by Mark Kelly
In the background, Scott could hear an unfamiliar voice. Who was it? Then Mark’s voice again. “Crazy 8, can you try something? Can you get down there and see if maybe there are crumbs in the mechanism?”
Scott’s first thought was, No way. Unhook his harness? Climb around the spaceship? Flip upside down? Now?
Scott’s second thought was he didn’t have a better idea. “Roger. I understand.”
Wasting no time, Scott unbuckled his harness, rolled himself into a ball, flipped over, and extended his hands. In the tight space he was brutally uncomfortable, and it didn’t help that the capsule was starting to bounce.
Scott knew the exact location of the periscope door; he had installed it himself. Still, it was hard to find in the darkness created by his own shadow, and he felt for it blindly. Then he remembered the mini flashlights on the index fingers of each glove, put there so he could locate switches at night. He twisted them to on and seconds later located the hinge.
Cookie crumbs!
A smear of them had settled in exactly the wrong place, literally gumming up the works. He reached, but the capsule chose that moment to jump; his helmet hit the underside of the control panel, twisting his neck—ouch! There was no time to worry about little things like his head or his neck, though. With every second, Crazy 8 fell faster. He had to get himself buckled in—but he had to get the periscope door closed first.
Using his right glove for light, he stretched mightily toward the floor, barely managing to swipe the crumbs with his fingertips.
The crumbs floated toward him but slowly, already influenced by Earth’s gravitational pull.
Had it worked? Had he cleared the hinge? All he could do was swipe once more, then flip back over, uncurl his torso, push against the seat, and buckle himself in. He was sweating and exhausted when for the second time he grabbed the periscope handle and pushed with all his might.
Oh, gosh—still stuck. Death by cookie crumbs? It would be just too stupid. With another mighty effort, he pushed again and made the handle move, pushed again and again till finally, at last, it seemed the mechanism was free.
Scott turned his head—ow, his neck hurt—to look at the panel to his left.
Yes!
The light was green!
He buckled himself back in, every muscle in his body limp with relief. Then he spoke: “Greenwood Control? Crazy 8. Do you read?”
“Roger, Crazy 8. Go a—” And then static. For the four minutes of re-entry coinciding with maximum heat, the cloud of ionized particles outside the capsule cut off all radio contact. Effectively, Scott was now at the center of a fireball—and no one could hear him.
Through the window, Scott could see a bright orange glow punctuated by flashes as the plasma interacted with the spacecraft. He was scared. If he was wrong about the periscope door—or if any of a thousand other things had gone wrong—he would die. For him it would be over very fast.
But what about his family? Would his parents blame Mark? Would they blame Grandpa?
All in all, it would be a whole lot better to survive.
“Greenwood Control? Greenwood Control? This is Crazy 8. How do you receive? Over.”
No answer. No answer, and the seconds ticked by.
Then, at last: “Roger, Crazy 8. Loud and clear! How are you doing?”
“Oh, pretty good,” Scott said, “considering.”
True, the invisible gorilla was back—but hey, no problem.
Crazy 8’s descent continued. At 20,000 feet, the capsule began to sway, and the small parachute called a drogue deployed automatically to steady it. Then, at 10,000 feet, Scott saw the main chute open up and felt a jolt as it ballooned above him. For five glorious minutes, he floated toward the surface of Greenwood Lake—back where he’d begun only ninety minutes before.
It was 4:03.03 GMT when water splashed the capsule window and Scott sent his last transmission as an astronaut: “Greenwood Control, Crazy 8. I’ve landed, and fortunately this thing floats.”
CHAPTER 36
* * *
In his brain, Scott knew he had only been out of this world for an hour and a half—not even as long as the running time of his favorite movie, Jaws. But still he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Everything had changed—from the way Grandpa’s boat felt bobbing on the water to his view of the sky above, blue because of the refraction of sunlight on the atmosphere, not black the way it had been only a few minutes ago.
