Riding Rockets Part 9

Just as the discussions on the GLS began to sound promising we were slapped with another problem. Some bozo in a light airplane had entered the closed airs.p.a.ce around the pad. We would have to hold until that plane was out of the area. The intercom seethed in our rage. We all simultaneously developed Tourette's syndrome. Even Judy swore like a convict.Shoot the f.u.c.ker down, was the general consensus. Previous shuttles had been delayed for the same reason, as well as for pleasure boats violating the offsh.o.r.e danger areas. Every astronaut thought these violators should be shot from the sky and sunk in the sea. Even astronauts enjoying a smooth countdown had no tolerance for idiots getting in the way of their launch, much less a crew as abused as ours. was the general consensus. Previous shuttles had been delayed for the same reason, as well as for pleasure boats violating the offsh.o.r.e danger areas. Every astronaut thought these violators should be shot from the sky and sunk in the sea. Even astronauts enjoying a smooth countdown had no tolerance for idiots getting in the way of their launch, much less a crew as abused as ours.

As we waited, the LCC cleared the GLS problem. Now it was a matter of waiting until the light airplane exited the area. After nearly a seven-minute delay, its pilot pulled his head out of his a.s.s and flew off. We all wished him engine failure. The count resumed.

Mike started the APUs at T-5 minutes. They all looked good. The sweep of the flight control system followed. It was also error-free.

At T-2 minutes we closed our helmet visors. Bob Sieck, the launch director, wished us good luck. Hank acknowledged, thanking him and his team for their efforts. I was glad I didn't have to say anything at this point. My mouth was a desert.

T-1 minute. Hank reminded us, "Eyes on the instruments."

T-31 seconds. "Go for auto-sequence start." I made one last prayer for Donna and the kids...and again to G.o.d, "If you're going to kill me, please do it above fifty miles alt.i.tude."

T-10 seconds. "Go for main engine start." The engine manifold pressures shot up.

T-6 seconds. For the second time in my life I felt the violence of SSME start. Two months earlier I had thought these vibrations were a guarantee for liftoff. No longer. Until there were goose eggs on the clock I would remain skeptical.

5...4...3...We finally entered new countdown territory.

2...1...At zero there was no doubt we had finally slipped the surly bonds of earth. As the hold-down bolts were blown, we were slapped with a combined thrust of more than 7 million pounds. A new wave of intense vibrations roared over us.

"Houston,Discovery is in the roll." is in the roll."

"Roger, roll,Discovery. " "Discovery 's autopilot was in control. Hank and Mike reached to their Att.i.tude Director Indicator (ADI) switches and flipped them to change the mode of the ball. I watched Hank's ADI reflect 's autopilot was in control. Hank and Mike reached to their Att.i.tude Director Indicator (ADI) switches and flipped them to change the mode of the ball. I watched Hank's ADI reflectDiscovery 's tilt toward the risen sun. If our ascent was nominal, the ADI switch would be the only switch touched until MECO...8 minutes, 4 million pounds of propellant, and 17,300 miles per hour away. 's tilt toward the risen sun. If our ascent was nominal, the ADI switch would be the only switch touched until MECO...8 minutes, 4 million pounds of propellant, and 17,300 miles per hour away.Please, G.o.d, that it be so. Having to use other switches could only mean one thing: something wasn't nominal. My eyes fell on the contingency abort cue card Velcroed to Hank's window frame. It detailed procedures for ditching the shuttle, which all of us knew would be death. NASA called all the other abort modes "intact aborts"-the orbiter and crew would be recovered "intact" either in the United States, Europe, or Africa. But they couldn't bring themselves to call a ditching abort a "not intact abort." Like sailors of old painting the decks red so the blood of battle wouldn't shock a crew, NASA camouflaged the ditching procedures with the t.i.tle "contingency abort." One of the card's helpful suggestions was to ditch parallel to the waves. Astronauts joked that the contingency abort procedures were just something to read while we were dying. For some reason the joke seemed funnier while standing at the office coffee bar. Having to use other switches could only mean one thing: something wasn't nominal. My eyes fell on the contingency abort cue card Velcroed to Hank's window frame. It detailed procedures for ditching the shuttle, which all of us knew would be death. NASA called all the other abort modes "intact aborts"-the orbiter and crew would be recovered "intact" either in the United States, Europe, or Africa. But they couldn't bring themselves to call a ditching abort a "not intact abort." Like sailors of old painting the decks red so the blood of battle wouldn't shock a crew, NASA camouflaged the ditching procedures with the t.i.tle "contingency abort." One of the card's helpful suggestions was to ditch parallel to the waves. Astronauts joked that the contingency abort procedures were just something to read while we were dying. For some reason the joke seemed funnier while standing at the office coffee bar.

Except for the noise, vibrations, and G-forces, the ride was just like the simulator, which is akin to the circus Human Cannonball saying, "Except for the earsplitting explosion, the G-forces, and the wind up your nose, it's just like sitting on a case of unlit dynamite." NASA would never duplicate this ride in any ground simulator.

"Throttle down." We were forty seconds up and the vibrations intensified as the vehicle punched through the sound barrier. Everything was shocking the air...the giant, bulbous nose of the ET, the pointed cones of the SRBs, the orbiter's nose, wings, and tail, the struts holding everything together. The interplaying shock waves were an aerodynamic cacophony and the engines throttled back to keep the vehicle from tearing itself apart.

Our seats wiggled and groaned under the stress. I was amazed by the flexibility of the machine. It reminded me of times in my childhood when I would slide down a b.u.mpy, snow-filled arroyo in a cardboard box. Now, as then, I wondered how my c.o.c.kpit could stay together through all the bouncing and shaking.

"Throttle up." The air was thinning and the aerodynamic pressure decreasing. The three Rocketdyne beauties at our backs were once again spiraling to full power. What a rush it was to feel the buildup of thrust, just like jamming the throttles of a fighter into the afterburner detents. I suspect every shuttle pilot would have loved to s.n.a.t.c.h the controls from the autopilot and manually throttle the engines to full power. How many times in your life would you have 1.5 million pounds of thrust wrapped around your fingers?

