Riding Rockets Part 2

The s.p.a.ce Shuttle.

As we TFNGs gloried in our introduction, we were woefully ignorant of the machine we were going to fly. We knew the s.p.a.ce shuttle would be different from NASA's previous manned rockets, but we had no clue just how different or how the differences would affect the risks to our lives.

Before the s.p.a.ce shuttle, every astronaut who had ever launched into s.p.a.ce had ridden in capsules on throwaway rockets. The only thing that had ever come back to Earth was the capsule bearing the astronauts. Even these capsules had been tossed aside, placed in museums across America. While the capsules had grown in size to accommodate three men, and the rockets to carry them had grown bigger and more powerful, the basic Spam-in-a-can design, launched with expendable rockets, had been unchanged since Alan Shepard said, "Light this candle," on the first Mercury-Redstone flight.

We would fly a winged vehicle, half s.p.a.cecraft and half airplane. It would be vertically launched into s.p.a.ce, just as the rockets of yesteryear, but the winged craft would be capable of reentering the atmosphere at twenty-five times the speed of sound and gliding to a landing like a conventional airplane. Thousands of silica tiles glued to the belly of the craft and sheets of carbon bolted to the leading edge of the wings and nose would protect it from the 3,000-degree heat of reentry. After a week or two of maintenance and the installation of another 65,000-pound payload in the cargo bay, it would be ready to launch on another mission.

The s.p.a.ce shuttle orbiter (the winged vehicle) would have three liquid-fueled engines at its tail, producing a total thrust of nearly 1.5 million pounds. These would burn liquid hydrogen and liquid oxygen from a ma.s.sive belly-mounted gas tank or External Tank (ET). Eight and a half minutes after liftoff the empty ET would be jettisoned to burn up in the atmosphere, making it the only part of the "stack" that was not reusable.

As powerful as they were, the three s.p.a.ce Shuttle Main Engines (SSMEs) did not have the muscle to lift the machine into orbit by themselves. The extra thrust of booster rockets would be needed. NASA wanted a reusable liquid-fueled booster system but parachuting a liquid-fueled rocket into salt water posed major reusability issues. It would be akin to driving an automobile into the ocean, pulling it out, and then hoping it started again when you turned the key. Good luck. So the engineers had been faced with designing a system whereby the liquid-fueled boosters could be recovered on land. It quickly became apparent that it would be impossible to parachute such ma.s.sive pieces of complex machinery to Earth without damaging them and posing a safety hazard to civilian population centers. So the engineers looked at gliding them to a runway landing. One of the earliest s.p.a.ce shuttle designs incorporated just such a concept. Like mating dolphins, two winged craft, each manned, would lift off together, belly to belly. One would be a giant liquid-fueled booster/gas tank combination, the other, the orbiter. After lifting the smaller orbiter part of the way to s.p.a.ce, the booster would separate and two astronauts would glide it to a landing at the Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center (KSC). The astronauts aboard the orbiter would continue to fly it into s.p.a.ce using internal fuel for the final acceleration to orbit velocity.

However, designing and building this manned liquid-fueled booster was going to be very expensive at a time when NASA's budget was being slashed. The agency had won the race to the moon and Congress was ready to do other things with the billions of dollars NASA had been consuming. In this new budget reality NASA looked for cheaper booster designs and settled on twin reusable Solid-fueled Rocket Boosters (SRBs). These were just steel tubes filled with a propellant of ammonium perclorate and aluminum powder. These ingredients were combined with a chemical "binder," mixed as a slurry in a large Mixmaster, then poured into the rocket tubes like dough into a bread pan. After curing in an oven, the propellant would solidify to the consistency of hard rubber, thus the namesolid rocket booster. rocket booster.

Because they were the essence of simplicity, SRBs were therefore cheap. Also, because after burnout they were just empty tubes, they could be parachuted into salt water and reused. There was just one huge downside to SRBs: They were significantly more dangerous than liquid-fueled engines. The latter can be controlled during operation. Sensors can monitor temperatures and pressures, and if a problem is detected computers can command valves to close, the propellant flow will stop, and the engine will quit, just like turning off the valve to a gas barbecue. Fuel can then be diverted to the remaining engines and the mission can continue. This exact scenario has occurred on two manned s.p.a.ce missions. On the launch ofApollo 13 the center engine of the second stage experienced a problem and was commanded off. The remaining four engines burned longer and the mission continued. On a pre- the center engine of the second stage experienced a problem and was commanded off. The remaining four engines burned longer and the mission continued. On a pre-Challengershuttle mission the center SSME shut down three minutes early. The mission continued on the remaining two SSMEs, burning the fuel that would have been used by the failed engine.

Solid-fueled rocket boosters lack this significant safety advantage. Once ignited, they cannot be turned off and solid propellant cannot flow, so it cannot be diverted to another engine. At the most fundamental level, modern solid rocket boosters are no different from the first rockets launched by the Chinese thousands of years ago-after ignition they have to work because nothing can be done if they don't. And, typically, when they do not work, the failure mode is catastrophic. The military has a long history of using solid rocket boosters on their unmanned missiles, and whenever they fail, it is almost always without warning and explosively destructive.

The SRB design for the s.p.a.ce shuttle was even more dangerous than other solid-fueled rockets because their huge size (150 feet in length, 12 feet in diameter, 1.2 million pounds) required them to be constructed and transported in four propellant-filled segments. At Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center these segments would be bolted together to form the complete rocket. Each segment joint held the potential for a hot gas leak; there were four joints on each booster. Redundant rubber O-rings had to seal the SRB joints or astronauts would die.

Yet another aspect of the design of the s.p.a.ce shuttle made the craft significantly more dangerous to fly than anything that had preceded it. It lacked an in-flight escape system. Had theAtlas rocket, which launched John Glenn, or the rocket, which launched John Glenn, or theSaturn V rocket, which lifted Neil Armstrong and his crew, blown up in flight, those astronauts would have likely been saved by their escape systems. On top of the rocket, which lifted Neil Armstrong and his crew, blown up in flight, those astronauts would have likely been saved by their escape systems. On top of theMercury and andApollo capsules were emergency tractor escape rockets that would fire and pull the capsule away from a failing booster rocket. Parachutes would then automatically deploy to lower the capsule into the water. The astronauts riding in capsules were emergency tractor escape rockets that would fire and pull the capsule away from a failing booster rocket. Parachutes would then automatically deploy to lower the capsule into the water. The astronauts riding inGemini capsules had the protection of ejection seats at low alt.i.tude and a capsule separation/parachute system for protection at higher alt.i.tudes. capsules had the protection of ejection seats at low alt.i.tude and a capsule separation/parachute system for protection at higher alt.i.tudes.

