of it. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Anyway, don’t you guys think you’re carrying this realism thing a little far?”
The boys looked at one another. Many times in the past couple of weeks, they had come close to telling Grandpa the truth. If any grown-up would understand, he would. The whole thing had been his idea, after all.
But now not one of them felt like they could make that decision. And they hadn’t talked it over in advance. So Scott said, “I don’t really like the pulp in orange juice that much anyway.”
And Barry said, “It’s all for Egg and the science fair. She’s going to win for sure.”
“I don’t know about that.” Straining done, Grandpa came to the table and poured them each a glass. “Rumor has it Steve Peluso’s project is all about fruit flies.”
“Ha! Sounds boring,” Mark said. “Aren’t you gonna eat, Scott?”
“Everything’s delicious, Mr. McAvoy,” Barry said with his mouth full.
“I’m okay.” Scott’s plate was still loaded with food.
“I never would’ve believed you kids could accomplish what you have,” Grandpa Joe said. “So I thought I could manage to do my part by getting up early and making breakfast. Now I wish you’d let me go on over to the launch site and watch your whatchamacallit—dramatization.”
The kids had told Grandpa and the other grown-ups that today’s “launch” was really just the “dramatization” of a launch. That was Egg’s word. The kids were going to take pictures of Scott climbing the scaffolding and entering the Crazy 8 capsule as if he were really going to fly. Mission Control was set up in a bunker on the ground, well away from the rocket. Each kid had his or her own responsibilities, and everything each one did would be logged into a notebook. They were taking photos, and Howard’s mom had lent them a portable cassette tape recorder, so they could even record comments and radio transmissions.
Only the kids knew that the Drizzle rocket was full of fuel and ready to go.
“Aw, you don’t want to do that, Grandpa,” Mark said. “It’ll be better if you just come to the science fair and look at the pictures on Egg’s entry.”
* * *
NASA began countdowns for Mercury missions at T minus 36—thirty-six hours before launch. Project Blastoff didn’t have that luxury. Because the earliest Mrs. O’Malley would agree to drive Egg, Howard, and Lisa over to Grandpa Joe’s house was 8:00 a.m., and because launch time was at 9:30, their own countdown was going to start at T-1, or one hour before launch. They would have to hurry, but it seemed like they would have enough time. Just as Crazy 8 relied on a somewhat simplified design, the launch procedure had been simplified as well.
“Hi, kids! Hi, Peggy. Nice to see you all this morning. Can I interest anybody in some—?” Grandpa said when the O’Malleys’ car pulled up and Howard, Lisa, and Egg piled out.
“Good morning, Mr. McAvoy. Thanks, but we gotta hurry,” Egg said, staying put in the driveway, which was closer to the launch site than the house was.
“That’s all I’ve heard all morning,” said Mrs. O’Malley. “‘Hurry, hurry, hurry!’ I know the photographs are important, but surely having the angle of sunlight off by this or that small amount isn’t really that important . . . .”
“Bye, Mom. Love you. See you after lunch!” Egg was already heading down the driveway and toward the path to the launch site, with Howard and Lisa close behind.
Mark and Barry took off jogging after them. Scott paused in front of his grandfather. “I love you, Grandpa,” he said.
Grandpa Joe raised one eyebrow. “Uh . . . well, of course I love you too, Scott.”
Mark was at the end of the driveway by this time. He turned back toward the house and walked a few steps backward. “Come on, Scott! Bye, Grandpa, see you after lunch.”
Without another word, Scott ran after his brother.
Because of the trees and terrain, the kids didn’t get a clear view of Crazy 8 till they came up over the last rise and saw it, looming some fifty feet above them. It was their own creation. They knew every rivet, weld, hose, and switch better than they knew their own fingernails—and even so, they gasped when they saw it in the sunlight.
At the site, each kid had a job and went to his or her station. Scott knew that Howard would be climbing the scaffolding that stood in for the service gantry, providing support and access for the launch vehicle and capsule.
By this time, Howard had made the climb so often, he would ascend like a monkey. On reaching his destination, he would twist two handles to release the outer and inner hatches, pull each open, and swing himself inside, feetfirst. In the tight space, it was his job to do a quick run-through of the Crazy 8 systems—to wake up the onboard computer; ascertain whether the gauges, sensors, and indicator lights represented reality; ensure that the gyros were properly aligned, that the batteries and environmental system were working, that the fuel levels were full, and that the twelve automatic and six manual thrusters all worked.
When Howard flipped the switch on the cockpit radio, he wou
ld say: “Test, test, test?”
From the speaker, Egg’s voice would reply. “Crazy 8, this is Greenwood Control. We are T minus 30 minutes and counting.”
CHAPTER 32
* * *
Scott was on his way to change into his flight suit when Egg said, “Wait. What about the prelaunch physical? I need to monitor his health for the science fair entry.”
“I’m on it.” Lisa pulled a popsicle stick out of her jeans pocket. “Okay, Scott,” she said, “turn toward the sun, then open your mouth.”
Scott did as he was told. Lisa put the popsicle stick in his mouth, held down his tongue with it, and peered in. Then she shrugged. “I guess that’s how a boy’s throat is supposed to look. And your breath’s okay. How do you feel?”
“Fine.”
“Give me your wrist,” Lisa said.
“What?”
“Your wrist, so I can take your pulse,” Lisa said.
Feeling a little weird about it, Scott handed over his wrist. He was glad the other guys were busy with their checklists. Lisa pressed gently with two fingers, keeping an eye on the second hand of her watch. After thirty seconds, she said, “I count 40, which means 80 beats per minute. For a kid your age, that’s a little fast.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
“I looked it up,” she said. “I am taking my flight surgeon job seriously. Are you freaking out?”
Scott thought about this. “No. I’m kind of excited, is all.”
Lisa nodded. “Perfectly normal,” she said; then she touched her palm to his forehead.
He protested: “Hey!”
“You don’t have a fever.” She took her hand away and turned to Egg. “I pronounce our astronaut go for launch.”
The next order of business was for Scott to put on his suit. He had three minutes to do so, and all went smoothly till the zipper got stuck.
Egg saw his predicament. “Stop tugging it. I’ll help.”
“Uh . . . that’s okay.” Scott was embarrassed.
“I got it.” Mark stood up and came over. Showing unusual patience, he bent forward, examined the zipper, and with his good right hand, separated the tiny teeth one by one till Scott could pull it the rest of the way.