The prayers flying from the souls of everybody in the c.o.c.kpit were identical, that G.o.d would continue to smile upon the SSMEs. We most feared these engines, and for good cause. There had been many SSME ground-test explosions and premature shutdowns. We were also strapped to two SRBs, each burning nearly 5 tons of propellant per second, but n.o.body gave a second thought to them. No engineer had ever come to a Monday morning meeting to explain away a SRB ground-test failure. The SRBs had always worked. But even as we scorched the prayer line with our pleas for flawless SSME function, both SRBs were betraying us. A primary O-ring at different joints in each tube had failed to seal as the motors had ignited. Tentacles of flame from the combustion area had wiggled between the segment facings. Like something alive and trapped, the gas had been wild to escape. It had reached the leak points and started to consume the O-ring rubber. The leak on the left-side SRB was bad enough for hot gas to actually get past the primary O-ring. Though we wouldn't know it until after theChallenger disaster, we had just experienced the first case of what the Thiokol engineers would later define as "blow-by." Hot gas had penetrated into the s.p.a.ce between the primary and backup O-rings. Had our leak continued moments longer, the primary and backup O-rings would have been consumed and history would have recorded the disaster, we had just experienced the first case of what the Thiokol engineers would later define as "blow-by." Hot gas had penetrated into the s.p.a.ce between the primary and backup O-rings. Had our leak continued moments longer, the primary and backup O-rings would have been consumed and history would have recorded theDiscovery disaster instead of disaster instead ofChallenger. It would have been Zoo Crew's names etched in an Arlington Cemetery monument. But the leak hadn't continued. Inexplicably the primary O-rings had resealed. It would have been Zoo Crew's names etched in an Arlington Cemetery monument. But the leak hadn't continued. Inexplicably the primary O-rings had resealed.

The clock was approaching T+2 minutes and the Gs rose to 2.5. An invisible hand pushed me deeper into the seat. I reached forward, drew my hand back, then reached forward again. The veterans had warned it was tough to maneuver an arm under G-loads and it was a good idea to practice in case an ascent emergency later required a reach for a switch.

"You see that?" At Hank's question I was reminded of Judy's warning about not ending any sentence with the wordthat. Needless to say, my ears perked up. Needless to say, my ears perked up.

Mike replied, "Yeah, it looks like foam from the tank is flaking off."

Mike and Hank continued a brief discussion about the particles that were racing past the windows, sometimes striking them. There was no concern in their voices and I quickly dismissed their comments. The ET insulation foam was so light I couldn't imagine it would damage any part of the vehicle. Nineteen years later a briefcase-size chunk of foam ripping from the gas tank would doomColumbia.

"P-C less than fifty." Hank relayed the message on his computer screen that the chamber pressure inside the SRBs had fallen to less than 50 pounds per square inch. A loud metallic bang shook the c.o.c.kpit and a flash of fire whipped the windows as the boosters separated from the ET. Both SRBs tumbled away to parachute into the ocean.

The sudden loss of 6 million pounds of thrust accompanied by dead silence caught me by surprise. Had all three of the SSMEs also shut down? I leaned to my left and stared at the engine status lights and for several heartbeats I expected to see them illuminate in a deadly red glow. But the lights remained off, the radios quiet. I swallowed back my heart. Apparently I had been asleep in training when somebody had described SRB separation and the quiet, velvet smoothness that followed. There was nothing wrong with the vehicle.Discovery had put most of the atmosphere behind her. There was no air to grip the machine or rattle us with shock waves. And the SSMEs were as finely tuned as a Rolex. They continued to deliver nearly 1.5 million pounds of thrust 100 feet behind our backs without a whisper of noise or ripple of vibration. The ride became as smooth as a politician's lie. had put most of the atmosphere behind her. There was no air to grip the machine or rattle us with shock waves. And the SSMEs were as finely tuned as a Rolex. They continued to deliver nearly 1.5 million pounds of thrust 100 feet behind our backs without a whisper of noise or ripple of vibration. The ride became as smooth as a politician's lie.

Hank's alt.i.tude and velocity tapes scrolled upward as the sky faded to abysmal black. Sunlight was streaming through the windows and yet the sky was utterly dark. It was my first real s.p.a.ce experience, something I had never and could never experience as an earthling...simultaneous night and day, simultaneous high noon and deep midnight.

Our various abort windows began to open and close. "Discovery,you're two-engine TAL." We had acquired enough alt.i.tude and speed to fly across the Atlantic and land in Senegal, Africa, if one engine failed, a maneuver known as a Transatlantic Landing abort (TAL). NASA had positioned an astronaut at the Dakar international airport to help air traffic control personnel if we declared an abort. He also had our pa.s.sports and visas. I had a vision of standing in the customs line at the Dakar airport in our shuttle flight suits with our helmets in the crook of our arms while a fez-headed, accented bureaucrat asked, "Anything to declare?" It was something I hoped never to experience.

"Discovery,you're negative return." The Return to Launch Site (RTLS) abort window closed. We were now too far from Florida and headed too fast to the east to be able to return to a landing at KSC. If an engine failed, we were committed to a "straight ahead" abort. That was okay by all of us. n.o.body wanted to do a turnaround RTLS abort. It was an unnatural act of physics. If selected, it would pitch the shuttle around in an outside loop to point us toward Florida. But it would take minutes to cancel our several-thousand-miles-per-hour eastward velocity, so we would actually be traveling backward over the Atlantic. Ultimately we would end up as a million-pound helicopter, fifty miles high, with zero forward speed. Then, we would begin the slow acceleration toward our objective, Florida, only two hundred miles away. The experts swore it would work and Mike and Hank had practiced RTLS aborts in the sim about a thousand times, but n.o.body wanted to be the first to field-test the procedure.

Discoverycontinued a nominal ascent. Pa.s.sing about thirty miles alt.i.tude, it occurred to me I could die without ever having seen the Earth from s.p.a.ce. The shuttle's nose was so high and I was sitting so far aft in the c.o.c.kpit I couldn't see anything of the planet. But there was a window above and just slightly behind my head and since the shuttle flies to orbit upside down, that window did provide a view of the Earth. It was a mighty temptation.

I looked furtively at Steve Hawley. His head was making small jerking motions like Data fromStar Trek as he moved his eyes to every display. There wasn't an electron running in as he moved his eyes to every display. There wasn't an electron running inDiscovery 's body that Hawley's brain wasn't also processing. With him at my side, I rationalized, I wouldn't be missed for a moment of sightseeing. Under the mounting G-forces I craned my neck upward and backward until I thought it would break. The contortion worked. I could see the Earth receding below us. Scattered c.u.mulus clouds had been reduced to points of white. The variations in sea depth were evident in different shades of blue. It wasn't much of a view and I was condemning myself to one h.e.l.l of a neck ache to capture it, but it was enough for the moment. If G.o.d took me now, at least I would have a story to tell while waiting in line for the down escalator to Bible/feminist/post-doc h.e.l.l. 's body that Hawley's brain wasn't also processing. With him at my side, I rationalized, I wouldn't be missed for a moment of sightseeing. Under the mounting G-forces I craned my neck upward and backward until I thought it would break. The contortion worked. I could see the Earth receding below us. Scattered c.u.mulus clouds had been reduced to points of white. The variations in sea depth were evident in different shades of blue. It wasn't much of a view and I was condemning myself to one h.e.l.l of a neck ache to capture it, but it was enough for the moment. If G.o.d took me now, at least I would have a story to tell while waiting in line for the down escalator to Bible/feminist/post-doc h.e.l.l.

