by Bill Myers
“Trust me! It will level off! Just hold it there.”
I fought against everything I felt. I fought against the tumbling, the raw panic, and the knowledge that I had a free video rental coupon at home that I’d never be able to redeem.
It was an incredible struggle, but somehow, some way, I was able to keep listening and obeying. I was able to do everything he ordered.
“Gently . . . hold it . . . hold it . . .”
And gradually, ever so gradually . . . the tumbling began to slow.
“Nice and easy, now . . . hold it . . . we’re almost there.”
I resisted the temptation to put on some finishing touches. As far as I could tell we didn’t need any more of my touches.
“And now . . . ease up. Nice and slow.”
I did.
Peeking out the window, I was relieved to see the Earth and horizon had finally stopped their acrobatics. I took a deep breath and slowly let it out.
I heard Commander Phillips do the same.
“Sorry,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”
“It better not, because we have one more maneuver coming up.”
“One more!”
“That’s right, and you won’t have me around to make sure you do it correctly.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re about to reenter the atmosphere. The outside of Encounter will heat up to 1,500 degrees Celsius. You won’t be able to communicate with anyone for twelve minutes.”
“Twelve minutes!”
“Relax. Just do everything I say and follow the readouts on your computer screen. If you do, every-thing will be fine.”
I took another deep breath and wiped my hands. This following-the-rules business seemed to be getting more and more intense. Granted, I was learning, but I still wasn’t batting a thousand. And by the look of things, a thousand is exactly what I needed to do to get home alive.
“Look down at the computer screen, Wally. Do you see a little outline of the shuttle?”
“I see two. One’s pointed up, the other’s kind of straight.”
“The straight one is you. You need to pull up on your nose until your shuttle fits perfectly over the outline of the other.”
“Why would I want to point up if we’re heading down?”
“It will slow you and allow your heat tiles to absorb the heat. You must point that nose up between 28 and 38 degrees.”
I still didn’t understand but figured it wouldn’t hurt to keep doing things his way. “Okay,” I said. “When should I start?”
“Now.”
“What?”
“Not too fast, but gradually pull your stick up into that 28- to 38-degree position.”
“But—”
“Wally . . .” His voice was already starting to fade and crackle. “Pull that nose up, exactly like that diagram, or you’ll burn up.”
“What if I can’t?” I waited for an answer, but there was none. “Commander Phillips?” I heard some words but couldn’t make them out. “Commander Phillips? Commander Phillips!”
Now there was nothing but static.
And then I saw it. The glow. Outside, around the hull. It was kind of red and orangish. We were already starting to reenter the Earth’s atmosphere. Things were already starting to heat up.
I looked back at the computer screen. The number beside our shuttle read 12. Commander Phillips had said I had to be between 28 and 38.
I quickly pulled back on the stick.
Gently, his voice echoed in my mind.
I eased up and pulled more slowly.
14 . . . 16 . . . 17 . . .
It was harder than I thought.
The shuttle started to vibrate. “What’s wrong?” I shouted. “Commander Phillips?”
No answer. Nothing but static. I glanced at O’Brien. He was still out.
The vibrating grew worse until it turned into violent shakings. I had to be doing something wrong. I had to be! I let up on the stick. We dropped back:
17 . . . 16 . . .
The shaking grew even worse. The red glow outside became brighter and brighter.
“We’re burning up!” I cried. “I have to let up more!”
NO! my thoughts cried back. HE SAID 28 TO 38 DEGREES.
I looked at the computer screen. I was way off. That’s it! That’s why I was burning up! I had to obey. Even if it didn’t make sense, I had to pull the nose up to at least 28 degrees.
I tugged harder on the stick.
17 . . . 23 . . . 26 . . .
We were almost there, but the vibrating and shaking didn’t stop. In fact, they grew worse. So did the noise. It was a rushing roar. I stopped pulling, afraid I was doing something wrong, afraid I was killing us.
NO! HE SAID 28 TO 38 DEGREES! HE SAID FOLLOW THE COMPUTER!
I looked at the screen. We were down to 24. I started pulling again:
25 . . . 27 . . . 28 . . .
Our shuttle diagram was almost identical to the one on the computer screen.
I began to let up.
26 . . . 25 . . .
NO! AT LEAST 28 DEGREES.
I pulled the stick. It was hard with all the shaking and bouncing, but he had said 28 to 38 degrees, and if that’s what he wanted, that’s what he would get.
28 . . . 30 . . . 31 . . . 34 . . .
I don’t know how long I fought the stick. It was like a nightmare that wouldn’t stop. It seemed the more I tried to follow Commander Phillips’s orders, the worse things got. But I’d seen enough of what happened when I did things my way. This time it would be his way or nothing. I’d follow his orders, I’d obey the computer readout. Even if it killed us, I would obey.
And then, suddenly, the roaring and shaking began to stop.
