by Bill Myers
—I sneak a little drink into Launch Control . . . and I wind up getting Ms. Durkelbuster fired.
—I slip on my glasses and step into the shuttle . . . and I wind up as an afterthought astronaut.
—I press one little button . . . and I practically destroy a space station.
Now, I’m no genius or anything, but it started to look like maybe God was trying to tell me something . . . and it wasn’t who was going to win next year’s World Series. It was something about rules and about following them. Call me crazy, but I was getting the feeling He expected me to follow all the rules, no matter how small or stupid they may seem.
But at the moment I wasn’t in the mood for a Sunday school lesson, so I tried to drown out those thoughts by reaching for Ol’ Betsy and seeing what Neutron Dude was up to. . . .
When we last left our nuclear good guy, he was about to zap across the phone wires to find the notoriously nutsoid and sickeningly healthy...Veggie-Man.
Neutron Dude races through the telephone wires and leaps out of the receiver, only to discover...
Leapin’ lima beans! Great granola bars! Holy whole grain! (I’ve got more, but I’ll save them for later.) It’s worse than he had expected. Everywhere he looks there are organically grown vegetables, piles and piles of boiled beets, rows and rows of steamed spinach. Such wholesome wholeness is more than our hero (and part-time junk-food junkie) can take. He is overwhelmed. He starts to stagger, to overreact, to have a meltdown.
Then, suddenly, the laboratory doors open and in rolls a giant truckload of his favorite Chewy-Gooey bars. Neutron Dude glows in relief. At least he won’t starve. At least he’ll have something to snack on between all that nauseating no-fatness.
But great green beans! (I told you I had more.) Holy jicama! (Trust me, it’s a vegetable.) Odious okra! (So’s that.) They’re not unloading beautiful, caramel-covered Chewy-Gooey bars...they’re unloading—— Ta-da-DAAAA) caramel-covered squash! Our hero shudders at the thought of finding one of those in his lunchbox.
Suddenly, he hears a voice.
“Welcome, Atom Brain.”
Neutron Dude spins around. It’s Veggie-Man. The superhero can tell by the smell of overcooked cabbage and the green color of Veggie-Man’s face caused by one too many cucumbers in his breakfast cereal. In his hand he holds the dreaded can of Health Food Spray. The dreaded spray that is turning all the world’s food into health food.
“Give it up!” Neutron Dude crackles. “In the name of all that is edible and tasty, turn yourself in.”
Veggie-Man sneers his best bad-guy sneer. “I’ve not even begun. You think it’s just food I’m turning into fruits and vegetables? No way. It’s everything.” He points and sprays the can at one of his assistants, a plump, red-faced man, who suddenly becomes a plump, ruby-red tomato.
Neutron Dude gasps a good-guy gasp.
Veggie-Man laughs a menacing laugh. “I’m turning everything into wholesomeness. People, mountains, freeways, rivers. Even as we speak, my formula is being released into all of the waters of the world.”
“You don’t mean...”
“That’s right. Instead of water skiing, you’ll be vegetable-soup skiing.”
“And fishing?”
“Trout will become diced carrots. Tuna, chopped celery. Shrimp will be——”
“You can’t do this!” Neutron Dude shouts.
“Oh, but I already am.” He aims his deadly Health Food Spray directly at our good guy. “And you, Neutron Numbskull. What will it be? A giant green bean? Parsley? How would you like to become a nice turnip?”
Suddenly, Neutron Dude knows what he has to do, so he does what he has to do, and he does it brilliantly. (Or something like that.) He points his Proton Belt, adjusts the setting to “Deep Fry,” and fires a bolt of supercharged microwaves at the villainous villain.
But Veggie-Man is too fast. He sprays the microwaves with his formula, and the bolt of energy drops to the floor transformed into a giant french fry.
Neutron Dude tries again.
The next bolt falls as a fried zucchini.
And again.
Now we’re talking an overcooked pickle.