We were approaching fifty miles, the magic line that would officially make us astronauts. I had always thought this alt.i.tude requirement was bean-counter bulls.h.i.t. Effectively it was a statement that riding a rocket didn't really get dangerous until you hit fifty miles. In reality if you didn't make it to fifty miles on the shuttle, it probably meant the machine had killed you, as was later to be the case with theChallenger crew. Mike Smith was a rookie killed on that mission and by the official definition he didn't die as an astronaut since he only made it to ten miles alt.i.tude. (Note to NASA: When the hold-down bolts blow, you've earned your gold.) crew. Mike Smith was a rookie killed on that mission and by the official definition he didn't die as an astronaut since he only made it to ten miles alt.i.tude. (Note to NASA: When the hold-down bolts blow, you've earned your gold.) Hank gave us a countdown. "Here it comes...forty-eight...forty-nine...fifty miles. Congratulations, rookies. You're officially astronauts." We cheered. I suspect Judy, Steve, Mike, and Charlie were relishing the moment as I was. I experienced a momentary calm not unlike what I expect someone summiting Mount Everest experiences. There were still a few thousand things that could kill me, but their threat couldn't tug me away from the moment. I stared into the black and watched images of my childhood play in my mind's eye. I saw my homemade rockets streaking upward from the Albuquerque deserts, my dad on his crutches cheering. I saw my mom helping me bake my fuels in her oven and cleaning out coffee cans for my capsules. I saw myself lying in the desert watching Sputnik and Echo streak across the twilight sky. I had achieved a dream of ten thousand nights. I was an astronaut.

My distraction was only a few heartbeats in duration, but it seemed an age since the cheers had ceased. I looked at Steve. He was still mind-melding withDiscovery, sucking in every byte. I got back on the instruments and listened for more of MCC's abort boundary calls. sucking in every byte. I got back on the instruments and listened for more of MCC's abort boundary calls.

"Discovery,you're single-engine TAL."

"Discovery,you're two-engine ATO."

"Discovery,you're press to MECO." This was the sweetest call of all. It meant we could still make it to orbit even if one SSME failed. As an astronaut had once joked, "Surely G.o.d couldn't be so mad at us that He would failtwo engines." engines."

At about eight minutes the G-forces. .h.i.t three and the main engines throttled back to maintain that acceleration. This was necessary to preventDiscovery from rupturing herself. With a nearly empty gas tank the engines now had the muscle to overstress the machine. The reduction in power prevented that. from rupturing herself. With a nearly empty gas tank the engines now had the muscle to overstress the machine. The reduction in power prevented that.

Hank's velocity tape raced upward...20,000 feet per second...21,000...22,000. Every 15 secondsDiscovery was adding another 1,000 miles per hour to her speed. We were giddy with excitement, our laughs distorted by the G-loads. was adding another 1,000 miles per hour to her speed. We were giddy with excitement, our laughs distorted by the G-loads.

"Houston, MECO. Right on the money." At Hank's call another cheer swept the c.o.c.kpit.Discovery had given us a perfect ride. had given us a perfect ride.

Chapter 21.

Orbit.

MECO was silent. The Gs just stopped. I had no sense of being hurled forward as some s.p.a.ce movies depict. There was nothud, thunk, bang, or any other noise to indicate the end of powered flight. MECO could only be noted as the termination of acceleration. In a blink we went from a silent 3-Gs to a silent 0-G. or any other noise to indicate the end of powered flight. MECO could only be noted as the termination of acceleration. In a blink we went from a silent 3-Gs to a silent 0-G.

At this pointDiscovery was headed for an impact into the Pacific Ocean. We still were not in orbit. The ascent was intentionally designed so as not to drag the 50,000-pound gas tank into orbit, where it would become a threat to populations below. Better to keep it on a sub-orbital trajectory, where its impact could be predicted. There was a heavy was headed for an impact into the Pacific Ocean. We still were not in orbit. The ascent was intentionally designed so as not to drag the 50,000-pound gas tank into orbit, where it would become a threat to populations below. Better to keep it on a sub-orbital trajectory, where its impact could be predicted. There was a heavythunk in the c.o.c.kpit as the ET was exploded away to continue toward a Pacific grave. Hank moved his translational hand controller to the up position, and the thrusters in the nose and tail fired to clear us of the tumbling ma.s.s. The nose jets, merely a few yards forward of the windows, hammered the c.o.c.kpit as if howitzers were firing next to us. Checklists strained at their Velcro anchors. in the c.o.c.kpit as the ET was exploded away to continue toward a Pacific grave. Hank moved his translational hand controller to the up position, and the thrusters in the nose and tail fired to clear us of the tumbling ma.s.s. The nose jets, merely a few yards forward of the windows, hammered the c.o.c.kpit as if howitzers were firing next to us. Checklists strained at their Velcro anchors.

Now clear of the ET,Discovery 's computers fired her Orbital Maneuvering System (OMS) engines, twin 6,000-pound trust rockets mounted at the tail. Compared with the SSMEs, these were mere popguns, giving us only a -G acceleration. The engines burned for two minutes to finish the orbit insertion. Then our silent free-fall began. We were in orbit 200 miles above the planet traveling at a speed of nearly 5 miles per second. The entire ascent had taken just ten minutes. In all likelihood Donna and the kids had not even had time to walk from the LCC roof. 's computers fired her Orbital Maneuvering System (OMS) engines, twin 6,000-pound trust rockets mounted at the tail. Compared with the SSMEs, these were mere popguns, giving us only a -G acceleration. The engines burned for two minutes to finish the orbit insertion. Then our silent free-fall began. We were in orbit 200 miles above the planet traveling at a speed of nearly 5 miles per second. The entire ascent had taken just ten minutes. In all likelihood Donna and the kids had not even had time to walk from the LCC roof.

I watched Mike activate the switches to close the ET doors. These covered two large openings onDiscovery 's belly through which pa.s.sed seventeen-inch-diameter fuel and oxidizer feed pipes from the gas tank. These pipes had been disconnected during the jettison of the ET. Now the doors had to close over the openings to complete the belly heat shield. If they failed to close, we were dead...but endowed with the power to choose the manner of our deaths: slow suffocation in orbit as our oxygen was depleted or incineration on deorbit. The open cavities would be pathways for frictional heat to melt the guts out of 's belly through which pa.s.sed seventeen-inch-diameter fuel and oxidizer feed pipes from the gas tank. These pipes had been disconnected during the jettison of the ET. Now the doors had to close over the openings to complete the belly heat shield. If they failed to close, we were dead...but endowed with the power to choose the manner of our deaths: slow suffocation in orbit as our oxygen was depleted or incineration on deorbit. The open cavities would be pathways for frictional heat to melt the guts out ofDiscovery 's belly on reentry. I didn't lift my eyes from the ET door indicators until I saw them flip to 's belly on reentry. I didn't lift my eyes from the ET door indicators until I saw them flip toCLOSED . .

