Light Years of Fear

INTRODUCTION

People the world over have dreamed of going to Mars even before the first human being rocketed into space. We were still a long way from being able to do so even when one of us took that first step on the moon. But now, long overdue in the minds of a few frustrated scientists but too soon for those not clear on why we should assume so much risk at so high a cost, America is moving ever closer to committing itself to a manned mission to the Red Planet.

The time spent getting to this point, however, was not wasted. Even the loudest complainers would admit that the delay has borne fruit, that it has permitted ideas to mature and problems to be discovered then solved.

Even the concern about prolonged absence from Earth has been addressed. A pulse nuclear fusion power system is even now being tested by a team of scientists at the University of Alabama, led by Dr. Jason Cassibry. When all tests have been completed and this propulsion concept finds its way into a newly engineered deep-space craft, the time to Mars could be reduced from 6-8 months to 6-8 weeks. So promising is this new concept that it makes a voyage to the moons of Jupiter a realistic possibility.

In short, we are approaching consensus, a collective feeling that a venture into this new frontier, with its accelerating prospects for success, will mark the future of space exploration. All angles are being considered then reconsidered then examined yet again in as fine a detail as our most brilliant minds can conceive.

That is, all angles except one.

"Yesterday we were three superbly trained astronauts, confident that we could shepherd an experimental spacecraft 135 million miles across the vacuum of space. Today we are helpless victims of a fate whose cause we have little hope of understanding."

Eliot Manning, MD, Mission Specialist,

Mars Voyager Icarus.

PROLOGUE

Cape Canaveral, Florida

Dr. Deanna Nu felt herself rise from the bed, the sheet and summer-weight blanket covering her sleeping body dragged along with her. Higher and higher she went, until finally she came in contact with the intricately patterned concrete ceiling that defined the boundary between her apartment and the one above it.

A part of her knew it had to end there, knew that this was a dream and would soon take a different course, return her to the bed or fly her around the room. But as often happens in dreams, they devolve to nightmares. Deanna’s nubile body went on to confront the inflexibility of the ceiling, pressing against it as if refusing to accept that it was there. The pain, which was already too realistic, brought on a groggy determination to wake up, to escape this nonsense that would take such hold on her emotions. She thought she had succeeded as suddenly the pressure ceased and she dropped to the bed like a falling rock.

For a long moment Deanna lay on her back, eyes wide and staring up at a ceiling that darkness all but obscured, her mind a jumble of conflicting thoughts. Not one to be encumbered by clothing while sleeping, she lay there naked and uncovered, her sheet and blanket lying carelessly on the floor as if she had acted out her dream.

What the hell was that all about?!

Deanna shook her head, not convinced she was awake even now. Restoring the covers to the bed, she lay back then took a number of deep breaths, needing to combat the surreal feeling that would not let go. Accustomed to applying some meaning to her dreams, this one left her cold. A twisted interpretation of some vague event in her life, no doubt, but what?

How about a little hint!

Much time passed before Deanna calmed enough to drift back to sleep. Exhausted by the experience, this time she had no awareness of her body as it once again lifted from the bed.

CHAPTER 1

The year 2033

For those of you who have forgotten the players, perhaps because you have grown weary of the drama that has been playing out for so long, my name is Eliot Manning. I'm a doctor, a medical doctor, but for most of my short career I've practiced exploring the new frontier of space.

Coming only hours after the completion of a hospital internship, I joined NASA's astronaut program then went at it with everything I had, eventually satisfying those responsible for choosing crews that I deserved to be put on the short list for a future trip to Mars. My friends told me I was crazy, that diving headlong into such a big unknown was a step beyond risky, that all those years of study could be lost in one explosive second. Could be they're about to be proven right.

It is probably a blessing that I'm not married considering the low probability that I’ll see my thirty-fourth birthday. Loving my work and not often lacking for female company, I never gave much thought to marriage, and even harbored a certain fear that spending a year in confined spaces with the lovely and exceptionally bright Deanna Nu might weaken my dedication to bachelorhood. Not helping in this, NASA, while notifying Deanna that she too had been selected for the Mars mission, let slip that the two of us, both being unmarried and unattached, might consider lending insight into the dynamics of sex in space—for the good of science, of course.

