Skyfall

An American A-OK in Russian, the new combined language of the space age, Flax thought, watching and listening, a silent spectator. And the Americans were saying vas ponyal, I understand, instead of Roger. Not a bad idea; a little peace went a long way in the world today. Mir. They could use a lot more of it, particularly in Africa where the massacres were still going on.

There was no need for a hold on the fueling. The bypass worked and the faulty valve was replaced. But this was minor, one of the expected difficulties. There was enough time built into the countdown to correct small malfunctions. Even time for more major trouble by having a hold when the clock stopped and everyone and everything waited until the problem was licked. But there could not be too many holds and they could not be too long, because there was a limited amount of time that all the complex systems could be held in readiness. Some systems had a life that could be measured in days, even hours. After this cryogenic fuels could cause unreliability. If enough holds added up an entire mission could be scrubbed. And if Prometheus were scrubbed it might be months before it would be ready to go again. Unthinkable. Years of preparation had built towards this moment, the reputations of two nations were at stake. The leaders of both were watching and the world was watching them. And they were all watching Flax. The knot tightened.

A red light on a board, one of many thousands. Some switches thrown to test, then a phone call and an answer, then through to Kletenik.

“We have some trouble here at twenty-seven, could we see you.”

It was the toneless voice that troubled Kletenik, the forced calmness that meant someone was worried. Which had him worried. He unplugged his headset and walked swiftly towards console twenty-seven.

In the isolation quarters Patrick was getting into his pressure suit, with Ely's assistance. He would not need it until they were in orbit and ready to assemble the solar collector: since Prometheus was designed to be a permanent space station the entire structure was pressurized and they would wear normal lightweight coveralls. But Patrick had been having pressure-suit trouble. Each astronaut had his suit made specially for him. Two suits, really, one for training that would take the wear and tear of daily use. The other for space walking. Both were made the same way, layers of fabric and rubber that had been sewn and glued together with infinite care. The suit had to be flexible enough to enable the wearer to move about, yet it had to be strong enough to contain the air pressure that kept him alive. It had to bend at the joints and be firm in between; all in all a magnificent compromise. That wasn't always perfect. Reinforcements could dig in and irritate so adjustments had to be made. A nagging piece of metal that rubbed Patrick's shoulder had been sent back three times for corrections, returning finally just before they had entered quarantine. He hoped it was right; if it wasn't there might still be time to correct it.

First the thin cotton underwear to prevent chafing. Then the slightly humiliating, but nevertheless necessary, donning of the triangular yellow plastic urine bag; it's not possible to make a quick call to the men's room when in space. Ely held up the bag and admired it.

“What a marvelous invention, symbol of man's conquest of space, “he said.

“A lot better than woman's symbol of that conquest. I should think a catheter would be damn uncomfortable.”

“Be happy then with your little rubber ring on the corner of the bag here that fits, oh so neatly, around your thing. Another comment on the age of science becoming the age of conformity. Although men come in all sizes from three-foot pigmies to seven-foot Scandinavians, their vital organs apparently come only in three sizes. Small, medium and large. There are only three size rings on these bags, aren't there?”

“Always referred to as extra large, immense and unbelievable. The male ego must be reassured. And when you're picking the right size don't let ego overrule reality. If you pick one too big it will leak, a condition known as 'wetback' that you won't enjoy.”

“I've been warned. Here, let me help you with the suit.”

Putting on a pressure suit was more like a snake getting back into its discarded skin than putting on normal clothes. Patrick struggled to get his feet through the resistance of the nylon inner lining. Once this was done he had to bend over double to work his arms far enough down the sleeves to let him put his head through the neck ring. Ely tugged strongly until Patrick's skull popped through.

“Thanks,” Patrick gasped. “I think you took all the skin off the back of my neck.”

“You could have stayed a nice safe test pilot instead of taking this giant step for mankind.”

“Zip up the back, will you.”

He didn't bother to pull the gloves on, he was hot enough as it was. Standing, he stamped around the room, swinging his arms.

“Feels all right. Let me try some bending…”