Scott would have thought this wasn’t the homecoming he had imagined, except he realized that he hadn’t imagined any homecoming at all. There had been no room in his mind for it. In fact, the normal milestones a kid looked forward to in the fall—things like the Giants and the Jets, Thanksgiving, Christmas vacation—he hadn’t thought of at all. For months all that had mattered was overcoming the technical problems of putting a kid into orbit.
Now, suddenly it became clear that there was life after orbiting the Earth, and that surprised him more than the sight onshore before him: a zillion flashing lights on what seemed like an equal number of police vehicles. A helicopter was circling overhead. And his grandfather, steering the powerboat toward shore, was saying something. He seemed to be excited. What was he talking about?
He was glad to see Scott in one piece—Scott got that much. There were tears in his eyes, Scott noticed. Scott had never seen his grandfather cry before.
“What’s going on?” Scott said at last, interrupting his grandfather in midsentence. By this time, he had pulled off his helmet. Turning his head, he could see the Crazy 8 capsule bobbing in the middle of the lake.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to explain!” Grandpa Joe was too happy to be exasperated. “There’s been a little problem. Steve Peluso snooped in Egg’s project notebook, and—”
“That sneak!” Scott said.
“Well, some might argue that that’s a case of the pot calling the kettle black,” Grandpa said.
“Point taken,” said Scott. “So then what happened?”
“He and his dad and the cops arrived right about the same time the capsule was disappearing into the wild blue yonder.”
So that was the siren I heard, Scott thought, and the voices in the background of Mark’s radio transmissions. He didn’t tell me because he didn’t want to distract me, and anyway, there was nothing I could do.
“And there’s something else about Steve Peluso that might soften your anger some,” Grandpa said.
Scott doubted it. “What’s that?”
“He was the one who suggested there might be crumbs in the hinge of the periscope door,” Grandpa said. “He remembered he read something about crumbs on Aurora 7—one of the Mercury flights.”
By now they were nearing the shore. “Look,” Grandpa said, “before all heck breaks loose, I just want to say something. I never thought you’d pull it off. And no one else did either. Right about now, I’d like to whip all of you, or at least send you to sit on a hard stool in a tight corner. But I have to say, I am darned proud.”
“Thank you,” Scott said. “But”—he gestured toward the lakeshore—“I guess we’re in trouble, right?”
Grandpa nodded toward the lights, the vehicles, and the uniformed men and women who were waiting. “Uh, yeah. I’d say so.”
“Mom and Dad?” Scott didn’t really want to know the answer.
“They’re on their way,” Grandpa said.
CHAPTER 37
* * *
Mark and Scott never knew there were so many government agencies in the universe that you could get in trouble with—the town police, the county sheriff, the state police, the FBI, the NTSB, the FAA, the FCC, the U.S. Department of State, EPA, NASA, and even the New Jersey state park system.
For a while, they thought at least they weren’t in trouble with the truant officer because they had flown their mission on a weekend. But then they found out Egg’s school district had a rule that you couldn’t violate the law in the course of preparing your science fair entry. That really
was written down. Steve Peluso’s father had found the paragraph.
Mr. and Mrs. Kelly’s reaction to the twins’ adventure had been much like Grandpa Joe’s—equal parts pride and fury, which resolved to disbelief. In the days after the Crazy 8 mission, Mark and Scott noticed that very often their parents looked at them, opened their mouths to say something, blinked, closed their mouths, shook their heads, and shrugged.
The overall result was a quieter than usual Kelly household—as if the family was waiting breathlessly for something, but what?
The twins and Barry had been greeted as celebrities when they first went back to school. Kids who weren’t really Scott’s or Mark’s friends had taken to calling each of them “Astrotwin” in the hall, partly because they couldn’t remember which one had gone up in space and partly because kids who didn’t know them well had a hard time telling them apart. This lasted a week, and then Sharon Gladstone came back from a trip to the Jersey Shore with an autograph from this new young singer—Bruce Springsteen his name was—and that was all anybody wanted to talk about.