Deanna did not bite. Already sensitive about being an Asian and a woman in what she saw as a male-dominated environment, Deanna soon began viewing her two crewmates, the married Cameron Madison and me, with eyes that never lost their fog of suspicion. I rather liked the way NASA thought, but I was naive enough to show this in the wrong way and at a bad time. The lascivious grin that greeted NASA’s not-so-subtle request doomed it for me. Deanna may have a Ph.D, but her sense of scientific curiosity apparently has limits.

At the moment Deanna, her slim body overflowing with feminine appeal even through all that has happened, is ten feet away and gently pressed into her sleeping bag by the byproduct of extended deceleration—we have been bleeding off speed for days. It is difficult to read her thoughts, as she appears engrossed in some adventure story NASA uploaded before we left, but she is remarkably calm considering all we have been through.

God, has it really been a month since we left Earth?!

Deanna is the bravest woman I have ever known, but aware of what is coming, I cannot believe the words she reads are reaching beyond her eyes to her brain. More probable is, like me, she is thinking of how our lives are likely to end.

Forgive the digression, but everything is so upside down at the moment. Like writing this diary while not knowing whether anyone—or any thing—will ever get to read it. That might bring you to wonder why I bother, why I spend whatever time I have left fattening the pages of a notebook that stands little chance of being seen, but the truth is not that big a reach. Other than giving in to a cocktail of fear and depression, I have little else to occupy my time. So, for however long I am able to follow through on this, I will record what has already come crashing down on Cameron, Deanna and me, then keep my pen and notebook handy for whatever the fickle hand of fate throws at us next.

It is difficult, though. Emotionally, I mean; hard to gain enthusiasm for doing much of anything. The capability we once had, the technology that would have guided us through man’s first-ever landing on Mars, has been taken from us. We have only ourselves and what we can use of the few on-board systems still functioning. We have become impotent passengers on an out-of-control spacecraft with no place between here and the stars to get off.

CHAPTER 2

Six weeks earlier

"'Only' one year?! 'Only’?! You tip your hat and say 'see you, lover; back in a year' and I’m supposed to be okay with that?"

Marge Madison, wife to the commander of America's first attempt to visit another planet, had been giving an earful to any of the other attendees of NASA’s pre-launch cocktail party luckless enough to stop by and say hello. In her current mood, and it was darker than any had seen in her before, Marge did not fail to let the captive well-wisher know of her displeasure. It was scandalous enough that her husband felt it necessary to intervene.

Marge, you're being unreasonable!

"'Unreasonable,' Cameron? Do you by chance remember that you were willing to leave me for three years before the faster rocket came along?! Oh, excuse me, only three years!"

Marge was a petite, five-foot-four, thirty-year-old with azure eyes and a body that even the most jealous had to admit offered little room for criticism. She enjoyed silky blond hair that most often was drawn back into a ponytail, though tonight it was combed out to flow gently over her shoulders. Rather than offering the appearance of a distraught, about-to-be-abandoned wife, she looked as though she had spent hours grooming for this final get-together of Mars astronauts and family.

Her husband, at three inches over six feet and slim at one hundred ninety pounds, cut an impressive figure. Tonight that worked against him; he looked like a bully next to his petite wife.

Dr. Cameron Madison and his two crewmates had been in quarantine for five days, with only two more to go before setting off for the International Space Station, the first step of their year-long voyage. From there they would transfer to Icarus, a highly sophisticated deep-space vessel that would carry them to the red planet and back. At the moment, however, Cameron wanted nothing more than to get through this evening.

Like his two fellow astronauts, Cameron was brilliant. Usually two steps ahead of everyone else, he had little patience for waiting for others to catch up. It was a personality quirk and would have doomed him for so long a mission had he not excelled in so many meaningful ways. He was one to ride the river with, a saying from the old west where navigating dangerous rapids required a partner one could absolutely rely on. A talented engineer and an excellent mission commander, Cameron would be the one to turn to if something went wrong during the six-week trip to Mars.

Tonight none of that was helpful. Tonight was social, and Cameron was as bad at that as he was good in most other things.

Marge knew she was being unfair, but as the moment grew near when her husband was to climb into a firecracker and light the fuse, she found it impossible to give in to reason. Part of her frustration came from the knowledge that she had so little influence over this husband of three years. This spoke of a failure on her part, and was getting to her in ugly ways, converting a face that once seemed incapable of anything less than a smile, to one of strain lines and perpetual frown. It showed even in the way she dressed for this cocktail party, an affair that was supposed to be on the dressy side of casual. Perfect hair and face but baggy blue slacks and a faded red shirt that looked as if it had come off a shelf generally reserved for working in the garage.

