Starfire

ONE

“Is the guy asleep, Boomer?” the flight surgeon monitoring the crew’s physiological datalink radioed. “His heart rate hasn’t changed one bit since we put him on the monitors. Is he freakin’ dead? Check on him, okay?”

“Roger,” Hunter “Boomer” Noble, the aircraft commander on this flight, replied. He left his seat, climbed back between the two side-by-side cockpit seats, walked through the airlock between the cockpit and cabin, and entered the small four-person passenger compartment. Unlike the more familiar orange full-pressure space suit worn by the two passengers on this flight, Noble’s tall, lanky, athletic body was covered in a skintight suit called an EEAS, or Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suit, which performed the same functions as a traditional space suit except it used electronically controlled fibers to compress the skin instead of pressurized oxygen, so it was much easier for him to move about the cabin than it was for the others.

Noble, his mission commander and copilot, retired U.S. Marine Corps pilot Lieutenant Colonel Jessica “Gonzo” Faulkner, and the two passengers were aboard an S-19 Midnight spaceplane, the second of three versions of the United States’ single-stage-to-orbit aircraft that had revolutionized space flight when the first, the S-9 Black Stallion, was made operational in 2008. Only three of the S-19s had been built, in favor of the larger experimental XS-29 Shadow spaceplanes. All versions of the spaceplanes could take off and land on runways built for commercial airliners, but each had special triple-hybrid engines that could transform from air-breathing supersonic turbofan engines to hypersonic supersonic ramjets to pure rocket engines capable of propelling the craft into Earth orbit.

Boomer walked up to the first passenger and checked him over carefully before speaking. Through his space helmet’s visor he could see the passenger’s eyes were closed and his hands folded on his lap. The two passengers were wearing orange Advanced Crew Escape Suits, or ACES, which were full pressure suits designed for survival in case of a loss of pressurization in the passenger compartment, or even in open space.

Yep, Boomer thought, this is one cool cucumber — his first trip into space and he was either sleeping or on the verge of it, as if he was on a wide-body airliner getting ready to take off for a vacation in Hawaii. His companion, on the other hand, looked normal for a first-time space passenger — his forehead glistened with sweat, his hands were clenched, his breathing rapid, and his eyes darted to Boomer, then out a window, then at his companion. Boomer gave him a thumbs-up and got one in return, but the man still looked very nervous.

Boomer turned back to the first passenger. “Sir?” he asked via intercom.

“Yes, Dr. Noble?” the first man replied in a low, relaxed, almost sleepy voice.

“Just checking on you, sir. The flight doc says you’re too relaxed. You sure this is your first time in orbit?”

“I can hear what they’re saying. And I don’t think I’d forget my first time, Dr. Noble.”

“Please call me ‘Boomer,’ sir.”

“Thank you, I will.” The man looked over at his companion, frowning at the man’s obvious nervousness. “Is Ground Control worrying at all about my companion’s vital signs?”

“He’s normal for a Puddy,” Boomer said.

“A what?”

“A Puddy — a first-time astronaut,” Boomer explained. “Named after Don Puddy, the guy at NASA that used to give shuttle astronaut candidates the good news they’d been accepted to the astronaut training program. It’s natural to be supernervous, even for veteran astronauts and fighter jocks — if I may say so, sir, it’s kinda creepy to see someone as relaxed as you appear.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Boomer,” the man said. “How long before takeoff?”

“The primary window opens in about thirty minutes,” Boomer replied. “We’ll finish the pretakeoff checks, and then I’ll have you come up to the cockpit and take the right seat for takeoff. Colonel Faulkner will be in the jump seat between us. We’ll have you go back to your seat here before we go hypersonic, but once we’re in orbit you can go back up into the right seat if you wish.”

“I’m perfectly happy to stay here, Boomer.”

“I want you to get the full effect of what you’re about to experience, and the cockpit is the best place for that, sir,” Boomer said. “But the G-forces are pretty strong as we go hypersonic, and the jump seat isn’t stressed for hypersonic flight. But when you unbuckle to come back up to the cockpit, sir, that will be a moment you’ll never forget.”

“We’ve been hooked up to oxygen for an awfully long time, Boomer,” the passenger asked. “A few hours at least. Will we have to stay on oxygen on the station?”