I was still strapped to my seat and didn't yet feel weightless but the c.o.c.kpit scene made it obvious we were. My checklist hovered in midair. A handful of small washers, screws, and nuts floated by our faces. An X-Acto blade tumbled by my right ear.Discovery had been ten years in the factory. During that time hundreds of workers had done some type of wrench-bending in her c.o.c.kpit. While NASA employed strict procedures to keep debris from being lost in the vehicle, it was impossible to prevent some dropped items. Now weightlessness resurrected those from various nooks and crannies. A live mosquito also flew into view. It had entered through the side hatch during the many hours of prelaunch operations and had hitched a ride into s.p.a.ce. I slapped it dead between my hands. had been ten years in the factory. During that time hundreds of workers had done some type of wrench-bending in her c.o.c.kpit. While NASA employed strict procedures to keep debris from being lost in the vehicle, it was impossible to prevent some dropped items. Now weightlessness resurrected those from various nooks and crannies. A live mosquito also flew into view. It had entered through the side hatch during the many hours of prelaunch operations and had hitched a ride into s.p.a.ce. I slapped it dead between my hands.

While I had trained for thousands of hours to immediately dive into the postinsertion checklist, I couldn't overcome the temptation to look at our planet, now filling the forward windows. Blue, white, and black were the only colors. Swirls of lacey clouds patterned an otherwise limitless expanse of deep blue Atlantic Ocean. All of this was framed in a pre-Genesis black. There was no blackness on Earth to compare...not the blackest night, the blackest cave, or the abysmal depths of any sea. To say the view was overwhelmingly beautiful would be an insult to G.o.d. There are no human words to capture the magnificence of the Earth seen from orbit. And we astronauts, cursed with our dominant left brains, are woefully incapable of putting in words what the eyes see. But still we try.

I forced myself back to the checklist as we configuredDiscovery for orbit. Steve Hawley and I disa.s.sembled our seats, and he floated them downstairs for stowage. During the Houston simulations we had nearly popped hernias while moving these 100-pound monsters. Now we pushed them with our fingers. for orbit. Steve Hawley and I disa.s.sembled our seats, and he floated them downstairs for stowage. During the Houston simulations we had nearly popped hernias while moving these 100-pound monsters. Now we pushed them with our fingers.

We loaded the orbit software intoDiscovery 's brain; her decade-old IBM computers didn't have the memory capacity to hold ascent, orbit, and entry software simultaneously. Next we opened the payload bay doors. The inside of those doors contained radiators used to dump the heat generated by our electronics into s.p.a.ce. If they failed to open, we'd have only a couple hours to get 's brain; her decade-old IBM computers didn't have the memory capacity to hold ascent, orbit, and entry software simultaneously. Next we opened the payload bay doors. The inside of those doors contained radiators used to dump the heat generated by our electronics into s.p.a.ce. If they failed to open, we'd have only a couple hours to getDiscovery back on Earth before she fried her brains. But both doors swung open as planned, another milestone pa.s.sed. back on Earth before she fried her brains. But both doors swung open as planned, another milestone pa.s.sed.

As I worked, I wondered if I would get sick. I questioned every gurgle, every swallow. Is that bile I taste? The rational part of my brain said I was okay, but my paranoia twisted every gastrointestinal sensation into something ominous. I checked and double-checked and then triple-checked that my numerous barf bags were ready for a quick draw. The veterans had warned us the sickness could come on very suddenly. They were right. The curse hit. Not me, but Mike Coats. He retched violently into his emesis bag. I felt something warm touch my cheek and reached up to wipe away yellow bile. Other tiny bits of the fluid floated in the c.o.c.kpit. Mike was learning what we would all soon learn-it is impossible to completely contain fluids in weightlessness. Though he had his bag at the ready, some barf had escaped. The odor permeated the tight c.o.c.kpit. Mike sealed his bag but, with work to do, he couldn't leave his seat to stow it downstairs. I took it and floated to the wet-trash container. With somebody else's emesis smearing my cheek, the smell in my nostrils, and a warm bag of the mess in my hand, I had every trigger in place to get sick myself but still I felt fine. I began to think maybe I had dodged the SAS bullet.

Downstairs I got my first view of Judy, who was busy activating the toilet. Everybody was anxious for that to be declared operational. The weightlessness had liberated her black tresses to coil about her head like Medusa's snakes. She would have made a great cannon cleaner. I lifted the floor-mounted trapdoor to access the wet-trash container and shoved Mike's barf bag through the rubber grommet. I mimicked the garbage pit scene fromStar Wars and pretended my hand had been grabbed by an alien creature living inside. I made a few jerking motions and screamed for Judy to help me. She grabbed my arm, pretending to a.s.sist my escape. We tumbled together like fifth-graders on a playground, laughing all the while. With the terror of launch behind us and the intoxicant of being and pretended my hand had been grabbed by an alien creature living inside. I made a few jerking motions and screamed for Judy to help me. She grabbed my arm, pretending to a.s.sist my escape. We tumbled together like fifth-graders on a playground, laughing all the while. With the terror of launch behind us and the intoxicant of beingreal astronauts, we had been transformed into kids. astronauts, we had been transformed into kids.

During a break in the work I went to my locker to change out of my coveralls and take off my UCD. I had often wondered how the privacy issue would play out when we finally got to orbit. In our training Judy had certainly seemed unflappable. She had not fled from the EVA simulation when Hawley and I had been standing naked in front of her rolling on condoms. Still, I wondered how the tight living conditions would affect her behavior. I waited until she had some upstairs duties to attend to and then stripped from my clothes. A few moments later, while I was completely nude and extracting underwear from my locker, Judy returned. She looked at me and said, "Nice b.u.t.t, Tarzan," then went back to her work. For once, I was speechless.

This wasn't the only time that day Judy showed how comfortable she felt around us men. While she was searching for something in her own locker she pulled out a chain of tampons. Like a magician pulling out a seemingly endless rope of scarves from a hat, she kept pulling and pulling. Each of the products was shrink-wrapped in plastic, each precisely separated from the other. The floating belt had all the appearance of a fully loaded bandolier of cotton bullets. Judy smiled. "I can tell you that a man packed this locker." I laughed at the image of a crusty old NASA engineer addressing the issue of how many feminine hygiene products should be loaded. He probably got a number from his wife and then applied a NASA safety factor and then added a few contingency days on top of that number. And then, incanting Gene Kranz's famousApollo 13 challenge, "Failure is not an option," he added some more. challenge, "Failure is not an option," he added some more.