The shuttle design did accommodate two ejection seats for the commander and pilot positions, but this was a temporary feature intended to protect only the two-man crews that would fly the first four shakedown missions. After these experimental flights validated the shuttle design, NASA would declare the machineoperational, remove the two ejection seats, and manifest up to ten astronauts per flight. Such large crews would be necessary to perform the planned satellite deployments and retrievals, s.p.a.cewalks, and s.p.a.ce laboratory research of the shuttle era. remove the two ejection seats, and manifest up to ten astronauts per flight. Such large crews would be necessary to perform the planned satellite deployments and retrievals, s.p.a.cewalks, and s.p.a.ce laboratory research of the shuttle era.These crews would have no in-flight escape system whatsoever. These were the missions TFNGs were destined to fly. We would have no hope of surviving a catastrophic rocket failure, a dubious first in the history of manned s.p.a.ceflight. These were the missions TFNGs were destined to fly. We would have no hope of surviving a catastrophic rocket failure, a dubious first in the history of manned s.p.a.ceflight.

The lack of an escape system aboard operational s.p.a.ce shuttles-indeed, the very idea that NASA could even apply the termoperational to a s.p.a.cecraft as complex as the shuttle-was a manifestation of NASA's post-Apollo hubris. The NASA team responsible for the design of the s.p.a.ce shuttle was the same team that had put twelve Americans on the moon and returned them safely to Earth across a quarter million miles of s.p.a.ce. The Apollo program represented the greatest engineering achievement in the history of humanity. Nothing else, from the Pyramids to the Manhattan Project, comes remotely close. The men and women who were responsible for the glory of Apollo had to have been affected by their success. While no member of the shuttle design team would have ever made the blasphemous claim, "We're G.o.ds. We can do anything," the reality was this: The s.p.a.ce shuttle itself to a s.p.a.cecraft as complex as the shuttle-was a manifestation of NASA's post-Apollo hubris. The NASA team responsible for the design of the s.p.a.ce shuttle was the same team that had put twelve Americans on the moon and returned them safely to Earth across a quarter million miles of s.p.a.ce. The Apollo program represented the greatest engineering achievement in the history of humanity. Nothing else, from the Pyramids to the Manhattan Project, comes remotely close. The men and women who were responsible for the glory of Apollo had to have been affected by their success. While no member of the shuttle design team would have ever made the blasphemous claim, "We're G.o.ds. We can do anything," the reality was this: The s.p.a.ce shuttle itselfwas such a statement. Mere mortals might not be able to design and safely operate a reusable s.p.a.cecraft boosted by the world's largest, segmented, uncontrollable solid-fueled rockets, but G.o.ds certainly could. such a statement. Mere mortals might not be able to design and safely operate a reusable s.p.a.cecraft boosted by the world's largest, segmented, uncontrollable solid-fueled rockets, but G.o.ds certainly could.

It would be more than just the unknowns of a new s.p.a.cecraft that TFNGs would face. NASA's post-Apollo mission was also uncharted territory. Having vanquished the G.o.dless commies in a race to the moon, the new NASA mission was basically a s.p.a.ce freight service.

NASA sold Congress on the premise the s.p.a.ce shuttle would make flying into s.p.a.ce cheap and they had good reason to make such a claim. The most expensive pieces of the system, the boosters and manned orbiter, were reusable. On paper the shuttle looked very good to congressional bean counters. NASA convinced Congress to designate the s.p.a.ce shuttle as the national s.p.a.ce Transportation System (STS). The legislation that followed virtually guaranteed that every satellite the country manufactured would be launched into s.p.a.ce on the shuttle: every science satellite, every military satellite, and every communication satellite. The expendable rockets that NASA, the Department of Defense (DOD), and the telecommunications industry had been using to launch these satellites-the Deltas, Atlases, and t.i.tans-were headed the way of the dinosaur. They would never be able to compete with the shuttle on a cost basis. NASA would be s.p.a.ce's United Parcel Service.

But this meant that, of all the planned shuttle missions, only a handful of science laboratory missions and satellite repair missions would actually require humans. The majority of missions would be to carry satellites into orbit, something unmanned rockets had been doing just fine for decades. Succinctly put, NASA's new "launch everything" mission would unnecessarily expose astronauts to death to do the job of unmanned expendable rockets.

As we TFNGs were being introduced, NASA had to have been feeling good. They had a monopoly on the U.S. satellite launch market. They also intended to gain a significant share of the foreign satellite launch market. The four shuttles were going to be cash cows for the agency. But the business model depended on the rapid turnaround of the orbiters. Just as a terrestrial trucking company can't be making money with vehicles in maintenance, the shuttles wouldn't be profitable sitting in their hangars. The shuttle fleet had to fly and fly often. NASA intended to rapidly expand the STS flight rate to twenty-plus missions per year. And, even in the wake of post-Apollo cutbacks, rosy predictions said they had the manpower to do it.

The s.h.i.+ft from the Apollo program to the shuttle program represented a sea-change for NASA.Everything was different. The agency's new mission was largely to haul freight. The vehicle doing the trucking would be reusable, something NASA had no prior experience with. The flight rate would require the NASA team to plan dozens of missions simultaneously: building and validating software, training crews, checking out vehicles and payloads. And NASA would have to do this with far less manpower and fewer resources than had been available during Apollo. was different. The agency's new mission was largely to haul freight. The vehicle doing the trucking would be reusable, something NASA had no prior experience with. The flight rate would require the NASA team to plan dozens of missions simultaneously: building and validating software, training crews, checking out vehicles and payloads. And NASA would have to do this with far less manpower and fewer resources than had been available during Apollo.

I doubt any of the TFNGs standing on that stage fully comprehended the dangers the s.p.a.ce shuttle and NASA's new mission would include. But it wouldn't have mattered if we had known. If Dr. Kraft had explained exactly what we had just signed up to do-to be some of the first humans to ride uncontrollable solid-fueled rocket boosters, and to do so without the protection of an in-flight escape system, to launch satellites that didn't really require a manned rocket, on a launch schedule that would stretch manpower and resources to their limits-it wouldn't have diminished our enthusiasm one iota. For many of us, our life's quest had been to hear our names read into history as astronauts. We wanted to fly into s.p.a.ce. The sooner and the more often (and who gave a s.h.i.+t what was in the cargo bay), the better.

Chapter 7.

Arrested Development.