I looked out the window. The fiery glow was going, too. Instead of the blackness of outer space, we were surrounded by blue—a blue that was getting lighter by the second.
O’Brien groaned. I looked over at him. He shook his head and mumbled, “Where are we?”
Before I could answer, the radio crackled to life. “Encounter, this is Control. Encounter, this is Control, do you copy?”
O’Brien blinked his eyes a couple of times to get his bearings. Then he sat up and checked some of the readouts.
“Encounter, this is Control, do you copy?”
Finally, he reached for the intercom switch. “Roger, Control, this is Encounter. We are commencing S turn maneuvers and moving speed brake back to 100 percent.”
“We copy, Encounter. You’re looking good.”
Soon, O’Brien was back in the swing of things, flipping switches and taking control of the stick. He had only a second to look over at me. I couldn’t tell if he was amazed or just plain shocked. Maybe it was both. He said only one sentence, but it was one of the best sentences I’d ever heard.
“Don’t just sit there, Wally, give me a hand.”
I looked at him and grinned.
I’m not sure, but I think he actually grinned back.
Chapter 10
Wrapping Up
The rest of the landing went pretty smoothly. I just flipped the switches O’Brien said to flip and pushed the buttons O’Brien said to push. It was a piece of cake. I guess when you get down to it, obeying rules does make things a little easier.
It was pretty cool looking out the window and seeing Florida come into view. It was even cooler when we saw the runway. O’Brien made one last turn, straightened us out, then set us up for the landing. Now we were just like any old jetliner coming into any old airport . . . except for the sound. There was none. Just rushing wind.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Because we don’t have any power,” he said.
“What?”
“Relax, that’s how we’re designed. We’ve been gliding ever since we left orbit.”
I shook my head in surprise and amazement.
When we were just a few feet above the landing strip, O’Brien raised the cover of the landing
gear switch and snapped it on.
Then a voice from Control came over the radio: “Encounter, main gear at ten feet, five feet, three feet, two feet, one . . . contact.”
The shuttle gave a slight jolt as our back wheels hit the ground.
“Nose wheel at five feet, four, three, two, one . . . contact.”
Another jolt as our front wheels came down.
And finally the words . . . “Welcome home, Encounter.”
“Roger,” O’Brien said. “It’s good to be back.”
He flipped a switch that popped out a parachute to slow us down. Thirty seconds later we rolled to a stop. I looked over at him. After all we’d been through, I could feel a sense of friendship between us. It was one of those deep, unspoken, male bonding things.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I said, grinning. “Maybe we could do it again sometime.”
O’Brien just looked at me, then went back to flipping switches as he muttered, “Not in this lifetime, Waldo.”
So much for male bonding.
I grabbed Ol’ Betsy and rose from my chair.
As I crossed to the ladder and climbed down to the mid-deck, my body felt like it weighed a ton.
“It’s the gravity,” O’Brien explained as he cracked open the hatch, squinted at the sunlight, and started down the stairs toward the waiting crowd. “It’ll take a little while to get your coordination back.”
I wanted to explain that it’s taken me thirteen years, and I still didn’t quite have it down. But my first step onto the stairway saved me the trouble. Something about the way I tumbled head over heels and crashed onto the pavement face-first seemed to make my point. Then, of course, there were all those TV cameras that showed my grace to the entire world . . . just in case anybody still had their doubts.
Wall Street and Opera were the first at my side. “Oh, Wally, Wally!” they shouted.
“So how’s that movie deal?” I asked Wall Street. “Did I make enough blunders?”
“Forget the movie deal,” she said. “Some toy guys are inventing a new doll. It’s called Little Wally Crash ’N’ Burn.”
“What does it do?” I asked.
“You just hold it in your hand and for no reason at all it falls over and explodes. We’ll make millions!”
Next came Mom doing her usual hugging-and-crying-because-she’s-so-happy routine.
Finally, there was Dad. Part of me wanted to hug him, but part of me knew he wouldn’t want to show that kind of emotion in front of all those lights and cameras. Luckily, he saved me the bother by suddenly sticking out his manly hand for a manly handshake. “Welcome back, son.” I knew a handshake was the best he could come up with under the circumstances, so I grabbed his hand and squeezed it for all I was worth. “Oh, Dad,” I said, starting to tear up. “I’m so glad to be home!”
“I’m, uh, I’m glad you’re home, too, son.” He put his hand on my shoulder and gave a slight squeeze.
I could tell by the thickness in his voice that he was really touched and that he really wanted to express his feelings. I could also tell by the way he was glancing at all the cameras and people that it would be really tough on him.
“It’s okay, Dad,” I said. “You can tell me what you’re really thinking.”
Finally, he spoke. “Well, son . . . the parking here is $2.75 an hour. We’ve already been here one hour. But if we hurry they might not charge us for the second.”
I laughed. Good ol’ Dad. Some things never change. He shrugged and gave a half smile.