As she wrestled the belt back into its tray, Judy commented, "If a woman had to use all of these, she would be dead from blood loss."

Our first day continued with payload preparations. We rolled out the robot arm and closed the sunshades on our trio of satellites. Charlie Walker began work on his experiment. Mike loaded the IMAX camera. Throughout the mission he and Hank would be filming some s.p.a.ce scenes for the Walter Cronkitenarrated IMAX movie,The Dream Is Alive.

At one point I was alone in the upstairs c.o.c.kpit when Hank called to me from the toilet, "Mike, let me know when we're pa.s.sing over Cuba." I grabbed a camera, a.s.suming he wanted me to photograph the island as part of our Earth observation experiment.

"We're about five minutes out."

"Give me a countdown to Havana."

s.h.i.t, I didn't know where Havana was. I scrambled to find it in our booklet of maps. "Ten seconds, Hank. It's coming up quick. I'll get the photo for you." I aimed the Ha.s.selblad and began to click away.

From below I heard Hank in his own countdown, "Three...two...one," followed by a cheer.

A moment later Hank's head popped above the c.o.c.kpit floor. He wore an expansive grin. "I just squeezed out a m.u.f.fin on that f.u.c.ker Castro. I've always wanted to s.h.i.t on that commie."

Every military astronaut was a Red-hater. We'd been shot at by communist bullets in Vietnam. Many had experienced long separations from families while deployed to remote Cold War outposts. Hank had claimed his small revenge by giving birth to an all-American t.u.r.d two hundred miles above that commie clown. Hank wistfully continued, "d.a.m.n, I wish our orbit took us over Ted Kennedy." Mr. Kennedy was spared Castro's fate by our orbit path. The only parts of the continental United States we flew over were the extreme southern portions of Texas and Florida. Our orbit inclination (tilt to the equator) fixed the traces of our orbits between 28 degrees north lat.i.tude and 28 degrees south lat.i.tude.

For several hours we were immersed in our checklists to deploy our first communication satellite and its booster rocket. It, like the others, was destined for an orbit 22,300 miles above the Earth's equator. At that extreme alt.i.tude the orbit speed of the satellite matched the turn of the Earth so, to Earth observers, it would appear parked in the sky. At the contractor's ground receiving stations, satellite dishes could be pointed at the satellite and the Earth's rotation would do the tracking.

Hawley monitored the satellite-deployment computer displays from the front c.o.c.kpit while Judy and I worked the release controls in the back. We opened the baby buggylike sunshield, spun up the payload to 40 revolutions per minute (for stabilization during its uphill rocket burn), then activated the switches to pop it free ofDiscovery. The orbiter shivered as the 9,000-pound ma.s.s was shed. The orbiter shivered as the 9,000-pound ma.s.s was shed.

The successful payload deployment refreshed our euphoria. We knew there were a hundred sets of very critical eyes watching our performance-all belonging to fellow astronauts. Any screwup would be our legacy. Astronauts have elephantine memories when it comes to crews who make mistakes.

Afterward we relaxed around our supper of dehydrated shrimp c.o.c.ktail, beef patties, and vegetables. The food was packaged in plastic dishes and rehydrated with water from our fuel cells. After nearly burning a hole in my esophagus by swallowing a blob of inadequately hydrated horseradish powder, I learned to mix the food and water a bit longer. Fuel cell water was also used for drinking. It was dispensed into plastic containers, some of which contained various flavored powders (yes, including Tang). Because nothing can be poured in weightlessness, the drinks had to be sucked from straws. I quickly learned never to drink plain water. Iodine was used as a disinfectant and the water was tinged yellow with it and tasted of the chemical. While we ate much better than the early astronauts, who had to squeeze their food out of tubes, I still longed for the day the NASA food engineers would come up with dehydrated beer and pizza.

After cleaning up and cycling through our toilet we prepared for sleep. This was not a "shift" mission so we all slept at the same time. We would depend uponDiscovery 's caution-and-warning system to alert us if something bad happened. Each of us had a sleep restraint, a cloth bag we pinned to the walls and zipped into. There was no privacy. Like bats in a cave, we bunked cheek to jowl in the lower c.o.c.kpit. We slept downstairs because the lack of windows made it darker and cooler than the upstairs c.o.c.kpit. 's caution-and-warning system to alert us if something bad happened. Each of us had a sleep restraint, a cloth bag we pinned to the walls and zipped into. There was no privacy. Like bats in a cave, we bunked cheek to jowl in the lower c.o.c.kpit. We slept downstairs because the lack of windows made it darker and cooler than the upstairs c.o.c.kpit.

As I floated inside my restraint I joined in the chorus of complaints about a fierce backache. In weightlessness the vertebrae of the spine spread apart, resulting in a height increase of an inch or two. The strain on the lower back muscles is significant and painful. All of us but Judy were bothered by it. Why she was immune I had no idea, but she grew weary of our complaints and exploited her advantage: "I'm probably the first woman in history to go to bed with five men and all of them have backaches."

I couldn't sleep...and it wasn't because of any backache. I didn'twant to sleep. I wanted to celebrate. From MECO to this moment, I had been too busy with checklists to really consider the life-changing experience of the past twelve hours. I had done it! I was an astronaut in the c.o.c.kpit of a s.p.a.ceship orbiting the Earth. I was living what w.i.l.l.y Ley had written about in to sleep. I wanted to celebrate. From MECO to this moment, I had been too busy with checklists to really consider the life-changing experience of the past twelve hours. I had done it! I was an astronaut in the c.o.c.kpit of a s.p.a.ceship orbiting the Earth. I was living what w.i.l.l.y Ley had written about inThe Conquest of s.p.a.ce. I wanted to scream and shout and punch my fists in the air. Fortunately for the rest of the crew, I didn't do any of those things. Instead, I floated my sleep restraint upstairs. I wanted to scream and shout and punch my fists in the air. Fortunately for the rest of the crew, I didn't do any of those things. Instead, I floated my sleep restraint upstairs.Floated! G.o.d, I still couldn't get my mind around the reality of it. I tied the bag under the overhead windows and slipped inside. I would celebrate by sightseeing. Since the autopilot was holding the shuttle with its top to the Earth, I now had the planet in my face. G.o.d, I still couldn't get my mind around the reality of it. I tied the bag under the overhead windows and slipped inside. I would celebrate by sightseeing. Since the autopilot was holding the shuttle with its top to the Earth, I now had the planet in my face.

Other than the breath of the cabin fans and the white-noise hiss of the UHF radio, the c.o.c.kpit was midnight still. In the silence I felt as if we had stopped dead in s.p.a.ce. In all my other life experiences speed meant noise...the howl of wind gripping a c.o.c.kpit, the roar of an engine. Now I was traveling at nearly 5 miles per second and there was only silence. It was as if I were hovering in a balloon, and the Earth was silently turning beneath me.