There was some solace in the knowledge that no one here could be considered high-fashioned. A family member or two, perhaps, but everyone else was intellectually careless, their clothes neat but advertising distracted minds. With the launch now down to two days and counting, such things as proper dress were considered minor in comparison.

The Kennedy Space Center room where they assembled was small but large enough, considering that attendees were limited to crew, family and a few officials from Houston, Cape Canaveral and NASA’s Washington headquarters. Its walls were a soft blue as if to sooth those within, help distract them from what was to come. The large wooden table, usually a prominent part of the room, had been moved to one side and was now littered with party makings: wine, soft drinks, and a variety of hors d'oeuvres, the latter a special treat for astronauts who would soon be eating out of packages in a near-weightless environment—the steady acceleration of the pulse fusion rocket would permit little more than an illusion of gravity.

This being an internal room, there were no windows, and the floor-to-ceiling walls were laden with pictures of memorable Space Center events: the first rocket, the first man in space, the first woman, the first landing on the moon, early pictures of Mars. Perched on a small table at the end of the room, a small but energetic CD player was pouring out music from the early twenty-first century. The volume was high but not so high that conversation was threatened.

The event, a routine dating back to NASA's earlier ventures into space, was a last chance for worried loved ones to see, hear and touch those who would soon rocket into the new frontier. Getting together like this was thought to assure worried family that what their loved ones were about to do was no more risky than a trip to the corner grocery. It was a hard sell.

Marge was alert enough to know she was hurting rather than helping her cause. Cameron's fellow astronauts would not take kindly to anything that might distract their commander—the mission they were about to undertake was dangerous enough. Even so, she found it impossible to hold back her resentment. What do you expect of me, lover? This fucking little party might be the last time I ever see you!

I expect you to recognize and accept the inevitable! With that Cameron turned and walked away, the action not unexpected but hurting just the same. As Marge watched him go, another line of strain appeared on her face.

CHAPTER 3

Launch minus 2 days

Whose brainy idea was it to call the ship Icarus?

Needing a diversion to keep from dissolving into tears, Marge had gone in search of a sympathetic ear. She found it in Jeff Anton, Director of Operations and Cameron’s best friend. Like Marge, Jeff had traveled from Houston to be here. Also like Marge, he was anxious to get back. The most important mission he had ever been given was only two days away.

Is that some kind of sick humor, the mythical Icarus flying so close to the sun that his wings melted? What was left of Marge Madison's loyalty to NASA was rapidly waning.

Bastard! Marge lowered her gaze, aware of how dishonest she was being, with herself as well as with Cameron. Cameron loved his job and, she had to admit, was good at it. But he's still a bastard!

Jeff’s six-foot frame slouched a bit, as if wanting to appear less overpowering than the husband Marge just drove away. He was walking a tightrope between business and sympathy, the need to protect his crew from emotional distraction while giving more than lip service to Marge's feelings. Her being a friend was adding considerably to the problem. Even with the lines of strain etching her face, Marge was an appealing woman, and Jeff had to wonder how he was going to ignore that as he worked her through the difficult year ahead.

They chose the name Icarus, Marge, because it represents a free spirit, an adventurer, someone not afraid to test his wings and fly into the unknown.

So he flew into the sun; great role model!

Jeff was pleased that the press had not been invited. Not that he was adverse to publicity, quite the contrary; it helped keep NASA in business. What pleased him about it now was that the obvious distress of the mission commander's wife would make too tempting a story to ignore.

A part of Jeff, who in his earlier days as an astronaut had faced much the same concern from his wife, was sympathetic, even as the two of them had handled it better. There had been moments of pain and resentment, but up until her accidental death two years ago, they had had no thought of separating. At the moment he could not say the same for Marge and Cameron Madison.

Jeff waited, knowing there was more. When Marge remained silent after taking another swallow then lowering her glass, he gently prodded her. How do you get along with Deanna?

Marge raised her head to look him in the eye, her expression as much as saying he knew damn well. Why should I object to an attractive woman sharing a cramped space with my husband for so long that he'll know more about her body than mine?

Jeff could not hold back the chuckle. Marge, Deanna Nu is a professional. Like Cameron, Deanna had been in space once before, but that kind of experience was of less interest to Marge at the moment.

Nobody is that professional!