On my first official day as an astronaut candidate I faced two things I had never faced before: picking out clothes to wear for work and working with women. In my thirty-two years of life, beginning with diapers, there had always been asystem to dress me. I had gone to Catholic schools for twelve years and worn the uniforms of that system. In four years at West Point I never had a piece of civilian clothing in my closet. The air force also told me what to wear. Not once on a school or work morning had I ever stood in front of my closet and pondered what I should wear that day. As a result, I was a fas.h.i.+on illiterate. And I wasn't alone. I had already seen a handful of the veteran astronauts wearing plaid pants. Even I, completely clueless on the subject of style, sensed this might be a little too retro. When my children saw one of the plaid-panted victims, they hid their faces and giggled. To this day, whenever my adult children see a golfer wearing plaid, they'll comment, "Hey, Dad, check it out...an astronaut." A military astronaut might show up for a party dressed in a leisure suit or Sansabelt slacks and, most telling, no other military astronaut present would know there was anything even slightly amiss. to dress me. I had gone to Catholic schools for twelve years and worn the uniforms of that system. In four years at West Point I never had a piece of civilian clothing in my closet. The air force also told me what to wear. Not once on a school or work morning had I ever stood in front of my closet and pondered what I should wear that day. As a result, I was a fas.h.i.+on illiterate. And I wasn't alone. I had already seen a handful of the veteran astronauts wearing plaid pants. Even I, completely clueless on the subject of style, sensed this might be a little too retro. When my children saw one of the plaid-panted victims, they hid their faces and giggled. To this day, whenever my adult children see a golfer wearing plaid, they'll comment, "Hey, Dad, check it out...an astronaut." A military astronaut might show up for a party dressed in a leisure suit or Sansabelt slacks and, most telling, no other military astronaut present would know there was anything even slightly amiss.

Fortunately for my children, my limited wardrobe did not include plaid. Rather, my first attempt at workday attire required me to satisfactorily combine one of four solid-colored slacks with one of four solid-colored s.h.i.+rts. I failed. At the breakfast table my wife recoiled as if I had walked in with a nose ring. "You're not going to work dressed likethat, are you?" It was a question I would hear many times in the first few weeks of my NASA life. Donna even threatened to put Garanimals hang tags on my slacks and s.h.i.+rts. She would mock me: "The lions go with the lions and the giraffes go with the giraffes." I had no problem with the suggestion. I thought it was an excellent idea. are you?" It was a question I would hear many times in the first few weeks of my NASA life. Donna even threatened to put Garanimals hang tags on my slacks and s.h.i.+rts. She would mock me: "The lions go with the lions and the giraffes go with the giraffes." I had no problem with the suggestion. I thought it was an excellent idea.

If I had no clue about how to dress myself, I was in another galaxy when it came to working with women. I saw women only as s.e.x objects, an unintended consequence of twelve years of Catholic school education. The priests and nuns had pounded into me that females were equated with s.e.x, and s.e.x brought eternal d.a.m.nation. Girls were never discussed in any other context. They were never discussed as real people who might harbor dreams. They were never discussed as doctors or scientists or astronauts. They were only discussed as "occasions of sin." The shortcut to h.e.l.l was through a woman's crotch was all I learned about the female gender as a teenager. Their b.r.e.a.s.t.s would earn you an introduction to Beelzebub, too. In fact, justfantasizing about their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and their other parts (the soul-killing mortal sin of about their b.r.e.a.s.t.s and their other parts (the soul-killing mortal sin ofimpure thoughts ) would also send you straight to h.e.l.l. Only in marriage did the rules change. Then, s.e.x was fine-productive s.e.x. In marriage a woman achieved her highest state in life-getting on her back and producing children. "The primary purpose of marriage is procreation of children" was dogma in my wife's 1963 "Marriage Course" curriculum guide from St. Mary's High School. ) would also send you straight to h.e.l.l. Only in marriage did the rules change. Then, s.e.x was fine-productive s.e.x. In marriage a woman achieved her highest state in life-getting on her back and producing children. "The primary purpose of marriage is procreation of children" was dogma in my wife's 1963 "Marriage Course" curriculum guide from St. Mary's High School.

The same guide also includes a lesson on "Masculine and Feminine Psychology" with a table of "characteristics."Males are more realistic, females more idealistic. Men are more emotionally stable, women are more emotionally liable. Man loves his work, woman loves her man. And, my favorite, And, my favorite,Men are more likely to be right, women more likely to be wrong.

I accepted these twisted s.e.xist messages of Catholicism so completely that in my senior year of high school I wrote a term paper on why women should not be allowed to attend college. After all, I eloquently reasoned, they never did anything with an education. They only attended college to find a husband. They were needlessly filling cla.s.ses and taking seats from males who would require the education to get jobs...real jobs. I received an A on the paper. I had learned my lesson well.

The Hollywood movies of my childhood did nothing to dispel what I was learning in school. The men were always depicted as theaction gender, be they cowboys in action against the Indians, a soldier in action against the j.a.panese, or an astronaut saving humanity. The women were always the pa.s.sive gender, waiting at home, cooking, and caring for the children. They were only active when the letters and telegrams came that their heroic men had taken an arrow, bullet, or meteor. Then they cried. After all, they were more gender, be they cowboys in action against the Indians, a soldier in action against the j.a.panese, or an astronaut saving humanity. The women were always the pa.s.sive gender, waiting at home, cooking, and caring for the children. They were only active when the letters and telegrams came that their heroic men had taken an arrow, bullet, or meteor. Then they cried. After all, they were moreemotionally liable.

To further guarantee my ignorance of females, I had lived and worked in environments awash in testosterone my entire life. I was raised in a family of one girl, five boys. My sister was nine years younger than me. This was no Brady Bunch house filled with teen girls to give me a clue about how to act and what to say around females. I recall one of my wildlife-enthusiast brothers had a basketball on which he had written,I hate girls. Bighorn sheep, I like. That about summarized the Mullane boys' att.i.tude toward females. We were more comfortable around four-legged animals than a human carrying an X chromosome. That about summarized the Mullane boys' att.i.tude toward females. We were more comfortable around four-legged animals than a human carrying an X chromosome.

I didn't go to either my junior or senior prom. At the few dances I did attend I stood against the gym wall with the other nerds, dweebs, and losers attempting to fight off impure thoughts. When there would be a girl-ask-boy dance, I would be left against that wall. The girls at St. Pius X High School weren't stupid. In my entire four years of high school I doubt I acc.u.mulated more than a couple hours talking to girls. My senior yearbook doesn't have a single entry from a girl. In fact, it bears only one dedication. It's from a fellow dweeb that reads,You missed Korea, but here's hoping you make Vietnam . It probably comes as no surprise that when I graduated I was as virginal as Mary the Mother of G.o.d. . It probably comes as no surprise that when I graduated I was as virginal as Mary the Mother of G.o.d.

The West Point of my era was another all-male bastion. Cadets joked that the mortar in the granite walls was actually s.e.m.e.n. My Company K-1 marching song included the lyrics "We make the c.u.m fly." West Pointers of my era looked at women with the same leering eye as a convicted felon doing thirty to life. Flirtation Walk, so romantically depicted in the movies, was littered with more used rubber than a Firestone test track. My West Point experience reinforced what Catholicism had taught me-women were nothing more than s.e.x objects.

The USAF officer corps that I entered in 1967 was also a male organization. I never encountered a female flyer. Strippers entertained us at the O'club on Wednesday and Friday nights. Military flyers saw women only as receptacles. If anyone from my era says otherwise, they must be running for Congress. Women may be from Venus and normal men may be from Mars, but military flyers are from the planetARRESTED DEVELOPMENT (AD). (AD).

