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334 pages, Hardcover
First published August 2, 2010
This sign says REDUCED GRAVITY OFFICE. I know what is in there, but even so, I have to stand for a moment and indulge my imagination, through which coffee pots are floating and secretaries drift here and there like paper airplanes. Or better still, an organization devoted to the taking of absolutely nothing seriously.She seems to write with actual glee when reporting on the frequently vomitous results of weightlessness, and her tales of head-case astronauts playing gruesome practical jokes while in orbit had me weeping with laughter.
“STAFFORD: Give me a napkin quick. There’s a turd floating through the air.”
“According to more than one astronaut memoir, one of the most beautiful sights in space is that of a sun-illumined flurry of flash-frozen waste-water droplets. Space doesn’t just encompass the sublime and the ridiculous. It erases the line between.”![]()
“When you have one pair of underpants for a two-week spaceflight, anal leakage is not your pal.”
From January 1964 to November 1965, a series of nine experiments on “minimal personal hygiene”—including a two-week Gemini VII simulation—had been taking place in an aluminum space capsule simulator inside Building 824 of the Aerospace Medical Research Laboratories. The AMRL people did not mess around. Minimal was defined as “no bathing or sponging of the body, no shaving, no hair and nail grooming…, no changing clothes and bed linen, the use of substandard oral hygiene, and minimal use of wipes” for, depending on the experiment, anywhere from two to six weeks. One team of subjects lived and slept in spacesuits and helmets for four weeks. Their under-clothes and socks deteriorated so completely that they had to be replaced. “Subject C became so nauseated by body odor that he was forced to remove his helmet after wearing it for less than ten hours. Subjects A and B had already removed their helmets by that time.” It didn’t help. With the helmet off, body odors were “forced out around the neck of the pressure suit,” a situation described by B, on day four, as “absolutely horrible.” This explains why Frank Borman, in the mission transcript for the second day of Gemini VII, asks Lovell if he has a clothespin. He’s about to unzip his suit. (“For your nose,” he tells the perplexed Lovell.)
Because everything else is frozen, the material that’s going in, depending on how hard the stool is, has a tendency to bounce off the walls. You’ve seen the old air-pop popcorn machines? There’s an air flow in there and it’s kind of circulating. That material’s just floating around in the air stream, and it tends to come back up the tube. Howdy doody.What really makes the above quote work is Roach’s perfect delivery of the last two words, and that kind of well-timed, clever humor peppers the narrative. By the way, fecal popcorning is not even close to the most uncomfortable feature of space-based defection, but I will leave the other nuggets for you to discover on your own.
The nobility of the human spirit grows harder for me to believe in. War, zealotry, greed, malls, narcissism. I see a backhanded nobility in excessive, impractical outlays of cash prompted by nothing loftier than a species joining hands and saying “I bet we can do this.” Yes, the money could be better spent on Earth. But would it? Since when has money saved by government red-lining been spent on education and cancer research? It is always squandered. Let’s squander some on Mars. Let’s go out and play.
“Is he leaking badly from anything major?“