Veggie-Man chuckles a creepy chuckle. “It’s all over, Neutron Dude.” Again he points the can at our hero. “Now it’s time for you to be wholeheartedly healthy.”
His finger presses down on the nozzle, but just before the spray shoots out——
“Hey, Wendell!” It was Pilot O’Brien. “Shut that thing off and get some sleep. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, and we’ll need your help.”
I looked over at his sleeping bag. The guy wasn’t smiling. But at least, for once, he wasn’t scowling. Was it my imagination, or was O’Brien actually warming up to me?
“Shut it down, Wing Nut,” he barked. “That’s an order.”
Well, so much for warming up. I nodded and turned Ol’ Betsy off. But as I snuggled deeper into my bag, I couldn’t help wondering exactly what he meant by needing my help.
Unfortunately, I’d soon find out. . . .
The following morning I had some cereal and grape juice (this time without chasing little balls all over the cabin). I also used the bathroom (this time without panicking over giant vacuum cleaner nozzles). I tell you, I was becoming a real pro with this weightlessness stuff. I even managed to brush my teeth without a major problem . . . although the rinsing and spitting got kind of tricky.
Eventually, I joined the rest of the crew on the mid-deck where they were having a discussion. It felt pretty cool being part of an official NASA meeting. It would have felt cooler if I weren’t the reason for that meeting.
“So Control doesn’t want us to deliver that section of space station?” O’Brien asked, frowning.
Commander Phillips shook his head. “We need to take it back home, check it out, and send it up on the next mission.”
There was a long silence. My stomach was feeling kind of queasy, but it had nothing to do with space sickness.
“Don’t feel bad,” Commander Phillips said to me. “Anybody could have damaged that seven-million-dollar section of brand-new space station.”
I nodded, but for some reason I felt no better.
“Well,” he said, pausing, “almost anybody.”
I nodded again, feeling even worse.
“Well, actually, come to think of it, it’s supposed to be foolproof, but foolproof is not the same as, . . . well, you know.”
I finished the thought for him. “Foolproof is not the same as McDoogle-proof ?”
He grinned, grateful that I’d caught the drift.
“What about the manipulator arm?” O’Brien said, scowling. “Is that damaged, too?”
Payload Specialist Meyer shook his head. “It’s in pretty good shape, although it sticks in a couple of places.”
Dr. Lambert was the next to speak. “Can we still proceed with the Emergency Evacuation Exercise?”
Meyer nodded. “As long as Wally stays on board, where he can do no more harm.”
Everyone agreed, including me.
“He can have my spacesuit during the evacuation,” Commander Phillips said. “I’ll use one of the extra rescue balls.”
“Evacuation?” I nervously squawked. No one answered. I tried again, a little louder. “Spacesuit?” And again. “Rescue balls?”
“Relax,” Meyer said, grinning. “We’ll be leaving, but you’ll be staying right here.”
“I will?” I asked in relief. I felt my heart rate drop back to 200.
“Absolutely,” he said. “We’ll be doing the exercise, but you and O’Brien will stay behind, just the two of you, all by yourselves. You’ll be perfectly safe.”
My heart leaped back into hyperbeat. I glanced nervously at O’Brien. But before I could ask Meyer to give me his exact definition of safe, O’Brien turned to me and growled, “Let’s get suited up, Weldon.”
“That’s Wally.”
“Whatever.”
“Where are we going?”
“Air lock?” I cried. “Aren’t air locks what you go through before you go out into outer space?”
“That’s right.” He pushed off to the hatch, reached for the lever, pulled on it, and slid it open. There was a slight hiss. He turned to me, and for the first time since I’d met him, there was a smile on his lips. Or was it a sneer?
“Let’s go.”
I swallowed, said a prayer, and promised God I’d never, never break another rule as long as I lived. Of course, He’d have to let me live a little longer to prove it. Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell if He was in the mood for making that kind of deal or not. . . .
Chapter 6
Batter Up!