“No, sir,” Boomer replied. “Station’s atmospheric pressure is a little lower than sea-level pressure on Earth or the cabin pressure on the spaceplane — you’ll feel as if you’re at about eight thousand feet, similar to cabin pressure on an airliner. Breathing pure oxygen will help purge inert gases out of your system so gas bubbles won’t lodge in your blood vessels, muscles, your brain, or joints.”

“The ‘bends’? Like scuba and deep-sea divers can get?”

“Exactly, sir,” Boomer said. “Once we’re on station you can take it off. For those of us who do space walks, we go back to prebreathing for a few hours because the suits have an even lower pressure. Sometimes we even sleep in an airlock sealed up with pure oxygen to make sure we get a good nitrogen flush.”

Takeoff was indeed thirty minutes later, and soon they were flying north over western Idaho. “Mach one, sir,” Boomer radioed back on intercom. “First time going supersonic?”

“Yes,” the passenger said. “I didn’t feel anything abnormal.”

“How about Mach two?”

“We just went twice the speed of sound? That quickly?”

“Yes, sir,” Boomer said, the excitement obvious in his voice. “I like to loosen up the ‘leopards’ at the beginning of every mission — I don’t want to find out at Mach ten or Mach fifteen that there might be a problem.”

“ ‘Leopards’?”

“My nickname for the hybrid turbofan-scramjet-rocket Laser Pulse Detonation Rocket System engines, sir,” Boomer explained.

“Your invention, I believe?”

“I was the lead engineer for a very large team of Air Force engineers and scientists,” Boomer said. “We were like little kids in a candy store, I swear to God, even when the shit hit the fan — we treated a huge ‘leopards’ explosion as if we tossed a firecracker into the girls’ lav in high school. But yes, my team developed the ‘leopards.’ One engine, three different jobs. You’ll see.”

Boomer slowed the Midnight spaceplane down to midsubsonic speed and turned south over Nevada a short time later, and Jessica Faulkner came back to help the passenger into the mission commander’s seat on the right side of the cockpit, get strapped in, and plug her suit’s umbilical cord into a receptacle, and then she unfolded a small seat between the two cockpit seats and secured herself. “How do you hear me, sir?” Faulkner asked.

“Loud and clear, Jessica,” the passenger replied.

“So that was the ‘first stage’ of our three-stage push into orbit, sir,” Boomer explained over the intercom. “We’re at thirty-five thousand feet, in the troposphere. Eighty percent of Earth’s atmosphere is below us, which makes it easier to accelerate when it’s time to go into orbit. But our tanker has regular air-breathing turbofan engines, and he’s pretty heavy with all our fuel and oxidizer, so we have to stay fairly low. We’ll rendezvous in about fifteen minutes.”

As promised, the modified Boeing 767 airliner emblazoned with the words SKY MASTERS AEROSPACE INC on the sides came into view, and Boomer maneuvered the Midnight spaceplane in position behind the tail and flipped a switch to open the slipway doors overhead. “Masters Seven-Six, Midnight Zero-One, precontact position, ready, ‘bomb’ first, please,” Boomer announced on the tactical frequency.

“Roger, Midnight, Seven-Six has you stabilized precontact, we’re ready with ‘bomb,’ cleared into contact position, Seven-Six ready,” a computerized female voice replied.

“Remarkable — two airplanes traveling over three hundred miles an hour, flying just a few feet away from one another,” the passenger in the mission commander’s seat remarked.

“Wanna know what’s even more remarkable, sir?” Boomer asked. “That tanker is unmanned.”

“What?”

“Sky Masters provides various contract services for the armed forces all over the world, and the vast majority of their aircraft, vehicles, and vessels are unmanned or optionally manned,” Boomer explained. “There’s a human pilot and boom operator in a room back at Battle Mountain, watching us via satellite video and audio feeds, but even they don’t do anything unless they have to — computers do all the work, and the humans just monitor. The tanker itself isn’t flown by anybody but a computer — they load a flight plan into the computer, and it flies it from start-taxi to final parking without any human pilots, like a Global Hawk reconnaissance plane. The flight plan can be changed if necessary, and it has lots of fail-safe systems in case of multiple malfunctions, but the computer flies the thing all the way from start-taxi to engine shutdown back at home base.”

“Amazing,” the passenger said. “Afraid your job will be given to a computer someday, Dr. Noble?”

“Hey, I’d help them design the thing, sir,” Boomer said. “Actually, the Russians have been sending Soyuz and unmanned Progress cargo vessels up to the International Space Station for years, and they even had a copy of the space shuttle called Buran that did an entire space mission unmanned. I think I’d rather have a flight crew if I was flying into orbit on a Russian spacecraft, but in a few years the technology will be so refined that passengers would probably never notice.”