I was also gripped with a powerful sense of detachment from the rest of humanity. There was nothing at the windows to suggest any other life in the universe. I was looking to a horizon more than a thousand miles distant and could see only the unrelieved blue of the Pacific. In each pa.s.sing second that horizon was being pushed another five miles to the east but still nothing changed. There was no vapor trail of a jetliner, no wake of a ship, no cities, no glint of Sun from a piece of gla.s.s or metal. There was no signature of life on Earth. And the view into s.p.a.ce was even more lonely. The brilliance of the Sun had overwhelmed the faint light of the stars and planets. s.p.a.ce was as featureless black as the ocean was blue.

The Sun was intense and the c.o.c.kpit grew uncomfortably hot. I pushed from my sleep restraint and hovered in my underwear a few inches from the gla.s.s. In my relaxed state my arms and legs folded inward as if trying to return to their fetal position. I had become a hairy2001: A s.p.a.ce Odyssey embryo. embryo.

The forty-five minutes of my orbit "day" drew to an end and I was treated to another s.p.a.ce sight of such breathtaking beauty it would challenge the most gifted poet. AsDiscovery raced eastward, behind her the Sun plunged toward the western horizon. Beneath me, the terminator, that hazy shadow that separates brilliant daylight from the deep black of night, began to dim the crenellated ocean blue. High clouds over this terminator glowed tangerine and pink in the final rays of the Sun. raced eastward, behind her the Sun plunged toward the western horizon. Beneath me, the terminator, that hazy shadow that separates brilliant daylight from the deep black of night, began to dim the crenellated ocean blue. High clouds over this terminator glowed tangerine and pink in the final rays of the Sun.Discovery entered this shadow world and I turned my head to the back windows to watch the Sun dip below the horizon. Its light, which to this moment had been as pure white as a baby's soul, was now being split by the atmosphere. An intense color spectrum, a hundred times more brilliant than any rainbow seen on Earth, formed in an arc to separate the black of earth night from the perennial black of s.p.a.ce. Where it touched the Earth, the color bow was as red as royal velvet and faded upward through multiple shades of orange and blue and purple until it dissipated into black. As entered this shadow world and I turned my head to the back windows to watch the Sun dip below the horizon. Its light, which to this moment had been as pure white as a baby's soul, was now being split by the atmosphere. An intense color spectrum, a hundred times more brilliant than any rainbow seen on Earth, formed in an arc to separate the black of earth night from the perennial black of s.p.a.ce. Where it touched the Earth, the color bow was as red as royal velvet and faded upward through multiple shades of orange and blue and purple until it dissipated into black. AsDiscovery sped farther from it, the bow slowly shrank along the Earth's limb toward the point of sunset, diminishing in reach and thickness and intensity, as if the colors were a liquid being drained from the sky. Finally, only an eyelash-thin arc of indigo remained. Then it winked out and sped farther from it, the bow slowly shrank along the Earth's limb toward the point of sunset, diminishing in reach and thickness and intensity, as if the colors were a liquid being drained from the sky. Finally, only an eyelash-thin arc of indigo remained. Then it winked out andDiscovery was fully immersed in the oblivion of an orbit night. was fully immersed in the oblivion of an orbit night.

Suddenly the uniform black of daytime s.p.a.ce was transformed into the stuff of dreams. The Milky Way arced across the sky like glowing smoke. Other stars pierced the black in whites, blues, yellows, and reds. Jupiter rose in the sky like a coachman's lantern. For planet and stars alike, there was no twinkle. In the purity of s.p.a.ce they were fixed points of color.

I stared down into the dark of the Earth. Lightning flashed in faraway Central American thunderstorms. Shooting stars streaked to their deaths in multihued flashes. To the northeast I could see the sodium glow of an unknown city. At the horizon the atmosphere had a faint glow caused by sunlight scattering completely around the Earth. In this glow the air was visible as several distinct layers of gray.

I watched a satellite twinkle through the western sky. ThoughDiscovery was in darkness, the other machine was far enough to the west to still reflect sunlight. was in darkness, the other machine was far enough to the west to still reflect sunlight.

With the instrument lights off and the Sun gone, the c.o.c.kpit chilled and I floated back into my restraint to attempt sleep. I had just nodded off when a streak of light flashed in my brain and startled me awake. Veteran astronauts had warned of this phenomenon. The flash was the result of a cosmic ray hitting my optic nerve. The electrical pulse generated by that impact caused my brain to "see" a streak of light even though my eyes were closed. I wondered what those cosmic rays were doing to the rest of my brain.Oops, there goes second grade.

I slept fitfully through the night, waking with each sunrise and whispering, "Wow!" At one point I floated into the lower c.o.c.kpit to retrieve a drink container and entered a scene straight out of a science fiction movie. A light had been left on in the toilet and it dimly illuminatedDiscovery 's sleeping crew. They were in their restraints, some pinned to the forward wall, others stretched horizontally across the mid-deck. In the relaxation of sleep their arms floated chest high in front of them. It appeared as if they were in suspended animation. I was tempted to join them in the cool darkness, but the pull of the windows was too great. I floated back upstairs. 's sleeping crew. They were in their restraints, some pinned to the forward wall, others stretched horizontally across the mid-deck. In the relaxation of sleep their arms floated chest high in front of them. It appeared as if they were in suspended animation. I was tempted to join them in the cool darkness, but the pull of the windows was too great. I floated back upstairs.

Reveille came in the form of rock music. It was traditional for the CAPCOM to provide music for MCC to send up as a wake-up call. But the tune was unrecognizable. Apparently NASA's budget was running low when it came time to procure speakers. Pop music from these Radio Shack rejects sounded like fingernails being drawn across a chalkboard.

To my surprise I did not wake up alone. My closest friend was alert and waiting. I had an erection so intense it was painful. I could have drilled through kryptonite. I would ultimately count fifteen s.p.a.ce wake-ups in my three shuttle missions, and on most of these and many times during the sleep periods my wooden puppet friend would be there to greet me. Flight surgeons have attributed this phenomenon to the fluid shift that occurs in weightlessness. On the Earth, gravity holds more blood in our lower legs. In orbit that blood is equally distributed throughout our bodies. For men the result is a v.i.a.g.r.a effect. There are beneficial effects for the female anatomy, too. The same fluid shift makes for skinnier calves and thighs and larger, nonsag b.r.e.a.s.t.s. If NASA wants to secure its financial future, it would be smart to advertise the rejuvenating effects of weightlessness. Taxpayers would demand that Congress quadruple NASA's budget to finance the construction of orbiting spas where visitors from Earth could turn back time.