Getting into the spacesuit, or the Extravehicular Mobility Unit (see how educational this is becoming?), wasn’t as tough as I thought. The hardest part was standing there for a few minutes longer than forever, just breathing through some sort of face mask.
“It cleans the nitrogen out of your blood,” O’Brien explained.
“That’s good,” I said, once again having no idea what he was talking about.
Finally, he handed me something like a pair of long johns that had a bunch of little tubes running all through it.
“Oh boy,” I said, “spaghetti underwear.”
“Slip it on,” he ordered. “Those little tubes carry water to help keep your body cool.”
Next came the bottom half of the actual spacesuit. It was pretty stiff and bulky, and it had little straps inside to adjust it to my height.
Since I’m not exactly your most full-grown astronaut, I had to cinch those straps up tight. But other than that, there were no problems . . . until I looked down to where my toes should be and only saw my heels. “My feet are on backward!” I cried.
O’Brien looked up from his own suit and sighed. “It’s not your feet, Wilbur, it’s your suit. You got into it backward.”
“Oh, right.” I said, laughing nervously. “I knew that.” I quickly turned around and tried again.
Next came the top half of the suit. Like the bottom half, it was also pretty bulky. And like the bottom half, there were only two ways of putting it on. So after putting it on the wrong way (what else is new), I turned around and got into it the right way.
Next came the gloves. Two ways, two tries. This was getting monotonous.
A moment later O’Brien floated over to me. “On your chest here is a little computer readout. It tells you how much oxygen you have left and how strong your battery is. These suits are good for seven hours, so we’ll have plenty of time for the exercise.”
“Exactly what exercise are we talking about?” I asked.
“We’re staging an emergency drill on the shuttle. Space is a complete vacuum, so first we’ll depressurize the cabin. Next we’ll transport the crew from in there”—he pointed to the mid-deck—“to a cable out there”—he pointed toward the hatch leading outside.
“Not me,” I cried. “I’m not going out there!” It really wasn’t a statement, more like a pleading and begging for my life. It’s not that I’m afraid of outer space, it’s just that heights make me nervous. And being two-hundred miles above the earth is definitely on the high side of heights.
“Don’t worry,” O’Brien said. “You will be inside the shuttle the whole time—up on the flight deck.”
A wave of relief washed over me. “What about you?” I asked.
“Once I hook the others to the cable line connecting the shuttle to the station, I’ll come in to join you.”
More waves, more relief.
O’Brien grabbed something like a cap and slipped it over my head. It had headphones that fit over my ears and little microphones on both sides of my mouth.
Finally came the helmet. It was pretty neat, like putting your head inside a fish bowl. Though I wouldn’t try that at home, especially if it still happens to have water or fish inside.
Now I heard O’Brien speaking through my headset. “Do you hear me?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Good. O’Brien to Commander Phillips. How are you coming in there, Skipper?”
Commander Phillips answered. “Everyone’s set. Meyer has attached the cable to the space station, and I’m getting into the final ball now.”
“Roger, we’re on our way.” O’Brien turned and headed back through the hatch to the mid-deck. I followed. But instead of meeting our three astronaut buddies, we were met by three giant balls, each about a yard wide.
“Where’d they go?” I asked.
“Take a peek,” O’Brien said, motioning to a tiny little porthole inside the nearest ball.
I floated over to the ball and looked inside. To my surprise I saw Dr. Lambert sitting in there, all scrunched up and breathing air through a mask. She looked up and waved.
I waved back and moved to the next ball, where I saw Commander Phillips. Call me a genius, but when I got to the third ball I had a sneaking suspicion I’d see Meyer. I was right.
“They’re called Personal Rescue Enclosures,” O’Brien explained through my headset. “They’re like miniature spacesuits, and they have enough oxygen inside to last an hour.”
Before I could ask any more questions, another voice came through my headset. “Shuttle Encounter, this is Space Station One. We’ve got plenty of milk and cookies waiting. Are you folks about ready to drop by for a visit?”