When I walked into the astronaut office on day one, I didn't have the slightest sense of how to incorporate the six TFNG females into my work life. My behavior and vocabulary around them was exactly as it was around men. I recall an early incident of telling a joke to a TFNG audience including Sally Ride that had the wordt.i.ts in it. Sally hardly said another word to me for the next ten years. But, at the time, I didn't have a clue. I had no other experiences to draw upon. Professional women were as unknown and unknowable to me as sea life at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean. in it. Sally hardly said another word to me for the next ten years. But, at the time, I didn't have a clue. I had no other experiences to draw upon. Professional women were as unknown and unknowable to me as sea life at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean.

I wasn't the only one afflicted with an atrophied brain when it came to interacting with the women. On one occasion a few of the men found a live gra.s.s snake near the gym. They entered the ladies' locker room and shoved the slithering creature into Judy Resnik's purse. After she returned from her run, every man present gathered at the locker room door giggling like middle-schoolers. They heard the shower run, stop, then the shower door open. A few minutes later a scream right out of the moviePsycho echoed through the gym. The guilty parties evaporated faster than you could say "Tailhook." echoed through the gym. The guilty parties evaporated faster than you could say "Tailhook."

A navy TFNG probably best summarized the military male att.i.tude about women. We were standing outside Sally Ride's office. She was absent and I took the opportunity to point out the b.u.mper sticker on the front of her desk. It read, "A woman's place is in the c.o.c.kpit." My Top Gun companion looked at the sticker and chuckled. "A womanis a c.o.c.k pit." That was exactly how most of the military astronauts saw women in general and good-looking women in particular. We were flying blind when it came to working with professional women. And now, we were thrown into a group of women who weren't just professional. They were pioneers. They would be carrying the banner of feminism into the final frontier. a c.o.c.k pit." That was exactly how most of the military astronauts saw women in general and good-looking women in particular. We were flying blind when it came to working with professional women. And now, we were thrown into a group of women who weren't just professional. They were pioneers. They would be carrying the banner of feminism into the final frontier.

Who were these alien creatures we confronted?

Judy Resnik, twenty-eight, hometown Akron, Ohio, had a doctorate in electrical engineering from the University of Maryland and was a cla.s.sical pianist. She had been married briefly and was divorced. Prior to selection she had been working with the Xerox Corporation. Judy and I would fly our rookie mission together, an experience that would make us close friends. She would die onChallenger, her second mission. her second mission.

Rhea Seddon was a thirty-year-old unmarried surgeon from Murfreesboro, Tennessee. Besides being easy on the eye, she had an alluring Tennessee accent as smooth as Wild Turkey. She was a Berkeley graduate and held a doctorate in medicine from the University of Tennessee.

Anna Fisher, twenty-eight, was another very attractive medical doctor. She was born in New York City but called San Pedro, California, her hometown. She held a doctorate in medicine and a master's in chemistry from the University of California, Los Angeles. When Anna entered NASA she was married to another doctor, Bill Fisher, who would later be selected as an astronaut in the cla.s.s of 1980. Anna would have her first baby a few years after her TFNG selection and would become the first mother to fly in s.p.a.ce.

Sally Ride was a twenty-six-year-old physicist PhD from Stanford University. She was also a superb tennis player, having achieved national ranking on the junior circuit. At the time of her TFNG selection she was unmarried but would later marry and divorce Steve Hawley, another TFNG. Her hometown was Los Angeles, California.

Kathy Sullivan, twenty-six, was unmarried and held a doctorate in geology from Dalhousie University (Halifax, Nova Scotia). Kathy would later become the first American woman to do a s.p.a.cewalk. Her hometown was Woodland Hills, California.

Shannon Lucid was from Bethany, Oklahoma, and had a cement-thick Sooner accent. I once heard her speaking with Apollo astronaut and fellow Okie, Tom Stafford, and wondered if they were speaking Klingon. At thirty-five, Shannon was the oldest TFNG female and the only mother (three children) at the time of her selection. She held a doctorate in biochemistry from the University of Oklahoma.

All of these women were feminists in the sense they were out to prove they were as good as any male astronaut. Only Sally Ride struck me as an activist, a woman bent on making a political statement as opposed to a personal one. She seemed to view the world through NOW prescription lenses. Every action had to be gender sanitized. Before her first s.p.a.ce mission I heard her say there could be no live TV downlink of her during orbit food preparation because it would show her in a traditional female role, even though food preparation, like toilet cleaning, was a shared crew responsibility. After the mission, at a JSC welcome for the crew, a NASA PR spokesperson brought out a bouquet of roses for Sally. She refused to accept them, as if to do so would be an affront to women. After all, the males weren't being given roses. Every military TFNG quickly learned to be careful in word and deed around Sally. She had about as much tolerance for our arrested development as Billy Graham did for a Wicca.

The other five females cut us varying degrees of slack. Rhea Seddon was a model of tolerance. She had to be. A couple years into our TFNG lives she married Robert "Hoot" Gibson, an F-14 Tomcat fighter pilot. Forget the James Carville and Mary Matalin marriage as one of polar opposites. Compared with Rhea and Hoot, James and Mary are paragons of blissful compatibility.

It was easy to see the mutual attraction between Rhea and Hoot. Rhea was a pet.i.te, confident surgeon. She was blonde, beautiful, outgoing, and a cla.s.sy dresser. Hoot was the Chuck Yeager of the TFNGs, capable of flying anything with a stick and throttle, and flying it as if it were a natural extension of his body. He didn't so much strap into a c.o.c.kpit as meld with it. He was a natural-born leader and would ultimately rise to the position of chief of the astronauts a few years afterChallenger. On appearance alone, women were drawn to him. He had a Tom Selleck look about him, with a large blond mustache and an easy smile. In his California childhood he had learned to surf and play guitar. He rode motorcycles. He built his own formula-one racing plane in his garage, was a frequent winner in air races around the country, and held several world speed and alt.i.tude records. He also flew superhigh power WWII fighter planes and Russian MIG jets in air shows as part of a flying museum. He was the consummate fun-lover. When I returned from my third shuttle mission, my wife told me how Hoot, a family escort for that mission, had driven the crew wives into the Edwards AFB desert and spun doughnuts in the sand in a government van. That was Hoot, always ready to thrill the women. Occasionally at parties, he and a few other navy pilots would grab a microphone and serenade a skirt with "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling." Next to Hoot, Tom Cruise's On appearance alone, women were drawn to him. He had a Tom Selleck look about him, with a large blond mustache and an easy smile. In his California childhood he had learned to surf and play guitar. He rode motorcycles. He built his own formula-one racing plane in his garage, was a frequent winner in air races around the country, and held several world speed and alt.i.tude records. He also flew superhigh power WWII fighter planes and Russian MIG jets in air shows as part of a flying museum. He was the consummate fun-lover. When I returned from my third shuttle mission, my wife told me how Hoot, a family escort for that mission, had driven the crew wives into the Edwards AFB desert and spun doughnuts in the sand in a government van. That was Hoot, always ready to thrill the women. Occasionally at parties, he and a few other navy pilots would grab a microphone and serenade a skirt with "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling." Next to Hoot, Tom Cruise'sTop Gun character, Maverick, looked like a character, Maverick, looked like aShow Boat chorus member. Oh, did I mention he was the lead singer and guitarist in the astronaut band, Max Q? I hated him. I'm kidding of course. I had great respect for Hoot and thoroughly enjoyed being part of his crew on my second shuttle mission, STS-27. But in his company another man couldn't help but ask himself, chorus member. Oh, did I mention he was the lead singer and guitarist in the astronaut band, Max Q? I hated him. I'm kidding of course. I had great respect for Hoot and thoroughly enjoyed being part of his crew on my second shuttle mission, STS-27. But in his company another man couldn't help but ask himself,What would any woman see in my sorry a.s.s?