Fortunately for me, my brain was quickly flooded with thoughts of the workday and my body melted in response.

On day two we successfully launched our second satellite, Syncom, but not without mishap. As Hank was filming its release with the huge and unwieldy IMAX camera, a shank of Judy's frizzed-out hair was s.n.a.t.c.hed into the machine by the belt drive of the film magazine. It was as if her hair had been caught up in the fan belt of an automobile. She screamed and I grabbed at her tresses to prevent them from being ripped out of her scalp, but, with nothing to hold me in place, I tumbled out of control. Judy did the same. Through her increasingly urgent screams, I heard the camera labor to a grinding stop. The hair had clogged the motor, finally stalling it and popping a c.o.c.kpit circuit breaker.

We cut Judy free with scissors. Strands of loose hair floated everywhere. They were in our eyes and mouths. Mike Coats, who was the princ.i.p.al operator of the IMAX, took the machine to the mid-deck and began work at restoring its operation. The hair was so thoroughly jammed into the motor gears we doubted the machine would ever pull another frame of film. IMAX was going to be severely disappointed. They had spent millions to fly their camera in s.p.a.ce and we had only recorded a fraction of our film targets. Even if the camera could be cleaned of hair and made to work again, a quick glance at the flight plan showed the next several film opportunities were certainly going to be missed. IMAX would have to do some replanning. We all knew this was the type of trivial screwup that would become the focus of an otherwise successful mission. The press wouldn't talk about how our crew had successfully takenDiscovery on its maiden flight or how we had successfully released thirty thousand pounds of satellites. Instead, they would zero in on our hair incident. But we had no alternative other than to come clean with MCC. The flight planners needed to a.s.sume the camera could be repaired and get started on rescheduling our targets. on its maiden flight or how we had successfully released thirty thousand pounds of satellites. Instead, they would zero in on our hair incident. But we had no alternative other than to come clean with MCC. The flight planners needed to a.s.sume the camera could be repaired and get started on rescheduling our targets.

But we males had been missing thereal issue. As Hank picked up the microphone to call MCC, Judy lashed out at him with something along the lines of, "If you so much as breathe a word to MCC about my hair jamming the camera, I'll cut your heart out with a spoon." Or perhaps she threatened a more vital area of his anatomy. There was a brief moment as we struggled to understand Judy's rage. Then it dawned on us. She was only the second American woman to fly in s.p.a.ce. The press had her under a magnifying gla.s.s, looking for the slightest flaw in her performance. The hair jam incident was just that: a mistake with her name on it. Not only that, it contained the worst possible sin against feminism. Judy had demonstrated, however innocently and however insignificantly, that women were indeed different from men. issue. As Hank picked up the microphone to call MCC, Judy lashed out at him with something along the lines of, "If you so much as breathe a word to MCC about my hair jamming the camera, I'll cut your heart out with a spoon." Or perhaps she threatened a more vital area of his anatomy. There was a brief moment as we struggled to understand Judy's rage. Then it dawned on us. She was only the second American woman to fly in s.p.a.ce. The press had her under a magnifying gla.s.s, looking for the slightest flaw in her performance. The hair jam incident was just that: a mistake with her name on it. Not only that, it contained the worst possible sin against feminism. Judy had demonstrated, however innocently and however insignificantly, that women were indeed different from men.

Hank Hartsfield, a grizzled air force fighter pilot who had stared death in the eye on many a mission, now faced a man's worst nightmare-areally p.i.s.sed-off woman. No communist gunner had ever appeared as deadly as did Judy at that moment. Under her searing glare Hank did what we all would have done. He wanted to return with all of his appendages, so he called MCC and told them the IMAX had a film jam and Mike was working to clear it. He made no mention of the cause of the jam. Eventually Mike was able to breathe life back into the camera. With rescheduled targets, he and Hank continued their filming while Judy stayed far, far away. p.i.s.sed-off woman. No communist gunner had ever appeared as deadly as did Judy at that moment. Under her searing glare Hank did what we all would have done. He wanted to return with all of his appendages, so he called MCC and told them the IMAX had a film jam and Mike was working to clear it. He made no mention of the cause of the jam. Eventually Mike was able to breathe life back into the camera. With rescheduled targets, he and Hank continued their filming while Judy stayed far, far away.

Nature finally caught up with me and I floated into the shuttle toilet to face what was truly the most difficult part of any s.p.a.ceflight-a bowel movement. The toilet provided little privacy. It was situated in the rear corner of the mid-deck on the port side. There was no door, only a folding curtain that could be Velcroed across the mid-deckfacing entry. Another curtain was Velcroed to form a ceiling and isolate the toilet from the upstairs c.o.c.kpit. The lack of privacy was intimidating. I felt like I was back on my honeymoon, preparing for my first married-life BM. We've all been there.

After I was inside the curtained box, I took the advice of shuttle veteran Bob Crippen and stripped naked. "It's a lot easier to wipe feces off your skin than it is to get it off your clothes" had been one of his STS-1 mission debriefing comments.

I located my personal urine funnel and twisted it on the end of the urinal hose, then loaded a disposable vacuum cleanerlike bag in a can on the left side of the toilet. Used tissue had to be placed in this bag. It could not be put in the toilet since that would require the a.s.s to be lifted, which, in turn, could result in feces being released into the cabin. Suction at the bottom of the can would hold used tissue inside the bag.

I floated over the throne, lifted up on the thigh restraints, and twisted them inward to clamp my body to the plastic seat. Recalling my bore-sight alignment from the camera view in the toilet trainer, I wiggled my body until some freckles on my thighs were properly positioned in relation to the toilet landmarks. I switched on the toilet fan and welcomed the noise it generated. At least some of my BM noises would be camouflaged. Finally I pushed my p.e.n.i.s into proper aim at the urinal funnel, reached for the solid waste collector lever, and pulled it back. Directly beneath me the waste opening was uncovered and the feces-steering airflow was activated. Suddenly a very sensitive part of my body was. .h.i.t with a blast of chilled air. Few things are less conducive to promoting a BM than having cold air jetting around the princ.i.p.al performer in that act. The natural tendency is to clamp shut. But I convinced the orifice in question to ignore the cold gale and let fly. Simultaneously, I held the urine funnel at my front to collect my liquid waste. The vacuum flow into the urinal hose was very effective at sucking away the fluid until my bladder pressure fell. Then the urine refused to separate from my skin and a ball of it grew on the end of my p.e.n.i.s. NASA's engineers had antic.i.p.ated this aspect of fluid dynamics and had provided a "last drop" feature. By squeezing b.u.t.tons at the sides of the hose, the suction was boosted and I was able to wet-vac myself of most of the fluid. As the slurping sounds of this operation came through the curtains, Hank hollered, "More than five seconds and you're playing with it, Mullane!"