Because of the science fair, things were different for Egg, Howard, and Lisa. With his flair for showmanship, Mr. Drizzle recognized that after the TV coverage of the flight, their participation in it would draw a big crowd.
“Whatever risks those kids took,” he told the principal, “their mission was definitely educational. Besides, if we put them on the flyer, we’ll break every attendance record.”
The principal agreed, and so did the school board. Jenny O’Malley’s entry could be displayed with the others in the gym, provided it was disqualified from competition.
This explained why the team found itself reunited in the West Milford Elementary School gym two weeks after the successful flight of Crazy 8. Outside at the curb were parked television news trucks from the major networks, and local stations, too.
Under the circumstances, the kids didn’t know exactly how to behave. They wanted to slap backs and grin and talk about all they’d overcome, the thrill of seeing the spacecraft lift off, the relief at seeing Scott back safe.
They wanted to ask Scott all the questions they hadn’t had a chance to ask him on launch day.
On the other hand, they knew they were still in trouble, and they could maybe get themselves into more trouble if someone like the principal thought they were being too rowdy.
Mr. Drizzle positioned them behind the table that supported Egg’s display, which was a trifold with blueprints of Crazy 8, a picture of John Glenn and Friendship 7, photographs of the building process in Grandpa’s workshop and of Mission Control. Mr. Perez had stuck a copy of Nando’s business card in a corner so people knew where they should take their cars if they needed repairing.
Unfortunately, the display did not include the Crazy 8 module, because it had been confiscated by the authorities the moment it was fished out of the lake.
And it didn’t include the Drizzle rocket, which was somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. As for Mr. Drizzle’s rocket fuel recipe, he was in negotiations to transfer it to NASA.
Steve Peluso’s fruit fly experiment, with a big blue ribbon attached, was across from Egg’s, and he was also there to answer questions—not that anyone was interested. When he smiled a sheepish smile at the twins, they nodded back. They didn’t like him. He was a sneak. At the same time, they knew what they owed him.
“He saved your rear end,” Mark said to Scott.
“I know,” Scott said gloomily. “Have you talked to him?” he asked Egg.
Egg scowled. “Yeah. My mom made me. I think he wants to be friends.”
“Yuck,” said Mark.
“I know,” said Egg.
All morning long, the kids stood in a row, answering questions, while Mr. Drizzle—a big grin on his face—kept the line of smiling spectators moving: “One question per person, please, and absolutely no autographs.”
Of course, the reporters insisted that they should have a chance to ask more than a single question, and Scott soon got used to answering them:
“Thank you, yes, it was really exciting. Uh . . . like riding a bucking bronco, that’s how it felt when it launched. No, actually I never have ridden a bucking bronco.
“Uh, Earth looked mostly blue, very bright blue. And the Pacific Ocean is really, really big.
“Uh . . . yes, I guess I did gain a new appreciation for how our world is just floating in space, so we better take care of it.
“Uh-huh, you’re right. Building a spacecraft is hard. No, I wouldn’t really recommend it as a summer project. It doesn’t leave time for much else.”
When Scott was done with a reporter, he always said, “You should really talk to my brother, Mark, and to Jenny and Barry and Howard and Lisa. What they did is at least as important as what I did.”
Some of the reporters followed through, but a lot wanted only to file their stories and move on after hearing from the boy astronaut himself.
Mark decided he didn’t mind not being the celebrity. He had always been the more talkative of the two brothers—the know-it-all, as Scott liked to say. It was kind of entertaining to see Scott take on that job for once.
* * *
The fair was over at noon, and Mrs. O’Malley invited all the kids, Grandpa Joe, and Mr. Drizzle to Egg’s house for lunch. The house turned out to be really nice, like the kind of house a rich person would have. A huge yard. A circular driveway. Matching furniture that looked new. Fluffy wall-to-wall carpeting. Real paintings, and mirrors with gold frames on the wall.
Mr. and Mrs. Kelly had taught the boys not to be impressed by money. What really mattered about a person was honesty, kindness, and a good work ethic.