But there was another characteristic that came with the guitar, surfboard, and airplanes. Hoot was, like all military aviators, a male chauvinist pig. If NOW had a ten-most-wanted pig list, he would have been at the top. If they had ever caught him, though, it would have only taken a few minutes before the NOW politburo fell into a hair-pulling cat fight screaming, "I want to have his baby!" Hoot was that charming. Lest you think I exaggerate, even Sally Ride went out with Hoot when both were single, which says a lot about his charm factor.

Hoot's hallmark was his "snorting." Whenever he saw a young, attractive woman, he would discreetly make a sound like a pig snort. This was a physical manifestation of one of his favorite expressions, "I'd like to snort her flanks." He did this snorting so often that when he was a.s.signed as the commander of STS-27, our mission was nicknamed Swine Flight by the office secretaries. I'm sure Gloria Steinem and Sally Ride would have thoroughly agreed.

So, Rhea and Hoot's marriage was one of the world's great mysteries, like the rise of life on earth. If the pope were ever to beatify a woman as the patron saint of wifely patience, it would have to be Rhea. Indeed, we called her Saint Seddon for putting up with Hoot.

If Hoot were number one on NOW's most-wanted pig list, I would have been number two. As test pilots would say, I operated at "the edge of the envelope." It was as if I had s.e.xist Tourette's syndrome. The joker in me would leap from my mouth. Only around Sally did I keep myself somewhat throttled. I had a sixth sense about the danger there, like a dog knows not to paw at a snake. But Sally really wasn't an issue. After my t.i.ts joke, she avoided me like I was criminally insane.

I definitely tested Shannon Lucid's feminist tolerance a few times. I liked Shannon. She always struck me as indifferent to office politics, whereas her five peers were clearly vying for that most coveted of t.i.tles: FIRST AMERICAN WOMAN IN s.p.a.cE. Shannon was just there to do a good job. Whatever came of that, so be it, was the att.i.tude she projected. I admired her for that. Her philosophy would serve her well. Ultimately she would fly five times in s.p.a.ce, including a six-month stay aboard the Russian Mir s.p.a.ce station. (Sally Ride only flew twice and departed NASA afterChallenger. But it's her name in Billy Joel's song, not Shannon's. Life isn't fair.) But it's her name in Billy Joel's song, not Shannon's. Life isn't fair.) Shannon's first flight had Saudi Arabian Prince Sultan Salman Al-Saud aboard and after the mission he invited the crew and their spouses to visit Saudi Arabia. Shannon's husband could not make the trip. Shannon wasn't concerned. She didn't need a man to hold her hand. Wrong. Saudi Arabia did not allow women to enter the country alone. She had to have a male escort. When Shannon heard this she told headquarters she wasn't going. NASA HQ and the State Department were concerned about the potential press photo featuring only the men from the mission being greeted in Riyadh by King Fahd, so they asked the Saudis to look into their laws for a loophole. I was in my office when a TFNG came in with word they had found one. The Saudis would allow Shannon to enter as Dan Brandenstein's honorary daughter (Dan was the mission commander). Or, she could enter as John Fabian's honorary sister (John was another crewmember). Or, they might make a special exception, as they had when the queen of England had visited the country, and designate Shannon anhonorary man.

When the men in my office heard this, we exploded in laughter. What greater insult could a feminist hear than to be told she must take on the label "man" to get some respect. When I heard this, I couldn't contain the joker in me. I immediately went to Shannon's office and congratulated her on having achieved the highest honor a woman could ever hope to achieve...to be designated an honorary man. Shannon had a lively sense of humor and laughed at my antics, but I made certain not to walk down the stairs in front of her for the next few weeks.

Shannon later came into my sights at a Bible study meeting. The astronaut office was filled with devout persons of several faiths. Some of the most religiously committed astronauts were marines, a fact that shocked and awed me. Marines were known for eating their young, not for their "praise Jesuses." But several had organized a weekly Bible study. Shannon was a member of the group, as were Donna and I. The topic of one meeting was how people who had never "known Jesus Christ" might be treated by G.o.d in the afterlife. One group member posed these thought-provoking questions: Could a native from the jungles of Indonesia, who had never heard of Jesus Christ, enter G.o.d's Kingdom? Or how about a mentally ill person or someone born with half a brain?

The last part of this question was a setup the joker in me could not let pa.s.s. I jumped on it. "Yeah, Shannon, what about women?"

Suddenly Shannon had the mark of the beast. I was a dead man. She bore into me with a look that said, "I'm going to stake you to an anthill!"

After the meeting it was suggested I find G.o.d somewhere else...somewhere far, far away from this Bible study group. Donna and I were excommunicated.

When I die, I'm going to two h.e.l.ls. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I will be in Bible h.e.l.l, the one with all the fire and brimstone. There, demons will torture me with their fiery pitchforks. But during the rest of the week I'll be d.a.m.ned to feminist h.e.l.l, where some high-value parts of my body will be placed in a red-hot vise and Shannon Lucid, Sally Ride, and Judy Resnik will take turns cranking the vise tighter and tighter while I plead, "Mercy! Mercy! I was raised on the planet Arrested Development. I couldn't help myself!"

Chapter 8.

Welcome.

On a h.e.l.lish July day in 1978, properly dressed by my wife and handicapped with a brain from Planet AD, I drove through the gates of the Johnson s.p.a.ce Center to begin my TFNG life. If NASA ever needs to test a s.p.a.ce probe designed to survive on the surface of Venus, a Houston parking lot in summertime would suffice. Air-conditioning isn't a luxury in Houston. It's a life support system. Until I arrived in Houston I would laugh at those supermarket tabloid reports of people walking down a sidewalk and spontaneously combusting. But after one day of a Houston summer, I no longer laughed. It could happen.