Jeff chuckled again, this time letting it come. If it helps, Deanna has made it clear to her male colleagues that any attempt to turn this into anything beyond a scientific expedition will be met with immediate castration.

Now it was Marge who laughed, but only for as long as it took to hide this unintended response behind another sip of wine—she was not in a mood to be understanding.

There is no way Deanna's well-shaped body is not going to provoke interest as the months slither by. Come on, Jeff, you know people, or you certainly should. There's a natural bonding between those who share hardships and dangers. Whatever barriers Deanna thinks she’s erected are going to come crashing down when fatigue and hormones collide.

Jeff did not even smile. Well, look at it another way: what if they did.

Did what?

'Did what'? What the hell are we talking about?!

Marge smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in it, as if she were beginning to accept that she had no hope of winning. Just wanted to see if you were up on that. You astronaut boy scouts can be a little slow at times.

Well this isn't one of those times. Answer the question. Jeff accompanied this with a smile lest Marge detect a sting in it.

A sigh preceded her answer. Oh, I don't know, Jeff. Maybe it's just the green horns poking through. Rover boy is out there getting laid, and I'm here playing the dutiful NASA celibate.

CHAPTER 4

Launch minus 2 days

We all knew what a louse Cameron Madison could be at times, but we could not do without him. Beyond being highly competent, Cameron had been responsible for many of the engineering improvements to the spacecraft, improvements that everyone agreed added greatly to the odds of getting back to Earth in one piece.

The stress on Cameron’s face was obvious as he lowered the drink he was sipping to say, Drop it, Deanna.

No, I won't drop it. If one of us starts having problems—and I submit you and Marge are having what anyone can safely say are 'problems,' then you’re going to carry some of that with you on this trip! Deanna was not one to be bullied, not even by her mission commander. She had been awarded her spot on the Mars mission because of what she had to offer, and she had little fear that a disagreement with Cameron would change that.

Deanna was all business, even as she had to work to overcome a physical appearance that belied this. Her slim frame supported a body that, at five-foot-nine, was tall for a Taiwanese/American, but it gave her a lithe femme fatale look that encouraged many to take a second glance as she glided by.

Deanna kept her hair short, a concession to her job. She regarded long hair in a weightless environment as a needless distraction. It was naturally dark, but in keeping with her desire to defeat a perennially youthful look—which persisted even at age thirty-two—she had her hair professionally highlighted with tiny streaks of white. She was unaware that this added to her appeal while doing nothing to mask her youth.

Hair highlighting was a rare concession to appearance for Deanna. She cared little for what she thought of as superficial reflections and was offended by those who showed more interest in her looks than the skills she brought to the job. She had worked hard for her doctorate in geology, and even harder to add a minor in physics. She was chosen for that combination, not for how well she looked.

Deanna is right, Cameron. Eliot had seen his two crewmates talking and had guessed the subject. Seeing what went on tonight between Cameron and Marge, he was as concerned as Deanna. We can't have the commander of our mission distracted by problems at home, especially if he can still head them off.

Cameron gave them a look that said he was not pleased with the way this conversation was going. In truth, however, he was suffering the very distractions he was trying to deny.

Look, I'm not going to let it interfere with our mission, okay?

It already is, Cameron. Look at you; you're like a tinderbox about to be introduced to fire.

I agree with Eliot. You have to come to grips with what's going on, and I mean soon. Tonight. Eliot and I are gambling our lives on you giving one hundred percent. You start focusing on something else, and we could wind up paying the price.

Cameron kept his shields up, but his voice proved he was weakening. There was a tad less acid in his words. Marge and I are okay with each other. We go through this every time I go away, and never has it affected my ability to do my job.

This is more than just 'going away, Cameron, and if I weren't sure you knew that, I wouldn't be risking my life on coming along. You need to find time for Marge, sit her down and work it out. Eliot and I have been to dinner at your house; we've seen how you two interact. We know what a sweet guy you can be when you're not trying so hard to be a horse's ass.

Cameron smiled in spite of himself. Alright, I get the point. I'll talk to her.

Eliot added, Do more than talk. Throw in an admission that you understand how she feels. And tell her you're sorry you don't show it better.

I didn't know your specialty was psychiatry.

Keeping you guys under emotional control is half my job. Now be a good patient and go get your wife a drink. He tipped his head in Marge's direction, noting as he did so that Marge was trying hard to make them think she was not paying attention. And try a little smile when you deliver it.