Still, it was hard not to feel impressed . . . and a little envious of Egg, who got to live there.
The boys realized they didn’t know much about Mrs. O’Malley. Did she have a job?
And what about Mr. O’Malley? Was he dead? Away on business? Working on an old car out back?
Lunch was set on the big table in the formal dining room. They were getting ready to sit down when Barry excused himself to go to the bathroom.
“It’s down the hall to the left.” Grandpa Joe pointed.
Scott and Mark looked at each other. Scott said, “Grandpa, have you been here before?”
“Once or twice,” said Grandpa Joe vaguely.
Everyone sat down, but an empty chair remained. Then the doorbell rang, and Mrs. O’Malley answered it. When she came back to the dining room, she brought Steve Peluso with her.
“Hi, everybody.” He looked nervous. “Sorry I’m late. I rode my bike.”
He took the empty chair.
“Mom?” Egg said.
“Have some lunch,” Mrs. O’Malley said. “I’ll explain after we eat.”
This, the twins agreed, was an excellent idea. There was pepperoni pizza, apple pie, and ice cream. There were carrot and celery sticks, too, served with a dipping bowl of something called ranch dressing. It reminded everyone of extra-salty mayonnaise.
While they ate, Mr. Drizzle, Mrs. O’Malley, and Grandpa kept up a steady stream of boring conversation, the kind grown-ups specialize in.
As lunch began to wind down, Mrs. O’Malley said, “You kids are awfully quiet.”
No one replied right away, and Grandpa chuckled. “I think, Peggy, they’re still worrying about when the ax is going to fall.”
“Is that it?” she asked. “Because if so, I can reassure you. You kids did something at least as foolish as it was brave, but we are all very proud of you.”
“Here, here!” Mr. Drizzle raised his glass of milk in a toast.
At the same time, Steve Peluso spoke up. “Wait a sec. I don’t want to take credit for something I didn’t do.”
“It’s true you didn’t help us build the spacecraft,” Egg said. “And it’s true you called the police on us. But still, we owe you big-time. Without you, Scott might not be here today.”
“Precisely,” said Mrs. O’Malley. “And on
e more thing—the one you’re going to think is most important. None of you is going to get in trouble.”
Mark hadn’t realized how anxious he was till his anxiety lifted, and it felt like a headache going away. But Scott was more puzzled than relieved. When he looked around, he realized everyone else was confused too—but none of the kids wanted to be the first to admit they didn’t understand what was going on.
Thank goodness for Howard, who didn’t care what anyone thought of him.
“Why aren’t we in trouble?” he asked.
Mrs. O’Malley smiled. “Certain people are impressed with what you accomplished, and they believe your skills, knowledge, talent, and tenacity might be useful to the space program in the future. As for your current legal predicament, these people have enough influence to squelch any charges that might be brought against you—provided you are willing to sign on.”
“You mean sign on to more space exploration?” Egg said.
The kids looked at one another. For his part, Scott couldn’t believe his luck. He had assumed he’d never fly in space again—and now maybe he would.
It was quiet for a moment while everyone else let Mrs. O’Malley’s words sink in. What were they thinking?
At last, Egg spoke: “Yes!”
Then Steve Peluso: “Yes! Uh, provided I’m invited.”
“Space walks! The moon! Mars!” said Barry. “Is everybody else in, too?”
They all answered in the affirmative . . . except Mark.
Hadn’t he sworn he never wanted to do anything this hard or this stressful again? That from now on there’d be no more studying math and physics till all hours, or taking lengthy trips to the library, or learning to arc-weld?
An endless life of cartoons, potato chips, and the Yankees in summer is what he wanted to look forward to. That was the life for him.
Wasn’t it?
But all of a sudden he remembered how excited he felt when he saw Crazy 8 on the launch pad, when he saw it lift off just as they’d planned. He remembered the satisfaction of being part of Greenwood Control and understanding the forces that made the flight possible. He remembered the thrill, the relief, of seeing his brother return safe.