Besides a small rocket park featuring aSaturn V moon rocket horizontally displayed near the entrance, there was nothing to suggest JSC had anything to do with s.p.a.ce. There were no towers or gantries or blockhouses. A pa.s.serby could easily think it was a university campus or a corporate headquarters. The architecture screamed "low bid." Except for size, every building was identical, each featuring a facade of exposed aggregate concrete. The major buildings were positioned around a duck pond landscaped with pine and oak trees to relieve the otherwise flat, boring terrain of southeast coastal Texas. moon rocket horizontally displayed near the entrance, there was nothing to suggest JSC had anything to do with s.p.a.ce. There were no towers or gantries or blockhouses. A pa.s.serby could easily think it was a university campus or a corporate headquarters. The architecture screamed "low bid." Except for size, every building was identical, each featuring a facade of exposed aggregate concrete. The major buildings were positioned around a duck pond landscaped with pine and oak trees to relieve the otherwise flat, boring terrain of southeast coastal Texas.

Johnson s.p.a.ce Center was located in the far south of Houston's urban sprawl. It was nearly as close to Galveston as it was to Houston's city center. The community in which many NASA employees lived was the suburb of Clear Lake City-implying a lake nearby, and a clear one at that. Wrong. Clear Lake was neither clear nor a lake, but rather a chocolate-tinted, humidity-shrouded inlet from the nearby Gulf of Mexico that served as a time-share for a couple billion vacationing mosquitoes. Obviously Clear Lake City had been named by a real estate developer. If there was truth in advertising, Clear Lake City would have been named Fire Ant City. In its abundant gra.s.ses were legions of these insects, which should be on the UN's list of weapons of ma.s.s destruction. Fire ants have been known to kill babies, the elderly, and newly born animals (I'm not kidding). To step in one of their mounds was to understand what it feels like to be napalmed.

If only the fire ants preyed on the Olympic-size roaches, which were equally ubiquitous, then at least one pest would have been eliminated. But the ants did not. In some kind of insect pact, the ants stayed outdoors, leaving the roaches free to turn homes into vast roach motels. Every morning brightly colored exterminator trucks poured into suburbia like tanks coming ash.o.r.e at Normandy. Technicians donned moon suits and slung flamethrower-like tanks to their backs to enter the combat zones of kitchens and baths. But theirs was a lost cause. The roaches thrived on their powders and gases and liquids. Even the old standby, the shoe, proved ineffective because these roaches were masters of landand air. They flew. I recall an early incident at a TFNG party where the hostess chased a four-incher into a corner and chortled with glee as she aimed her toe at it. "Eat leather, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" But as her foot came down the monster spread its wings and launched itself straight at her face. She screamed and fled, flailing her arms as if her hair were on fire. Meanwhile, the victorious roach broke off its attack, made a clattering turn, and settled on the mantle, tucking its wings back into its body like a majestically perched eagle. For the rest of the party it remained on that mantle, its antenna waving back and forth like semaph.o.r.es, daring anybody to attack. There were no takers. air. They flew. I recall an early incident at a TFNG party where the hostess chased a four-incher into a corner and chortled with glee as she aimed her toe at it. "Eat leather, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" But as her foot came down the monster spread its wings and launched itself straight at her face. She screamed and fled, flailing her arms as if her hair were on fire. Meanwhile, the victorious roach broke off its attack, made a clattering turn, and settled on the mantle, tucking its wings back into its body like a majestically perched eagle. For the rest of the party it remained on that mantle, its antenna waving back and forth like semaph.o.r.es, daring anybody to attack. There were no takers.

Looking at the southeast Texas topography, weather, flora, and fauna, I doubt a single TFNG thought,Of all the places in America I would like to live and work, I would choose Houston, Texas . But n.o.body was complaining. We had just been blessed with the best job on Earth. If our offices had been in a landfill, we wouldn't have cared. . But n.o.body was complaining. We had just been blessed with the best job on Earth. If our offices had been in a landfill, we wouldn't have cared.

The astronaut offices were on the top (third) floor of Building 4. They ringed the outer perimeter of that floor, leaving the interior offices for the coffee bar, bathrooms, mail room, photo archives, conference rooms, and other administrative functions. Like the exterior of the buildings, the offices had a low-bid, cookie-cutter sameness about them. Dilbert would have been right at home. The walls were movable steel panels. Magnetic picture hangers were needed for anySports Ill.u.s.trated swimsuit calendars, of which there were a few. The office decor was straight out of swimsuit calendars, of which there were a few. The office decor was straight out ofDesigning Bureaucrat : faux-wood desks and credenzas, cheap swivel chairs, battles.h.i.+p-gray steel filing cabinets, fluorescent lights. Clearly NASA was spending its money on rockets, not astronaut office frills. On the hallway walls hung magnetic nameplates, decorative s.p.a.ce photos, and a bulletin board. The latter was intended to disseminate administrative information, but also served as a battlefield for gender wars. In one instance an article on bone loss in weightlessness appeared. The MD author concluded that female astronauts would be more vulnerable to such loss as they aged. One of the women had circled that point and handwritten a note, : faux-wood desks and credenzas, cheap swivel chairs, battles.h.i.+p-gray steel filing cabinets, fluorescent lights. Clearly NASA was spending its money on rockets, not astronaut office frills. On the hallway walls hung magnetic nameplates, decorative s.p.a.ce photos, and a bulletin board. The latter was intended to disseminate administrative information, but also served as a battlefield for gender wars. In one instance an article on bone loss in weightlessness appeared. The MD author concluded that female astronauts would be more vulnerable to such loss as they aged. One of the women had circled that point and handwritten a note,This is why women should be first in line to fly the shuttle . A resident of Planet AD had answered, . A resident of Planet AD had answered,This is why NASA should hire younger women . .

On another occasion, someone had pinned up a magazine article on reproduction in zero-G. The author had hypothesized that it would require a threesome to copulate due to the repelling effect of Newton's law, which dictated the first "action" would produce an equal and opposite "reaction." One wit had written,No! This is why G.o.d gave us arms and legs . Another had tacked up a sign-up list next to the article requesting volunteers to "partic.i.p.ate in 1-G simulations." Someone, almost certainly one of the women, had scrawled across it, . Another had tacked up a sign-up list next to the article requesting volunteers to "partic.i.p.ate in 1-G simulations." Someone, almost certainly one of the women, had scrawled across it,Grow up . I would come to love the B-board wit. It was frequently laugh-out-loud funny. . I would come to love the B-board wit. It was frequently laugh-out-loud funny.

Pairs of TFNGs shared offices. I had no clue how the pairings were made, or who made them, or what they might imply for future flight a.s.signments. My roommate was Mike Coats, an Annapolis graduate and navy pilot noted (by my teenage daughter) for looking like the Superman character played by Christopher Reeve. Mike quickly acquired the handle Superman. He was also legendary for his ability to continuously flip a pen (and always catch it) while talking or studying or standing at the urinal or just about doing anything. He never watched the pen and he never missed. Up and down the spinning pen would fly, always landing precisely in his fingers, to be immediately flipped upward again. I wondered how that had played with the psychiatrists. I couldn't imagine Mike had stopped his flipping while talking to those doctors. He would have exploded.