I remember every detail of that cocktail party, even as the memory seems to flow from another world—not far off the mark, I guess. Except for Marge and those who got stuck listening to her complaints, we were all in good spirits. Cameron gave it his best shot with his wife, but true to form when he had something else on his mind, it was less than sincere. Aware that time was getting short, and seeing the handwriting on the wall, Marge tried as well. But, like her husband, she was too far gone to accept simple words of assurance from a man whose psyche she seemed unable to penetrate.

Deanna and I had to accept this as the best our insensitive shipmate was able to muster under the circumstances. In any event, more and more our attention was being drawn to the day after tomorrow, that magical moment when we entered SpaceX’s Dragon Rider, the crew-carrying version of its popular cargo vessel. At that moment it was sitting on top of a Falcon Heavy Lift rocket that would get us to the International Space Station where Icarus awaited.

CHAPTER 5

Resting on its pad not far from where the participants of NASA’s farewell cocktail party were saying their last goodbyes, the nine-engine Falcon rocket had already begun its long countdown. Once it delivered its cargo of astronauts to the ISS, Dragon Rider would hang in space awaiting the opportunity to ferry them back down to Earth once the long mission was over.

The plan called for two days of getting settled into our new home before firing up Icarus's pulse fusion engine and pushing off for the six-week journey to the red planet. The trip would begin with far less violence than the rocket that lifted us into space; this because the new power system was not engineered for rapid starts. It would be sent on its way slowly by small bursts of energy, each of which would get us going a tiny bit faster. So often is this pulse repeated that it leaves the crew with a sense of gravity. Only a tenth of what occurs on Earth, but enough to make us think in terms of up and down. It’s like walking chest deep in a swimming pool, feet touching the ground but not with much grip.

Sounds ridiculously slow, but unlike the powerful Falcon rocket, the pulse fusion engine never stops. Like the Energizer Bunny, it keeps on going until it gets us flying faster than any human being has ever flown before. One of its two fuel requirements, the hydrogen, is produced on board as a by-product of our water-to-air separator, a machine that splits water into its component parts, oxygen and hydrogen.

The oxygen, of course, is used for breathing, though there is more than enough to satisfy other needs, like storage for emergencies and re-pressurizing air locks should a venture outside Icarus become necessary.

As a doctor and as one of three crewmembers exposed to the dangers of deep space, I appreciated the fact that we would reach our destination faster and thus spend less time in a near-weightless environment. That meant less of the negatives that come from little used muscles: bone loss, fainting spells and weakened heart. Even more important, we would spend less time basking in the unfriendly radiation common to space travel.

CHAPTER 6

Kennedy Launch Center, Cape Canaveral

Launch minus one day

Anything more on that communications blip, Jeff?

Standing at the rear of the Launch Control Center, a room filled with consoles and attentive operators, Jeff Anton almost spilled his coffee at the sudden interruption of his thoughts. He had been thinking of Marge and the unpleasantness of the night before. His friend's wife was a pleasure to be with most times, but that was definitely not one of those times.

Normally Eliot Manning, the one person who never seemed to be lacking high spirits, could bring anyone out of a fugue, but Jeff suspected what Eliot had in mind now might do just the opposite. Eliot seemed intent on discussing a technical glitch, one that, though not serious, had been driving everyone a little batty.

Theories only, Eliot. And none of them provable, at least not so far. Problem is the damn thing doesn't hang around long enough to figure out what it is or where it's coming from.

Every so often, a tiny pulse was detected by their communication sensors, both on board Icarus and in the control room in Houston. It was like a distant flashlight passing quickly by a window and momentarily catching the eye of the person inside. Damn thing is too faint and too fleeting, leaves no trace.

If we don't know what it is, how can we really say it's not going to give us problems during the flight?

Truth be told, we can't. All we can say is that it's not a big deal. It's like a fly on the side of the lift vehicle, makes us curious but has no discernible effect on anything. Certainly we’re not going to delay the launch because of it.

"No effect yet."

Well, we've been monitoring it for close to a month, and it never changes and never comes even close to doing harm. Our latest thinking is that it could be a light touch from the remnants of a long-gone supernova. Either that or some kind of atmospheric anomaly.

Anybody else report it, SETI, for example? The Search for Extra Terrestrial Intelligence made it a point to listen for radio signals coming from space.

Well, no, and I admit that confuses us a bit.

There was a moment of silence before Eliot asked, You hiding something from me, Jeff?

What's that suppose to mean?

