by Ben Mezrich
He was so caught up in thoughts of his own reinvention that it took him a moment to notice that the girl in front of him had turned half toward him, smiling. She was blond and tan, only a few inches shorter than Thad; her surfer-esque body looked fantastic beneath a white T-shirt and tight designer jeans. In fact, most of the co-ops were above average in looks; there was a preponderance of blondes with good figures.
The blonde in the T-shirt introduced herself as Sally Bishop, and after shaking Thad’s hand, she pointed toward the wall behind him.
“That pretty much says it all, doesn’t it?”
Thad wasn’t sure how he’d missed the mural before, because it was utterly enormous. It took up an entire section of the lobby wall, painted in such bright colors that it competed with the near-nuclear glow of the high Texan sun streaming through the skylights above.
“I read about that mural in the orientation booklet,” the girl said. “It’s got some stupid name, Opening the Next Frontier—The Next Giant Step, but it’s all right there. Instead of the orientation lecture, they should just have us look at the mural all morning.”
Thad laughed. He’d also read about the sixteen-by-seventy-foot mural, painted by Robert McCall back in the seventies. It was supposed to tell the entire story of the JSC, from its birth in 1960 to the space shuttle program. The painting seemed a bit tacky, if not outright kitsch, but it did a pretty good job of graphically recognizing the space agency’s accomplishments. From the first manned spaceflight of Alan Shepard in 1961, through the Gemini, Apollo, Skylab, and shuttle programs—Thad didn’t think anyone who cared about space could stand in front of that mural and not get goose bumps. Especially with the air-conditioning system blasting frozen air from every direction. The thing that Thad liked most about the mural was where it ended; there was plenty of space along that vast wall for whatever came next.
“Maybe your picture is going to be hanging there one day,” Thad replied. “I think you’d look pretty good in a space suit.”
“It’s going to be a while before any of us are wearing space suits. I’m just glad I made it here at all. Two days ago I was in Mexico with my boyfriend, and I forgot my passport in the hotel. I had to talk my way across the border. Good thing I had a bunch of mechanical engineering textbooks with me. The border guards had a weakness for a couple of NASA nerds.”
“Your boyfriend is a co-op, too?”
“He’s coming in later this afternoon, from Dallas. We’re hoping to get assigned to a project together. Although I’ve asked around, and it seems like nearly everyone here is engineering.”
Thad nodded. He was going to be in the minority, especially because he had listed geology as his main interest in the acceptance letter. He knew that after the orientation lecture, the co-ops were going to be assigned projects in areas as close as possible to their interests. It was just another thing that set him apart—hopefully in a good way. After all, how many engineers did it take to fly a spaceship?
As the line of co-ops slowly progressed into the auditorium, the girl continued her slightly flirtatious conversation. She told him about her wild trip to Mexico, about how awesome her freshman year at the University of Texas had been—UT being one of the five schools where most of the co-ops had come from—about how she’d fallen in love with the idea of working at NASA as a kid because her father, an ex–air force pilot, had forced her to go to space camp the summer after her sophomore year of high school.
For his own part, Thad began his reinvention by giving her only the abridged version of himself. He talked about how he and Sonya had recently become obsessed with paleontology, how he’d used his geology background to get them volunteer work at the university’s museum. How they’d been invited on digs sponsored by the museum, and how fun it was to sift through the mud, chasing fossils, using science as a tool to re-create things they’d read about in books. Animated, he described how he’d found an actual Tyrannosaurus rex tooth on their most recent dig—only the fifth tooth found in that area of Utah.
Of course, he didn’t mention the fact that while working as an inventory assistant at the museum, he’d also borrowed a few particularly cool fossils he’d been transporting to the storage closet—one rock jammed into his pocket becoming a few more fossils added a couple of days later—displaying them in his living room, often bringing them out at dinner parties to impress Sonya’s friends. But he didn’t think there was anything wrong with showing off such precious objects—the bigger crime, to him, was leaving those fossils in crates in a dark basement. Wasn’t displaying such historical objects the whole point of a museum in the first place?
He had a feeling his fellow co-op would understand; she shared his adventurous bent. And listening to snippets of conversations going on all around him, he knew that the two of them were not alone. He was in a place full of young people with vivid spirits.
When he finally reached the auditorium, shaking Bob Musgrove’s hand for the first time—getting a full pat on the back and a warm welcome—Thad was completely swept up in the emotion of the moment. He felt like he had found a home.
The feeling only grew through the introductory lecture, led by Musgrove and continued by a handful of JSC speakers. These speakers included a real live astronaut, in full uniform, porcupined with glorious, colorful NASA patches that marked him as someone who had flown in the shuttle—actually been to space. The astronaut detailed the history of the JSC—really, just giving life to the pixels in the mural hanging on the wall back in the lobby:
How it all started with a Russian dog named Laika: two months after Sputnik One stunned the world and put the fear of Soviet-controlled space in America’s mind, the Russians managed to put a mutt, Laika, into orbit. No matter that the poor dog died from heat and stress on the way up—Eisenhower, terrified that Russia was going to win the space race, began plans for an astronaut program. In April 1962, construction of the JSC began in the Clear Lake area of Houston—a place chosen because of its smooth topography, and the fact that Rice University was willing to give the government a cheap lease price for the land.