We all turned and started for the parking lot. Of course, there would be lots of things to straighten out with NASA—mostly about how many zillions of lawns I’d have to mow to pay them back for my little “Learn-to-Follow-the Rules” field trip.
Later, in the hotel room, we watched Commander Phillips on the news. He was up in Space Station One talking about how he wasn’t worried and how the next shuttle would be taking off in a couple of weeks to rescue them. When my name came up, he just grinned and said, “Yes sir, that Wally McDoogle is quite a trouper. I’m looking forward to the day when he can become a real, official astronaut.” What he didn’t mention was that he hoped to be retired and on the other side of the planet if that day should ever arrive.
It was getting late and everybody decided to hit the hay. Everybody but me. I was still wound up, so I pulled out Ol’ Betsy to try to finish up my little Neutron Dude story. . . .
Veggie-Man, the horrendously healthy health nut, hovers over our heroically helpless hero (say that seven times fast). He is about to turn Neutron Dude into somebody’s version of a veggie platter. But just before he fires the can of Health Food Spray, the roof to his laboratory explodes. Bits and pieces of ceiling fall all around them as a space shuttle breaks through the rafters and glides into a perfect landing atop one of the giant lab counters.
The hatch opens and out pops Commander Phillips, followed by Payload Specialist Meyer and Missions Specialist Dr. Lambert.
“Wait a minute!” Veggie-Man cries. “Your story is over! You can’t come barging into this one!”
“Why not?” Commander Phillips asks as he leaps to the ground and straightens his flight suit.
“It’s not fair,” Veggie-Man shouts. “Our author can’t go around mixing reality with his superhero stories.”
“Says who?” asks Dr. Lambert.
“It’s against the rules,” Veggie- Man complains.
“Precisely,” Commander Phillips agrees. “But since you’re not following the bad-guy rules, why should our writer, the great and always-brilliant Wally McDoogle, follow the writing rules?”
“What are you talking about?” Veggie-Man whines. “I’m following the bad-guy rules to the letter. Check it out for yourself.” He pulls a book off the shelf and tosses it to Dr. Lambert. It’s the latest edition of the Bad Guys’ Rule Book. She quickly flips to the chapter entitled “Super Villain.”
“Aren’t I being sinisterly slimy?” he asks.
“Check,” she says.
“And villainously vile?”
“Double check.”
“And my breath?” He burps and blows some of the organic fumes in her direction. “Doesn’t it meet all the bad-guy bad-breath requirements?”
She coughs and gags. “Check again.”
“So what rule am I breaking?”
Commander Phillips explains. “Bad guys are supposed to do bad things.”
“I’m turning everything into health food. Isn’t that bad enough?”
Phillips shakes his head. “No, that’s good.”
“What are you talking about?”
Neutron Dude steps in. “I think I see their point, Veggie-Man. By creating food that’s healthy to eat, you’re actually doing something good.”
“Which means,” Dr. Lambert says, tapping her manual, “you’re breaking a major bad-guy rule.”
“Oh no!” Veggie-Man gasps.
“Oh yes,” Phillips says. “By being bad, you’re actually being good.”
Veggie-Man breaks into a cold sweat. “What do I do? How can I change my ways?”
Everyone is stumped until Neutron Dude (still being the hero of our story which, of course, means he has to have the answer) suddenly has... you guessed it...the answer. “Since we’re all in the same McDoogle book, maybe you can ask Wally to introduce you to one of the bad guys from his real-life story.”
“That’s right,” Dr. Lambert agrees. “Like that chubby boy who’s always eating.”
“You mean Opera?”
“Yeah, he has a bad junk-food habit.”
Phillips nods. “Or that other friend of his who’s always trying to make a buck off him?”
Meyer shakes his head. “No, they’re both too good. Hey, I’ve got it! How ’bout Mad Dog Miller? You know, that hockey player from Wally’s My Life Aas a Human Hockey Puck book? He was pretty bad.”
“Or those pirates from My Life As a Torpedo Test Target?” Phillips says.
“Or those Save the Snail te
rrorists from My Life As Dinosaur Dental Floss?”
“Or how ’bout——”
And so the group goes on. Each trying to give Veggie-Man examples of how following bad-guy rules can make him the best at being the baddest. For as we all know, rules are important to follow, no matter who you are.
“Or, how ’bout those poachers Wally ran into in My Life As Crocodile Junk Food? Or those balloon racers from My Life As a Broken Bungee Cord? Or that mechanical monster in...”
I stopped typing and looked up from the screen. My eyes were getting weak, and my mind was getting tired (or maybe it was the other way around). In any case, I pressed F10 to save the story and shut Ol’ Betsy down for the night. I figured, like me, Veggie-Man had definitely learned his lesson about following rules. (Besides, I was getting tired of working in all that free advertising for my other books.)
I gave a hearty stretch and closed my eyes. With any luck, I was done with these crazy adventures for a while. With any luck, I had gone through enough disasters and catastrophes.
Then again, we all know about my luck. . . .