The Monday morning all-hands meeting was our introduction to the essence of the astronaut business. Held in the main conference room of the astronaut office and chaired by Chief of Astronauts John Young, these weekly meetings were a venue to air important issues. I entered the room with the same trepidation a student feels on the first day of cla.s.s. Where to sit was the first issue I had to address.

A large table dominated the room. On it sat some conference phones and an overhead projector. A screen hung on the wall at the front of the room. Chairs ringed the table, but I gave no thought to taking one. This was the sacred table of Apollo. Alan Shepard and Jim Lovell and Neil Armstrong had sat here. At the moment moonwalker John Young was sitting at its head. There was no way one-day-old Ascan Mike Mullane was going to sit at that table. Perhaps the chairs were a.s.signed to the veteran astronauts and I would be embarra.s.singly evicted like a Cheers' patron being asked to move from Norm's bar stool. I looked elsewhere. Several rows of chairs had been placed at the back of the room and I aimed for these cheap seats. Most of my fellow TFNGs did likewise. Most, but not all. Rick Hauck, the senior ranking TFNG pilot and our cla.s.s leader, took a seat atthe table. table.You didn't get more alpha male than this, I thought. Rick was already lifting a leg to mark his territory. We hadn't been on the job for fifteen minutes and the compet.i.tion was already fierce. He was making a statement: I'm going to be the first TFNG in s.p.a.ce. Every one of us glared at him and wondered if we shouldn't have shown some b.a.l.l.s (or ovaries) and parked our a.s.ses at that moon-dusted table. I thought. Rick was already lifting a leg to mark his territory. We hadn't been on the job for fifteen minutes and the compet.i.tion was already fierce. He was making a statement: I'm going to be the first TFNG in s.p.a.ce. Every one of us glared at him and wondered if we shouldn't have shown some b.a.l.l.s (or ovaries) and parked our a.s.ses at that moon-dusted table.

Also seated around the table were other s.p.a.ceflight veterans, the big men on campus, who every freshman longed to be. Besides John Young, there was Alan Bean, the only other moonwalker remaining in the office. There were also some astronauts from the Skylab program: Owen Garriott, Jack Lousma, Ed Gibson, Paul Weitz, and Joe Kerwin. One astronaut remained from the Apollo-Soyuz program, Vance Brand. One of theApollo 13 crew was still aboard, Fred Haise. Ken Mattingly, the original crew was still aboard, Fred Haise. Ken Mattingly, the originalApollo 13 astronaut who was exposed to German measles and replaced at the last moment, was still with NASA and at the table. He had later earned his wings on astronaut who was exposed to German measles and replaced at the last moment, was still with NASA and at the table. He had later earned his wings onApollo 16.

The rest of the office included seventeen astronauts who were still waiting for their first s.p.a.ceflight. Seven had been dumped on NASA in 1969 by the USAF after their Manned Orbiting Laboratory program was canceled. The others had been selected in the late years of the moon program and had been in line to fly onApollo 18 through through20. But Congress had pulled the plug after But Congress had pulled the plug afterApollo 17. Most of these unlucky seventeen had been at NASA for more than seven years and hadn't been any closer to s.p.a.ce than I had. And they were still many years away from earning their wings. Most of these unlucky seventeen had been at NASA for more than seven years and hadn't been any closer to s.p.a.ce than I had. And they were still many years away from earning their wings.Please, G.o.d, spare me that fate, was my prayer. was my prayer.

Though we were brand-new, TFNGs understood the coin of the realm. s.p.a.ceflight. Those who had ridden rockets were rich beyond measure. Those who hadn't were paupers. There was no astronaut "middle cla.s.s." We had a.s.sumed a job in which rank, wealth, awards, degrees, and all other measures of success were absolutely meaningless. In that regard the unflown older astronauts in the room were as proletariat as us wet-behind-the-ears Ascans. Forget their near decade of service at NASA. It didn't count. A lifetime of flying a desk, even a NASA astronaut desk, couldn't put a gold astronaut pin on your lapel. Every one of us rookies in that room, regardless of age or t.i.tle, were cla.s.sless peons and we would remain so until that glorious day when the hold-down bolts were blown and our ride began. In that split second we would become kings.

As I looked at the crowded table, I knew every TFNG was thinking the same thing:Why don't these old farts just leave or die or something? We were the brash teenagers in the company of seniors who were slowing us down. We couldn't fly until they did. How many missions would they consume? How many years would I have to wait before they were up and out? Though we would soon form tight friends.h.i.+ps with these vets, no rookie astronaut ever shed a tear when a member of the older generation decided to move on. At their retirement parties we were the happiest ones there, knowing that one more c.o.c.kpit seat had just opened up. Don't let the door hit you in the a.s.s, was our att.i.tude. We were the brash teenagers in the company of seniors who were slowing us down. We couldn't fly until they did. How many missions would they consume? How many years would I have to wait before they were up and out? Though we would soon form tight friends.h.i.+ps with these vets, no rookie astronaut ever shed a tear when a member of the older generation decided to move on. At their retirement parties we were the happiest ones there, knowing that one more c.o.c.kpit seat had just opened up. Don't let the door hit you in the a.s.s, was our att.i.tude.

Later, I would learn how these seniors feared us. We had been selected by George Abbey, director of Flight Crew Operations (FCOD), John Young's boss. They hadn't been. They were astronauts long before George a.s.sumed his position. If rumor was true, George would be making shuttle flight a.s.signments. The older astronauts wondered if they would ever fly. George might just skip right to us, his proteges, and flush those also-rans onto the street. There was no astronaut contract guaranteeing a s.p.a.ceflight. So the seniors in that room saw us as threats to their place in line. It wasn't just the TFNGs who were sniffing one another and lifting a leg. Everyone was. We all were in a lather to find our place in line for a ride into s.p.a.ce and guard it with fang and claw.

Even though the six females couldn't metaphorically lift a leg, they were certainly looking at their five peers and measuring the compet.i.tion. It was a no-brainer one of them would be aboard the first shuttle carrying any TFNG crewmember. The NASA PR machine was chomping at the bit to get a woman in s.p.a.ce. While I doubted it would come to hair pulling and face scratching, there was bound to be as much compet.i.tion among the fair s.e.x as there was among the males.