The astronaut had the audience of co-ops enrapt from the very first word, although that could have been the result of his uniform and his natural cowboy swagger. He described how NASA moved from the Mercury program, which basically was about strapping men—equal parts brave and insane—to rockets aimed at low orbits, to the Gemini program, which was all about sustained life in space. Nine astronauts were chosen from a pool of almost eight thousand, given the name “The New Nine.” They flew ten missions, the third of which, while launched from Cape Canaveral in Florida, was backed up by the newly finished Mission Control Center in Houston. It wasn’t until Gemini Four that a full mission was controlled from the Houston center—made even more significant by the fact that it was also the first extravehicular space walk in human history.
From there, the astronaut continued into the Apollo period, briefly reliving the moon landing, the greatest accomplishment of the last hundred years. Thad tuned out as the astronaut cycled through the eleven Apollos that flew from 1968 to 1972. Like everyone else in the room, he’d seen the movie. He was more interested, for the moment, in scanning the crowd around him, the faces so filled with what could only be described as ecstasy. Even the description of Skylab, the least flashy phase in JSC history, didn’t shake the elation from the audience. The story of how the Skylab space station eventually crash-landed in western Australia—causing a backwoods Australian city council to fine NASA four hundred dollars for littering—was just another parable in what could only be described as a story of biblical importance. To the co-ops, NASA was a religion. And a real live astronaut was nothing short of a deity.
The blue-suited man finished his lecture with the story of the birth of the shuttle program. On April 1, 1969, a group of engineers was told to report to Building 36. A NASA engineer entered the room carrying a balsa-wood model of an airplane, which he tossed toward the gathered men. They assumed it was a prank, but in rea
lity it was an illustration of NASA’s new direction. They were going to build a spaceship that flew like an airplane. By 1978, NASA was ready to elect its first group of shuttle astronauts, which they dubbed “The 35 New Guys.”
The astronaut ended his speech to uproarious applause, and was followed onstage by Musgrove again, who told a few more jokes and then went through the actual details of the co-op program. Thad had already been through the rules booklet many times. He knew he’d signed up for at least three semester-long “tours”; after each, he’d have to return to Utah to continue his actual schooling. He’d be paid enough to cover room and board, maybe a little bit extra, but he doubted that any of them were there for the money—as evidenced by the fact that the co-ops were still mostly staring at the astronaut in his blue uniform at the edge of the stage rather than at the amiable man in the white shirt at the lectern.
“Keep your eyes open every day,” Musgrove concluded from the stage. “Because every day in this place, you’ll see something that’s going to open your mind in ways you’ve never imagined. And maybe, if you work hard, if you’re lucky, if we’re all lucky—one day one of you will be standing here in a blue uniform telling us what it’s like to walk on Mars.”
Thad felt his face flush as he joined the other co-ops in applause. Musgrove finished by telling them to line up again in the lobby to receive their initial work assignments—but Thad was barely listening.
In his mind, he was already wearing that blue uniform, taking that first step on Mars.
6
Now we’re talking.
Thad balled up a photocopied map of Building 31 into his fist, jamming it deep into his pocket, as he stepped across the threshold of the state-of-the-art Astromaterials Lab. Overpressurized, antiseptic-tinged air smacked him full in the face, and he grinned, taking in the three-hundred-square-foot lab with quick flicks of his eyes. He could tell immediately that he was in the right place. Glistening, stainless-steel counters, bucket-style, chrome-plated sinks, skyscrapers of test-tube racks, catacombs of Bunsen burners—and enough pipettes to build a church organ. The place was a scientist’s wet dream, from the skating-rink-smooth cement floor to the achingly bright fluorescing panels that lined the ceiling. Even the overbearing hum of the level-four ventilation system seemed a symphonic throb in Thad’s ears. This place put the geology labs back at the University of Utah to shame, and Thad could hardly believe he was going to be spending the next three months watching his reflection dance across all that chrome and steel.
Unlike Building 2, the Building 31 lab hadn’t been easy to find. The place was a maze of windowless corridors and unlabeled doors. Because Thad was the only new co-op without an engineering background, he had been the only one assigned to life sciences. It was a cool distinction, because life sciences was interdisciplinary—which meant he was going to get access to a number of different labs in a variety of NASA complexes. He was going to be able to chase some really diverse interests over his three tours at the JSC, and if he played his cards right, there would be a lot of opportunity to work with and impress the higher-ups. The downside, however, was that it was another thing separating him from the herd. He would have to find his way on his own—just like he’d had to find the Astromaterials Lab, where he was supposed to spend his first few days, with little more than a poorly drawn map and a handful of directions given to him by Bob Musgrove.