The toilet was a bountiful source of male juvenile humor. By far the best toilet joke was pulled by Bill Shepherd (cla.s.s of 1984). On one of his missions he carried a piece of sausage from his breakfast into the toilet. After finishing a bowel movement, he set the sausage free to float upstairs. As panicked crewmembers ricocheted from wall to wall in a mad retreat from the offending planetoid, Bill chased after it with a piece of toilet tissue. He finally grabbed it and then, to the horror of all, he ate it.

For me, cleanup was next. I used a tissue to blot the remaining dampness from my p.e.n.i.s. Wiping after urinating was such a feminine act I almost felt compelled to hack up a luggie to reestablish my s.e.xual ident.i.ty. I pulled the solid waste collector lever closed, lifted my thigh restraints, and floated from the seat. I was now free to wipe myself, putting the used tissue in the disposable vacuum bag.

Besides cleaning myself, I also had to clean the toilet. It would be a serious violation to leave any fecal smears on or around the slide cover for the next user to confront. And there were always some smears. Even after the camera-aim practice in the toilet trainer in Houston, it was difficult to get a direct hit during a BM. The feces almost invariably made some contact with the inner sides of the collector hole. As one astronaut had once lamented, "t.u.r.ds come out curved. If only they were straight, we might have better luck in cleanly using the toilet." I used a NASA-provided disinfectant to wipe away my smears and put the soiled tissue in the vacuum bag. I then sealed that bag and stowed it in a container at the back of the toilet. While the retention of solid waste and BM tissues suggested a bad odor problem could develop, the toilet designers had done an excellent job of routing airflow through the toilet and filtering it with activated charcoal filters. There were never any toilet smells in the c.o.c.kpit.

Finally, I dressed. From start to finish, a task that might have taken me five minutes on Earth had consumed nearly thirty minutes in s.p.a.ce (and covered about eight thousand miles). There are times in an astronaut's life he or she would pay dearly to have a gravity vector. Using the toilet is one of those times.

Our third and last communication satellite was successfully deployed on flight day three. Compared with the missions of the early s.p.a.ce program this was blue-collar work, completely devoid of glory. We weren't beating the Russians to anything. We weren't planting an American flag in alien soil. On Earth, there was no Walter Cronkite removing his dorky gla.s.ses, wiping his forehead, and shaking his head in relief while telling a waiting, breathless world, "They've done it! TheDiscovery crew has just released another communication satellite!" The s.p.a.ce program had become a freight service, justifiably ignored by the press and public. But not one of us in that c.o.c.kpit was complaining. Even Hank would have hauled Lenin's taxidermied body into orbit and sung the " crew has just released another communication satellite!" The s.p.a.ce program had become a freight service, justifiably ignored by the press and public. But not one of us in that c.o.c.kpit was complaining. Even Hank would have hauled Lenin's taxidermied body into orbit and sung the "Internationale"for all the communists in the world, if that's what it took to put him in s.p.a.ce.

On flight day four Judy activated the controls of our final major payload, a solar energy panel. A collapsible motor-driven truss unfurled the 110-foot-long-by-10-foot-wide Mylar sail out of its payload bay container. There were no active solar cells on the sail. The experiment was only to gather data on the dynamics of the deployment and retraction system. When the panel was completely up and in tension, she radioed MCC, "Houston, it's up and it's big." In numerous simulations Judy had joked that she was going to make that call. We had teased her about the obvious s.e.xual innuendo. She made the call nevertheless. That was Judy. She could be extremely defensive of her status as a feminist standard bearer but could then turn around and yuck it up with us guys about a solar panel erection. I often wondered if that was the reason she was flying as thesecond American woman in s.p.a.ce-NASA management knew she wasn't a pure enough feminist to satisfy the NOW crowd. American woman in s.p.a.ce-NASA management knew she wasn't a pure enough feminist to satisfy the NOW crowd.

After our major payload work, we gathered on the flight deck to accept a congratulatory call from President Reagan. Each of us was tense and nervous as we handed around the microphone to answer his questions. Thank G.o.d we were in s.p.a.ce while a Republican president was in office. I shudder to think how Hank would have handled a call from a Democrat. He probably would have asked the president's lat.i.tude and longitude coordinates in antic.i.p.ation of his next BM. When it was his turn, Mike Coats was able to deliver the pro-navy observation that most of what he saw from the windows was water.That's why the navy is so important, Mr. President was his implication. Hank Hartsfield defended the air force: "ALL of the Earth is covered by air, Mr. President." There are no circ.u.mstances under which astronauts will not compete. Even having the president of the United States in the conversation wasn't an inhibition. was his implication. Hank Hartsfield defended the air force: "ALL of the Earth is covered by air, Mr. President." There are no circ.u.mstances under which astronauts will not compete. Even having the president of the United States in the conversation wasn't an inhibition.

While in the midst of this White House call, a c.o.c.kpit alarm tone sounded. It was a "systems alert," an indication of a minor malfunction. Still, we needed to respond. In a grand display of the thoroughness of NASA's training we worked the malfunction while continuing to humor Mr. Reagan. Steve Hawley grabbed the ma.s.sive shuttle malfunction book and began to move through the fault tree, pantomiming to Mike which computer displays to call up. When Hawley had the correct response identified, he pa.s.sed the book to Judy, who was nearest the appropriate switch panel. She flipped a switch to activate a backup heater, the specified response to the alert. Meanwhile, the rest of us continued, "Thank you, Mr. President. Everything is just fine, Mr. President."

After our payload activities were finished, we posed for our weightless crew photo. It was a tradition for each crew to take a self-portrait in orbit. We dressed in golf shirts and shorts, set up a camera on the mid-deck, and activated the self-timer. To squeeze everybody into the frame, we posed in three tiers with Hank and Mike lowest, then Steve, Charlie, and me floating above them. Judy floated highest. While we didn't intend it, the pose suggested a cheerleader's pyramid. Adding to the effect were Judy's legs. They dominated the photo...tan, perfectly proportioned, beautiful. Judy would later receive hate mail from feminist activists who thought her pose was disgusting and degrading to women. Breaking barriers was a task fraught with all manner of perils.

Around this time in the mission, MCC became suspicious of a temperature indication in our urinal plumbing. Urine is collected in a tank that is periodically emptied via an opening on the port side of the c.o.c.kpit. Heaters on the exit nozzle are supposed to ensure the fluid separates cleanly from the vehicle and does not freeze to it. But MCC noticed that the temperature at the nozzle was anomalous and suspected some ice might have formed on it during our last urine dump. No windows provided a direct view of the nozzle, so Hank Hartsfield was instructed to use the camera on the end of the robot arm to take a look. We had TVs in the c.o.c.kpit to monitor the camera view. When Hank positioned the arm, we saw we had grown a urine-sicle.