As the passenger watched in absolute fascination, the spaceplane glided up under the tanker’s tail, and a long boom steered by small wings lowered from under the tail down toward the spaceplane. Guided by green flashing director lights and a yellow line painted under the tanker’s belly, Boomer moved forward under the tail until the green director lights went out and two red lights illuminated.

“How do you tell when you’re in the right position, Boomer?” the passenger asked.

“There’s a certain ‘picture’ between the tanker’s belly and the windscreen frame that you learn to recognize,” Boomer replied. “Not very scientific, but it works every time. You get a feel for it and recognize if you’re too close or too far away, even at night.”

“You do this at night?”

“Of course,” Boomer said matter-of-factly. “Some missions require night ops, and of course it’s always night where we’re going.” As he was speaking, Boomer pulled off a tiny bit of power, and all forward motion stopped. “Midnight Zero One, stabilized in contact position, ready for contact,” he radioed.

“Roger, Zero One,” the female-voiced computer replied. A nozzle extended from the end of the boom, and moments later they heard and felt a gentle CL–CLUNK! as the tanker’s nozzle slid into the slipway and seated itself in the refueling receptacle. “Showing contact,” the computer voice reported.

“Contact confirmed,” Boomer said. On intercom he said, “All I do now is follow those director lights and stay on the tanker’s center line.”

“If the tanker is fully computerized, shouldn’t the receiver aircraft be able to do a rendezvous by computer as well?” the passenger asked.

“It can — I just prefer to fly the thing in myself,” Boomer said.

“Impressing the VIP on board, right?”

“After what you’ll see today, sir,” Boomer said, “I and my meager flying skills will be the least impressive things you’ll see on this flight.”

“You said ‘bomb,’ not ‘fuel,’ ” the passenger said. “We’re not taking on fuel?”

“First we’re taking on a special liquid oxidizer called B-O-H-M, or borohydrogen metaoxide, ‘bomb’—basically, refined hydrogen peroxide,” Boomer said. “Our engines use BOHM instead of liquid oxygen when we switch to pure rocket engines — it’s impossible, at least with today’s technology, to transfer supercooled liquid oxygen from a tanker aircraft. ‘Bomb’ is not as good as cryogenic oxygen, but it’s much easier to handle and far less costly. We don’t take on any ‘bomb’ before takeoff to save weight; we’ll take on jet fuel last so we have the maximum for the mission.”

It took over fifteen minutes to download the thick oxidizer, and another several minutes to purge the transfer system of all traces of BOHM oxidizer before switching over to begin transferring JP-8 jet fuel. Once the jet fuel began transferring to the Midnight spaceplane, Boomer was visibly relieved. “Believe it or not, sir, that was probably the most dangerous part of the flight,” he said.

“What was? Transferring the BOHM?” the passenger asked.

“No — making the switch from BOHM to jet fuel in the tanker’s transfer system,” Boomer admitted. “They rinse the boom and plumbing with helium to flush all the ‘bomb’ out before the jet fuel moves through. The boron additives in the oxidizer help create a much more powerful specific impulse than regular military jet fuel, but mixing BOHM and jet fuel, even in tiny amounts, is always dangerous. Normally, the two mixed together needs a laser for ignition, but any source of heat, a spark, or even vibration of a certain frequency can set it off. The experiments we did at Sky Masters and at the Air Force test centers made for some spectacular explosions, but we learned a lot.”

“Is that how you got your nickname, ‘Boomer’?”

“Yes, sir. Perfection requires mistakes. I made a ton of them.”

“So how do you control it in the engines?”

“The laser igniters are pulsed, anywhere from a few microseconds to several nanoseconds, to control the detonations,” Boomer explained. “The stuff goes off, believe me, and it’s massive, but the specific impulse lasts just an instant, so we can control the power…” He paused, long enough for the passenger to turn his helmeted head toward him, then added, “… most of the time.”

They could virtually feel the second passenger in the back stiffen nervously, but the passenger in the front seat just chuckled. “I trust,” he said, “that I won’t feel a thing if something goes wrong, Dr. Noble?”

“Sir, an uncontrolled ‘leopards’ explosion is so big,” Boomer said, “that you won’t feel a thing… even in your next life.” The passenger said nothing, but just did a big nervous “GULP.”