Commander Phillips answered over the radio from inside his ball. “We’re packaged, sealed, and ready for delivery.”
O’Brien turned to me. “Okay, Warren—”
“Wally,” I corrected.
“Whatever. I’m going to depressurize the cabin and open up the air lock. Go on up to the flight deck, and for goodness’ sake, don’t touch anything!”
I didn’t have to be told twice. I turned and floated up toward the f light deck. Before I arrived, I heard a loud hiss. O’Brien was opening the hatch. I could feel my suit balloon out as the pressure inside pushed against the vacuum that was filling the shuttle.
Once up on the flight deck I floated over to the back cargo bay windows to watch. A line was stretched from our air lock hatch all the way to Space Station One. O’Brien had just opened our hatch and appeared with one of the balls. He lifted it and somehow attached it to the line. It must have been Meyer because through the intercom I heard, “Looks like I’m really being hung out to dry.”
The others chuckled as the next ball was attached. And then the last.
There were lots of wisecracks back and forth as if this were something they did every day. But I could tell they were a little bit nervous. When O’Brien finished, he disappeared back into the shuttle. A moment later he floated up onto the flight deck beside me and took hold of the controls of the manipulator arm.
“Space Station One,” he said, “this is Encounter. I’m delivering the packages now.”
“Roger,” came the reply.
O’Brien expertly moved the manipulator arm to the space balls hanging from the cable. Then, ever so gently, he nudged them down the line toward the space station. I watched as he carefully worked the controls. It seemed to take forever, but the guy was taking no chances.
At last the rescue balls reached the space station.
“Space Station One,” O’Brien said. “Your mail is in.”
“Copy,” the voice replied. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
I could see the hatch to the space station open. It was an air lock exactly like ours. One of their guys in a suit exactly like ours appeared. He looked over at us and waved. Then he grabbed the three balls and pulled each of them inside. Finally, he turned back to us, gave another wave, climbed into his air lock, and shut the door.
“Nice work,” came the voice from the space station. “Mission accomplished.”
Well, not quite . . .
Pilot O’Brien took the controls and started to move the manipulator arm back to our shuttle, but
nothing happened. It was stuck, just as Meyer had earlier mentioned (thanks to my little handiwork from the day before). O’Brien pushed harder. Still nothing. He pushed the other way. Repeat performance.
I looked on, amazed. Another McDoogle mishap was taking place before my very eyes, and I wasn’t touching a thing! Am I getting good, or what?
O’Brien pushed even harder. Still no action. Then, suddenly, the arm jerked free. That was the good news. The bad news was, it jerked free and slammed into the side of the space station hatch.
K-BAMB
The entire space station shook. So did the shuttle.
Someone from the space station called, “Easy, big fellow, easy.”
“Sorry,” O’Brien said, trying to sound casual and nonchalant. But I could tell that he was really worried. “Uh, Space Station One, could you give that hatch of yours a try? Check to see if it still opens.”
“Say again?”
“I banged your hatch pretty hard. I just want to verify that it’s still operational.”
“Roger.”
There was a long moment of silence as we watched and waited. With any luck everything would be okay. With any luck there would be no more problems from my little accident yesterday.
Then again, we all know about McDoogle and luck, don’t we?
At last, we heard a voice over our headsets. “No go at this end. Looks like we might have ourselves a situation.”
No one answered.
I could tell they were all thinking. The jokes and chatter had suddenly stopped. There was only silence.
The next voice was Commander Phillips’s. “O’Brien, you’ll have to come over and try to open it from the outside.”
O’Brien looked at me. “That would mean leaving Walden all alone in the shuttle.”
My mouth suddenly went dry. Not I-don’t-have-anything-to-swallow dry, but dry-as-a-cotton-ball-in-the-Sahara-Desert-in-the-middle-of-a-heat-wave dry. “Can’t . . .” My voice caught. I cleared it and started again. “Can’t they go out another door and fix it themselves?”
“That’s their only door,” O’Brien said. “If we don’t open it, they’ll never get out.”
