Every cycle Michael wakes up early, squeeze coffee from a tube, and reads
the newspaper hoping to find out the names of the two Russian astronauts he's
trapped in space with. The newspaper is weightless but he has learned how
to keep the pages still. The paper hangs before him, rectangular wings oscillating
gently. He reads: The American and the two Russians aboard Russia's stricken
Mir space station prepared Thursday for a bleak couple of weeks awaiting a
relief ship to bring vital supplies needed for the repair of their damaged
craft. Yes, but what Russians? Who? What are their names? Once the newspaper
missed the space station and went spinning out of sight until it was another
white dot along the plane of the ecliptic. He had to radio earth for another
one. From far off he could see it, a speck tumbling toward them. The second
time it rolled end over end right into the airlock like it always does. Does
NASA rocket the news up here, or is there a paperboy who can throw a rolled
paper at 13 miles a second and achieve escape velocity and with stunning accuracy?
Michael has nothing here, and needs the news, worse than he ever did back
on earth. Way worse. Deprived of real sunlight (instead only the harsh and
slightly toxic blaze of radiation up here), real air (with smells), and real
food (fresh vegetables); even a newspaper seems erotic. He gets to read about
himself and figure out who the hell he is and what he's doing in space. In
a failed metal ecosystem lost in space along a calculable arc. Technical malfunctions
forming a ring above the equator, a rain of metal across three continents.
Those three grimy sweaty men, a camping trip in space in a malfunctioning
tin can. Sharing the last toothbrush. Grudgingly. Those brave astronauts labor
away in the cramped tedium. One of the Russians uses a tool to repair the
damage. The tool is about the same size and mass as a piece of metal used
to club a Detroit teenager to death in Flint Michigan, Michael thinks, but
of course this piece of metal cost hundreds of thousands. Police say the victims
simply were in the wrong place at the wrong time as was the unmanned cargo
craft in the collision Wednesday. The space station lost half its power supply
when the airtight hull of the Spektr science module was ruptured. It made
a horrible noise and they stared at each other in helpless rage. They face
one of the most difficult crises in space since Apollo 13 came close to disaster
in 1970. The feebleness of the shell that surrounds them is apparent. The
flickering fluorescents, the whining indicators. Michael has a secret wish
that the U.S. would dismantle its military and divert all the funding to providing
food and healthcare to the hungry, sick. Now he would even like to see the
space program suspended until it is determined how the exploration of space
can reduce suffering on earth. Earth. The word seems really funny to him now,
saying it from the outside. How badly the American Michael Foale wants to
be at home on Earth with Julio. He has heard that the Federal Housing Administration
will cut its mortgage insurance premiums by 25 basis points to 1.5 percent
for first time homebuyers in the largest U.S. cities. This could mean good
news for he and Julio, if he survives. Unfortunately, Russian Space Agency
chief Yuri Koptev said the cosmonauts are in no immediate danger and there
are no plans to evacuate them after the worst accident in Mir's 11-year history,
that bastard. But the crew will return to Earth in its Soyuz escape craft
if the air pressure falls below about three-quarters of the current norm.
He can only hope. Of course, it is hard to breathe back in L. A. too, but
the Russians don't need to know that. He thinks about Julio's jogging mask
as he reads about European leaders attacking the United States for not doing
enough to combat global warming. These Russians are driving him crazy, of
course. They make jokes about American drill sergeants harassing female recruits.
They have some kind of thing about American women that he doesn't get. And
when Pitts admitted to being a spy for Russians, their jokes grew intolerable.
One of them once heard about a rave in Prague, and he thinks all of America
is like Disneyland on Ecstasy. How he would rather be with Julio & the
other 499,999 at the 27th annual Pride parade, or to be among the 2500 at
Betty Shabazz's funeral. Everyday, when he retrieves the paper from space,
he rolls off the rubber band, and snaps it at one of the Russians. In zero
G, those things can sting and make you spin. Of course, if you are not yourself
braced when you snap it, you too will tumble. NASA says Russian space authorities
are considering spacewalks to restore some power to the stricken Mir space
station. Perhaps they can rig a generator to a treadmill, Michael doesn't
understand that setnece at all. But NASA official Frank Culbertson says any
repair would have to wait until next month and would be "very difficult."
Under the plan being discussed, cosmonauts in space suits would run cables
from the module's electricity-generating solar arrays to the space station's
other compartments. A dangerous and cumbersome procedure. They were told that
they looked well and confident Sunday in their first television link with
Earth since their accident in orbit. During the nine-minute appearance, the
crew took the camera around Mir to show some of the key points for repair
work needed to restore the power supply. The Russians, of course, hogged the
camera. This was actually the only time the crew spoke to one another all
week. After the accident, accusations flew, and their regular card games stopped.
Michael now plays a game of solitaire, floating the cards in air. Officials
at the U.S. space agency NASA said that a stabilization system was now close
to reactivation and life was slowly improving on Mir. But the crew on Mir
still faces risky repair work this week. Thumps and snowflakes on Mir have
caused concern about the forthcoming internal spacewalk. Dangers include getting
snagged, punctured. Michael had a dream that there was something alive in
the cargo hold. He'll retire comfortably if he lives. As will Julio. But he
can feel his frustration seethe and rise like 800,000 gallons of hog manure
in an overflowing waste lagoon. Glad nobody on Earth knows what he is really
like.