The JP-8 transfer went much faster, and soon Colonel Faulkner was helping the front-seat passenger to get strapped into his seat in the back beside the plainly still-nervous second passenger. Soon everyone was seated and the crew was ready for the next evolution. “Our tanker is away,” Boomer said, “and as planned he’s dropped us off over southwestern Arizona. We’ll make a turn to the east and start our acceleration. Some of the sonic boom we’ll create might reach the ground and be heard below, but we try to do it over as much uninhabited area as we can to avoid irritating the neighbors. We’re monitoring the flight computers as they finish all the checklists, and we’ll be on our way.”

“How long will it take?” the first passenger asked.

“Not long at all, sir,” Boomer replied. “As we briefed on the ground, you’ll have to deal with the positive G-forces for about nine minutes, but they’re just a bit more than what you’d feel taking off aboard a fast bizjet, strapped into a dragster, or on a really cool roller coaster — except you’ll feel them for a longer period of time. Your suit and the design of your seat will help you stay conscious — in fact, you may ‘red out’ a little because the seat is designed to help keep blood in your brain instead of the G-forces pulling it out, and the more pressure you get, the more blood will stay.”

“How long will we have to stay in orbit before we can chase down the space station?” the passenger asked. “I’ve heard it sometimes takes days to link up.”

“Not today, sir,” Boomer said. “The beauty of the spaceplane is that we’re not tied to a launch pad set on one particular location on Earth. We can make our own launch window by adjusting not only our launch time but changing our insertion angle and position relative to our target spacecraft. If we needed to, we could fly across the continent in just a couple hours, refuel again, and line up on a direct rendezvous orbit. But since we planned this flight so long ago, we could minimize the flying, gas up and go, and save fuel just by planning when to take off, when and where to refuel, and being in the right spot and right heading for orbit. By the time we finish our orbital burn and coast into our orbit, we should be right beside Armstrong Space Station, so there’s no need to chase it down or use a separate Hohmann transfer orbit. Stand by, everyone, we’re starting our turn.”

The passengers could barely feel it, but the S-19 Midnight made a sharp turn to the east, and soon they could feel a steady pressure on their chests. As directed, they sat with arms and legs set against the seats, with no fingers or feet crossed. The first passenger looked over at his companion and saw his chest within his partial-pressure space suit rising and falling with alarming speed. “Try to relax, Charlie,” he said. “Control your breathing. Try to enjoy the ride.”

“How is he, sir?” Gonzo asked on intercom.

“Hyperventilating a little, I think.” A few moments later, with the G-forces steadily rising, he noticed his companion’s breathing became more normal. “He’s looking better,” he reported.

“That’s because home base reports he’s unconscious,” Boomer said. “Don’t worry — they’re monitoring him closely. We’ll have to watch him when he wakes up, but if he got the anti-motion-sickness shot as he was directed, he should be fine. I’d hate to have him blow chunks in his oxygen helmet.”

“I could’ve done without that last bit of detail, Boomer,” the conscious passenger said wryly.

“Sorry, sir, but that’s what we have to be ready for,” Boomer said. He was astonished that the passenger didn’t seem to be having one bit of difficulty breathing against the G-forces, which were now exceeding two Gs and steadily increasing as they accelerated — his voice sounded as normal as back on Earth. “Battle Mountain may adjust his oxygen levels to keep him asleep until the medics are standing by.”

“My home base won’t like that,” the passenger pointed out.

“It’s for his own good, believe me, sir,” Boomer said. “Okay, everybody, we’re approaching Mach three and fifty thousand feet, and the ‘leopards’ are beginning to transform from turbofan engines to supersonic combustion ramjets, or scramjets. We call this ‘spiking,’ because a spike in each engine will move forward and divert the supersonic air around the turbine fans and into ducts where the air is compressed and mixed with jet fuel and then ignited. Because there are no spinning parts in a scramjet as there are in a turbofan engine, the maximum speed we can attain goes to around fifteen times the speed of sound, or about ten thousand miles an hour. The scramjets will kick in shortly. We’ll inert the fuel in the fuel tanks with helium to avoid having unspent gas in the fuel tanks. Stay ahead of the Gs.”

This time, Boomer did hear some grunts and deep breaths over the intercom as moments later the engines went completely into scramjet mode and the Midnight spaceplane accelerated rapidly. “Passing Mach five… Mach six,” Boomer announced. “Everything looks good. How are you doing back there, sir?”