John Young welcomed us with a few forgettable words, all delivered while he looked at his shoes. Dealing with life-and-death situations as a test pilot and astronaut hadn't endowed Young with any public speaking skills. He seemed nervous and hesitant to make eye contact with his audience. It was a personality trait we would learn wasn't just a.s.sociated with welcoming speeches. (The thingsLife never mentioned.) His stature and voice made him even less compelling. Like all the earliest astronauts, he was short and small framed. He was a Florida boy, and he had the accent and vocabulary of one. He frequently used the expression "them boys" in reference to anybody outside the astronaut office. He wasn't warm or approachable. never mentioned.) His stature and voice made him even less compelling. Like all the earliest astronauts, he was short and small framed. He was a Florida boy, and he had the accent and vocabulary of one. He frequently used the expression "them boys" in reference to anybody outside the astronaut office. He wasn't warm or approachable.Reclusive wouldn't be far from the mark. But he did have a great understated humor. When Florida named one of Orlando's main thoroughfares the John Young Parkway, John said, "Them boys shouldn't have done that. I ain't dead yet." wouldn't be far from the mark. But he did have a great understated humor. When Florida named one of Orlando's main thoroughfares the John Young Parkway, John said, "Them boys shouldn't have done that. I ain't dead yet."

He didn't leave his wit behind when he flew in s.p.a.ce. On STS-9, when two ofColumbia 's computers failed in orbit, causing a major and potentially life-threatening problem, John looked at his pilot, Brewster Shaw, and said, "This is what they pay us the big bucks for." He was probably making $70,000 a year at the time. 's computers failed in orbit, causing a major and potentially life-threatening problem, John looked at his pilot, Brewster Shaw, and said, "This is what they pay us the big bucks for." He was probably making $70,000 a year at the time.

The meeting proceeded with Young and Crippen, the crew for the first shuttle flight, discussing their mission preparations. We TFNGs were still naive enough to believe the NASA press releases proclaiming the first shuttle mission would fly in 1979. NASA HQ was loathe to admit to Congress that the machine was well behind schedule, and so they published wildly optimistic timelines about as likely to be achieved as the Chicago Cubs winning the World Series. (STS-1 would ultimately launch on April 12, 1981.) One of the veterans would tell us what the acronym NASA actually stood for: Never a Straight Answer. We learned to add years to any dates provided in a NASA press release about the shuttle schedule.

There was little we newbies could understand in the discussions that swirled around the table. The language of NASA was so laden with acronyms that it took many months to become fluent. The commander of a mission wasn't called the "commander." He was the CDR, p.r.o.nounced as the individual letters...C, D, R. And a pilot wasn't called a "pilot." He was a PLT, again p.r.o.nounced as the individual letters. A pulse code modulation master unit wasn't called such; it was a "puck-a-moo." I have heard entire conversations between astronauts without a single recognizable noun in them. "I was doing a TAL and Sim Sup dropped the center SSME along with the number-two APU. Then MS2 saw an OMS leak, we got a GPC split..."

So we just listened in silence to the techn.o.babble. At the close of the meeting, when Young asked if any TFNGs had anything to say, we all sat on our hands. All except Rick Hauck. There was a stir among us as he raised his hand.Surely he wasn't going to make a technical contribution? was our collective thought. Could he be that far ahead of us? Our compet.i.tive paranoia roared to life. was our collective thought. Could he be that far ahead of us? Our compet.i.tive paranoia roared to life.

But Rick's comment wasn't technical. He just asked if all the TFNGs would remain in the room to cover some administrative items. A secretary entered and pa.s.sed around copies of our official NASA photos for our review. We had posed for these as part of our in-processing. Now the mail room was filled with thousands of lithographs in which we had been perpetually frozen as smiling, thirtyish, flight-suited youths. Decades later, when there was little resemblance to the actual living person, these first photos were still being sent out. No doubt they have been a source of great confusion when used by American Legionnaires and city officials and others waiting to identify their astronaut luncheon speaker exiting an airport jet way.

Next, the secretary placed a few paper tablets on the table and asked us to give a sample signature for the auto-pen machine. Autographs! Apparently the world would be clamoring for our autographs in such quant.i.ties that NASA had a machine to automatically pen them. If there was ever an indication of the new world we had entered, it was this. Except on checks, I had never been asked for an autograph in my life.

I took a page and pennedMike Mullane. It didn't look right. Too small, too tight, too a.n.a.l, I thought. My "Ms" in particular looked like they had been made with a nun standing over me. They were too legible. Each was composed of symmetrical double humps that would have fit perfectly into the capital line guides of my third-grade Red Chief tablet. Such a signature would never do. It seemed to me famous people always had illegible signatures. I took another page and tried a radical swipe and imagined how it would look on a photo on some collector's wall. It appeared as fake as it was. Another page bit the dust. I tried signing faster, slower, with more slant, less slant...I wanted an autograph that would dazzle. Then it dawned on me. It didn't look right. Too small, too tight, too a.n.a.l, I thought. My "Ms" in particular looked like they had been made with a nun standing over me. They were too legible. Each was composed of symmetrical double humps that would have fit perfectly into the capital line guides of my third-grade Red Chief tablet. Such a signature would never do. It seemed to me famous people always had illegible signatures. I took another page and tried a radical swipe and imagined how it would look on a photo on some collector's wall. It appeared as fake as it was. Another page bit the dust. I tried signing faster, slower, with more slant, less slant...I wanted an autograph that would dazzle. Then it dawned on me.Everybody was doing the same thing. An act that had been as casual as, well, signing your name had suddenly become a quest, a personal challenge. I looked around and saw several TFNGs intensely studying their pages. A few tongues worked around the corners of mouths. To produce the perfect autograph was hard labor. I was witnessing the definition of astronauts...compet.i.tive to the nth degree. They even beat the s.h.i.+t out of their own muses. was doing the same thing. An act that had been as casual as, well, signing your name had suddenly become a quest, a personal challenge. I looked around and saw several TFNGs intensely studying their pages. A few tongues worked around the corners of mouths. To produce the perfect autograph was hard labor. I was witnessing the definition of astronauts...compet.i.tive to the nth degree. They even beat the s.h.i.+t out of their own muses.Why can't you come up with a memorable autograph, G.o.dd.a.m.n you! I could hear the buzz of pages disappearing from the tablet, ammunition being expended in thirty-five private wars to produce the perfect signature. By the time the secretary had her autographs for the auto-pen machine, a small forest had been wasted. I could hear the buzz of pages disappearing from the tablet, ammunition being expended in thirty-five private wars to produce the perfect signature. By the time the secretary had her autographs for the auto-pen machine, a small forest had been wasted.

Chapter 9.

Babes and Booze.

Over the next several months we continued our agency indoctrination by visiting NASA "centers" around the country. Like all government agencies, NASA spreads its operations over multiple states to gain the largess of as many congressional delegations as possible. We flew in private NASA jets to Kennedy s.p.a.ce Center, to NASA Ames Research Center in Mountain View, California, to Marshall s.p.a.ceflight Center (MSFC) in Huntsville, Alabama, and to several other NASA and contractor facilities scattered around the country. At each location we were introduced to the workers, took tours, and received briefings on the operations of each facility.

There was a social agenda as well. Many nights would find us at a c.o.c.ktail reception or dinner hosted by a local community official. Some of these events were more work than fun. Attendees clamored for autographs and photos. Or the press would be invited and they would squee