I know for a fact that one of those 'anomalies' was an unnatural pattern. Something like that would trigger SETI’s computers.

We don't know for sure that it was ‘unnatural,’ Eliot. All we can say is that one time—and one-time only—there were hits that, if they appeared regularly, would suggest someone was trying to get our attention. That it has not recurred makes us feel justified in calling it unspectacular.

'Unspectacular'?

Like a hundred monkeys playing with a hundred typewriters. One of them is bound to create a legitimate word in time. With all the stuff coming our way from naturally-occurring events, it’s not surprising that occasionally something pops up that looks as if it’s deliberate.

Or suspicious.

Or suspicious, but this is not either. It popped up once, got our attention when we realized it was an unnatural arrangement of pulses, and then failed to repeat. As I say, a hundred monkeys on a hundred typewriters.

How about mischief makers: Russians, Chinese, a terrorist group? Damn it Jeff, if there's any possibility of that, we need to know about it. This trip is iffy enough as it is.

Jeff shook his head. "We ruled that out. Taping into our communications system would gain them nothing—the pulse is incoming, and there's no corresponding out-go. And what we're picking up doesn't even have enough power to penetrate the com system, let alone do mischief when it does. We feel confident that our conversations will remain our conversations and nobody else's. Jeff reached into Eliot’s eyes as he added with more sincerity than he felt, Our call is that it's something natural, Eliot, though what exactly is anybody's guess. We also ruled that it's not a big enough deal to get us to delay this mission. We'll figure it out in time, but even if we don't...well, as I say, it's not doing any harm."

I say again, 'yet.'

Jeff smiled before replying. Look, if it acts up on the way to Mars, call us and we'll send up a mechanic.

CHAPTER 7

The White House

Launch minus one day

Sylvester McCoy, President of the United States., sat quietly behind his Oval Office desk and let his mind wander. The public was all worked up over the coming Mars spectacular, and so far no one, that is no one other than himself, seemed concerned that they were taking on more than was wise, that in going ahead with such a complicated mission, there was as much chance of failure as success. It was adding grey hairs to a head that already had enough.

President McCoy was a small man, at least small in stature. What he lacked in height he more than made up for in competence. His five years in office saw his approval numbers rise steadily. He ran the details of the mission over in his head, the people, the spacecraft Icarus and the miraculous engine that would get the astronauts to Mars more quickly and thus greatly reduce the risks.

McCoy wondered what his people were not telling him, what they thought he need not know. He thought of calling in his science advisor yet again, even going so far as reaching for the telephone. But as he had done twice before this morning, he withdrew his hand, aware that he was branding himself a nervous Nellie, a worry-wart rather than a leader.

A leader heading for a fall?

Unable to concentrate, his eyes wandered to images of previous NASA missions hanging on the wall behind his desk, put there to make sure he did not for a moment forget the magnitude of what was about to take place. Tomorrow evening, when enough of the American public were at home and close to their TVs, he would offer a speech about the coming event, his intent to both emphasize its complexity and importance, and—critical considering how worked up he was about this—warn them that we were pushing the boundaries of space exploration in a big way and that there was risk in doing so, not only to the mission but to the three brave individuals about to take it on.

McCoy sighed at how poor he felt these words to be, how inadequate they were to describe such a giant step into Earth’s future. That NASA had planned such a voyage for years, employing their customary care, expertise and heavy doses of training, did not at the moment outweigh the terrible feeling he had that one of the most visible actions ever taken by the United States of America might, instead of being a plus for the country he led, become a giant blotch.

CHAPTER 8

Launch day, Kennedy Space Center

The loading of the fuel—liquid oxygen and rocket-grade kerosene—that would propel both stages of the Falcon-Heavy two-stage rocket began at T-minus five and a half hours. To properly acclimatize the tanks, the process was deliberately kept slow at first, but then, after five minutes, it was accelerated to a fast fill. Two hours later both tanks were at their proper level and the slow process of keeping them that way began. This would continue until just before liftoff.

While all this was taking place, the main propulsion system's helium tanks were brought to a hefty pressure, forty-five hundred pounds per square inch. The helium would be used by the Reaction Control System that provided pitch, yaw and roll maneuverability while in route. When the loading was complete, a mandatory two-hour hold began, during which time the crew quarters were made ready for the crew’s arrival.

When the countdown resumed at T minus three hours, a nervous group of astronauts, two experienced and one going up for the first time,