There was a lot of tension, forced humor, in that suiting room. The U.S. Alliance technicians were bland, smiling and competent, like well-trained nurses preparing him for an operation.
Angel was in his element. At one point he slapped Rosenberg on the back. “How do you feel, buddy? Just like being in the locker room before a basketball game at high school. Right?”
Wrong, thought Rosenberg. Dead wrong.
There were more rituals, as they headed out of the building towards the bus that would take them to the pad. There was a card game called Possum’s Fargo that they had to play, for instance, with a couple of the techs. Rosenberg couldn’t believe his eyes. Here they were, the five of them, like huge insects in their glaring orange pressure suits, standing around a table to play what seemed like, to him, a kid’s version of poker. But — rigid tradition had it — they couldn’t leave, until the commander, Angel, in this case, had lost a hand.
It took six hands.
They emerged into the chill pre-dawn.
The five of them clambered, bulky and clumsy, into a bus. The bus was cramped, depressingly ordinary. Rosenberg, short of sleep, felt compressed by mundanity, the gritty ordinariness of things; he felt irritable, as if his imagination had been switched off.
He suspected much of the news of the day was being kept from them, but he’d heard a little scuttlebutt over breakfast. The launch, possibly the last spectacular space event at KSC, was attracting crowds, to the bayous and motels of Florida. But the forces which had opposed the Titan program were gathering too. USAF spokesmen were steadily denouncing NASA. There were demonstrations at the security gates, and there was talk of a group calling themselves Nullists who had got as far as the pad itself, and lain down their bodies in the flame bucket. Even within NASA, there wasn’t a unanimity of support: Rosenberg had heard of resignations from Barbara Fahy’s team of controllers at JSC, problems with suppliers here at the Cape…
It was all falling apart at last, he thought. But it just had to hang together a few more hours, long enough to release him from Earth.
The road stretched ahead, straight-infinite, glowing in the headlights of the bus. And on the horizon, at the end of the road, he could see the pad itself, the glowing Shuttle waiting for him in a pyramid of searchlights.
At the pad, three hours before launch time, they were taken up the gantry elevator to the White Room, all of two hundred feet above the Earth. And now, at the far end of the room, Rosenberg found himself facing the spacecraft at last, a slab of Endeavour’s powder-white tiled skin, the tight round scuffed-metal hatch embedded in it.
He took a breath. Salt. It seemed entirely appropriate, he thought, that his last lungful of Earth air should smell of the sea.
He had to crawl into the orbiter through the tight hatch, as if being born in reverse. A white-suited tech was there to peel off his rubber overshoes, and to place him in his metal-frame seat, tipped up so he lay on his back, gently placing his helmet and parachute pack.
The tech had theUS ALLIANCE logo on his back; he wasn’t a NASA employee, Rosenberg reflected, but a worker for the lowest bidder in a contracted-out operation. Comforting.
“…Okay, real good. Put your other arm through there and I’ll hold it for you. Okay. Now your comms check. Talk to the OTC on that button.”
Rosenberg pressed the button. “OTC, this is MS-1.”
“Loud and clear. Good morning.”
The tech said, “Now put your visor down on the right.”
“It’s down.”
Tighten your helmet a little bit at the back. Make sure it’s snug but not too tight. Push this button right here and tell the LTD comm check.”
“LTD, MS-1. Comm check.”
“Loud and clear.”
“Now raise your visor with a little push with your right hand. Right hand there. That’s good. Now we’ll put this little air pack where it feels most comfortable to you, about here, beside your seat. Feel it there? Okay? You’re ready. Doing good. Watch your arm there, Isaac. Now, while I hook up Nicola you’re going to lose comms for a while…”
And thus Rosenberg, already toilet-trained, was fussed over as if by a parent loading a toddler into a push-chair, as he was strapped into this couch, upended between two gigantic rocket boosters, while a mountain of liquid fuel was pumped in below his spine.
The Shuttle was launched from the Cape, and, in the course of its routine operation, was supposed to come back down to the Cape, to America. After landing a version of the White Room was clamped onto the hatchway of the Shuttle, clean and enclosed and populated by more smiling, hand-shaking technicians, and the shaky astronauts were helped down, and delivered to their families once more, as if they’d never left, as if Shuttle was just a huge elevator system, he thought, lifting Americans in hygienic enclosure to the stars and back again, with all the mystery washed out by routine.
Except today, he thought, this old elevator is going up to the sky, and ain’t never coming back down again.
The long count continued. And as supercooled fuel was pumped into the stack, the metal walls creaked and moaned.
At Canaveral Air Force Base, Gareth Deeke was woken by a phone call. A one-word command.
He closed his fist. He was going to get his flight.
He climbed out of bed and marched to the shower. On the wall, a softscreen TV, activated by his movement, filled up with pictures of a glowing Shuttle.
“Endeavour,resume countdown on my mark. Three, two, one. Mark. Ground launch sequencer auto sequence started.”
Bill Angel was lying on his back in the left-hand commander’s seat. Benacerraf was behind him once more, in the flight engineer’s position. Siobhan Libet, for this last flight, was pilot.
With the orbiter in its vertical takeoff position, the cabin was upended. To Benacerraf, in her flight engineer’s seat, Angel and Libet were precariously suspended above her, like pupae in their orange partial-pressure suits. The rest of Endeavours final crew — Mott and Rosenberg — were in the mid deck area behind Benacerraf.
Angel reached over and pressed a button on a center instrument panel. “Event timer switched to start,” he called. “Operations recorders confirmed on.”
“Copy, Bill. Have a good trip, you guys.”
“We’ll send Endeavour back home to the Smithsonian in a week, safe and sound.” Now, the software controlling launch events had started its operation; the event timer, a clock on the flight deck’s instrument panel, started counting down.
So, it started. Barring malfunctions, there would be no more holds. To Benacerraf this moment was like falling off a cliff; now she was falling through time, all the way towards the launch, with the inevitability of ageing.
Endeavour’s windows, pointing upwards, were open to the sky. Benacerraf could see a slab of grey, forbidding cloud. The flight deck was warm and comfortable, the calm voices of the pilots over the whir of pumps steady and reassuring.
But she had already cut her ties with Earth.
The complex prelaunch ritual continued.
Inside the suit van, Deeke stripped down to his long johns. Here — refurbished and restored, just like X-15 itself — was his pressure suit.
The suit was of reinforced rubber, fitted with hoses, knobs and a big metal neck ring. It was tight and uncomfortable, like a full-body girdle. The damn thing had always been a chore to put on, even when he was a lot younger and more lithe than he was now.
When the inner garment was zipped up, the techs helped him into a silver-colored coverall of a tough artificial fabric, designed to protect the pressure garment in case he had to eject. Next came boots, gloves and helmet. He made sure his mirrored glasses were firmly set in place before the helmet was lifted over his head. When he was a kid, he hadn’t needed any optical correction, of course. Those days were long ago.