But Musgrove and the map were erased from his thoughts the minute he stepped into the pristine, supercontrolled environment. He could imagine himself spending countless hours conducting experiments in this place, separated from the outside world by cinderblock walls built to withstand the strongest hurricane on record. In fact, he was so swept up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the other person in the lab until he was almost right on top of him: a stringy young man around Thad’s age, wearing a white lab coat over what looked to be blue scrubs, his hair covered by a matching blue surgical cap. The guy had his back to Thad and was leaning over one of the stainless-steel counters, a large rectangular object in his gloved hands.
Thad froze, staring at the object—because it was like nothing he’d ever seen before. It looked like a windowpane, but so incredibly thin—it didn’t seem to have any depth to it at all. Not exactly transparent, but not opaque either—somewhere in between. Like fog, or a slice of cloud, somehow turned to glass.
“That’s not something you see every day,” Thad finally murmured, barely loud enough to be heard over the whirring ventilation system.
The young man at the counter didn’t respond. Instead, he carefully placed the object down on a gel-like container, and then exhaled. After making sure the pane was secure, he turned to face Thad. Yanking the surgical cap off his head, he ran a hand through his unruly tufts of dirty-blond hair. His face was incredibly angular, his chin so sharp it looked like it was formed to cut stone. His jutting cheeks were bright red, and there were teardrops of sweat circumnavigating his pinpoint eyes.
“It’s called ‘aerogel,’ and it’s a bitch to work with. Lowest-density solid ever invented, strong enough to hold one thousand times its weight. And yet it shatters if you even look at it wrong.”
“That sounds like a contradiction.”
“Yep, pretty much sums it up. You make it by pulling all the water out of a silicon compound. It’s an amazing insulator, but it weighs next to nothing. A piece the size of a human would weigh less than a pound and be able to support the weight of a car. If we ever really go to Mars, this stuff is going to be a big part of how we get there. And it’s got a really awesome name. Liquid Smoke. How fucking cool is that?”
Thad grinned back at the kid.
“Very fucking cool. I’m Thad Roberts.”
“I know, Dr. Musgrove texted me that you were on your way down here. I figured it would take you another ten minutes at least—you must be one of the smart ones. I’m Brian Helms. I’m going to be your lab mate.”
Brian yanked off a glove and shook Thad’s hand, then jerked his head to the left, indicating that Thad was to follow him toward another counter on the other side of the rectangular room.
“I’m a co-op, too, on my second tour. You really got lucky, man; astromaterials is the best gig here. We get to do just about everything. Especially now that everything in this place is all about Mars.”
Helms reached the far counter and waved his one gloved hand at the objects strewn across the shiny surface. Thad saw various-sized rocks in containers ranging from petri dishes to strange, spherical globes that seemed to be filled with transparent liquid.
“This is what we do, mostly. Practice and experiment with preparation techniques, getting samples ready for transport to different locations around the JSC, as well as places outside of NASA.”
“What sort of samples?”
“That’s the really cool part. Up until now, it’s been mostly lunar rocks. Or more accurately, lunar dust, because we’re usually talking about a gram here, a gram there. But lately it’s more about meteorites. Because some of those come from a lot farther than the moon—and that’s what everybody’s interested in now.”
Thad looked at the various rocks splayed out across the steel counter.
“You mean some of these are moon rocks?”
“Of course not. Do you know how valuable moon rocks are?”
Thad shrugged.
“Actually, I don’t.”
“Very. Fucking. Valuable. And they have to be kept in really pristine conditions. You should see the Lunar Lab. We’re talking Plexiglas cabinets filled with high-purity nitrogen. You go in wearing bodysuits, through these clean-air purification chambers—really sci-fi kind of shit.”
Thad could only imagine what his new lab partner was talking about. He’d never worked with dangerous chemicals or biohazards before, so he only knew what he’d seen on TV, but he guessed it would be pretty cool to see the Lunar Lab in person.
“In this lab,” Helms continued, “we practice on regular Earth rocks. You’ll learn h
ow to shave off little pieces, mimicking the ones from real lunar and meteorite samples that are often sent around to high schools as part of NASA’s educational outreach program. I’ll also show you how to put together a desiccator, which is a really cool device that keeps moisture out. For museums, we use these bigger glass spheres. They’re usually filled with nitrogen to keep the rocks in good shape.”
“So you pretty much run this lab?” Helms was just a co-op, but he seemed amazingly confident, like he’d been doing things on his own for a while.
Helms grinned, shaking his head.
“I’m just a wannabe like you. The division chief is Dr. Cal Agee. His assistant is David Draper. They’re basically our mentors here in astromaterials. They’ll come around now and again to make sure we’re not setting the place on fire, or playing catch with the moon rocks. But just walking around the halls, you’re going to meet a lot of scientists with as many letters after their names as you’ve got in yours. That’s the best part of this place, hobnobbing with guys who play with space toys for a living.”
“And we also get to work with astronauts?” Thad asked.
Helms gave him a sideways look.
“That a big deal to you?”
“Of course. I mean, scientists are cool, but astronauts are rock stars.”
Helms laughed.
“I guess I’m a little jaded. Growing up around them kind of shakes some of the moon dust off.”
“You grew up around here?”