“Fine… fine, Boomer,” the passenger replied, but now it was obvious that he was fighting the G-forces, clenching his stomach and leg muscles and pressurizing a lungful of air in his chest, which was supposed to slow blood flowing to the lower parts of his body and help keep it in his chest and brain to help him stay conscious. The passenger looked over at his companion. His seat had automatically reclined to about forty-five degrees, which helped his blood stay in his head since he couldn’t perform the G-crunches while unconscious. “How… how much… longer?”

“I hate to break it to you, sir, but we haven’t even gotten to the fun part yet,” Boomer said. “The scramjets will give us the maximum velocity and altitude while still using atmospheric oxygen for fuel combustion. We want to conserve our BOHM oxidizer as long as possible. But around sixty miles’ altitude — three hundred and sixty thousand feet — the air will get too thin to run the scramjets, and we’ll switch to pure rocket mode. You’ll feel… a little push then. It won’t last long, but it’ll be… noticeable. Stand by, sir. Another ninety seconds.” A few moments later, Boomer reported: “ ‘Leopards’ spiking… spiking complete, scramjets report full shutdown and secure. Stand by for rocket transition, crew… back me up on the temp and turbopump pressure gauges, Gonzo… standing up the power, now… good ignition, rockets throttling up to sixty-five percent, fuel flows in the green, throttles coming up…” The passenger thought he was ready for it, but the breath left his lungs with a sharp BAARK! at that moment… “Good primary ignition, nominal turbopump pressures, all temps in the green, stand by for one hundred percent power, here we go… ready… ready… now.”

It hit like a car crash. The passenger felt his body crushed backward into his seat — thankfully the computer-controlled seat was anticipating it, simultaneously reclining, cushioning, and bracing his body weight against the sudden force. The nose of the Midnight felt as if it was aimed straight up, but that feeling lasted only a few moments, and soon he had no idea of up or down, left or right, forward or backward. For a moment he wished he was unconscious like his companion, unaware of all these strange, alien forces battering his body.

“One-six… one-seven… one-eight,” Boomer announced. The passenger was not quite sure what any of that meant. “Passing four-zero… five-zero… six-zero…”

“Are… we… doing… okay, Boomer?” the passenger asked, trying with all his might to suppress the growing darkness in his vision that indicated the beginning of unconsciousness. He pretended he was a bodybuilder, flexing every muscle in his body, hoping to force enough blood into his head to keep from dropping off.

“We’re in… in the green, sir,” Boomer replied. For the first time in this entire damned flight, the passenger thought, he could detect a hint of pressure or strain in Hunter Noble’s voice. His tone was still measured, still succinct and even official, but there was definitely a worried edge to it, signifying even to a newbie space voyager that the worst was yet to come.

Crap, the passenger thought, if Hunter Noble — probably America’s most oft-traveled astronaut, with dozens of missions and thousands of orbits to his credit — is having trouble, what chance do I have? I’m getting so tired, he thought, trying to fight the damned G-forces. I’ll be okay if I just relax and let the blood flow out of my brain, right? It won’t hurt me. The pressure is starting to make me a little nauseous, and for God’s sake I don’t want to barf in my helmet. I’ll just relax, relax…

Then, moments later, to his complete surprise the pressure ceased, as if the turnscrews on the vise that had been pressing on his entire body simply disappeared after just a few minutes. Then he heard the surprising, completely unsuspected question: “You doing okay this splendid morning back there, sir?”

The passenger was somehow able to reply with a curt and completely casual, “It’s morning, Dr. Noble?”

“It’s morning somewhere, sir,” Boomer said. “We have a new morning every ninety minutes on station.”

“How are we doing? Are we doing okay? Did we make it?”

“Check out your detail, sir,” Boomer said. The passenger looked over and saw the man’s arms floating about six inches above his still-unconscious, reclined body, as if he were sleeping while floating on his back in the ocean.

“We’re… we’re weightless now?”

“Technically, the acceleration of gravity toward Earth is equal to our forward velocity, so we’re in effect falling but never hitting the ground. We are hurtling toward the Earth, but Earth keeps on moving out of the way before we hit it, so the net effect feels like weightlessness,” Boomer said.

“Say what?”

Boomer grinned. “Sorry,” he said. “I like saying that to Puddys. Yes, sir, we’re weightless.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re currently cruising past Mach twenty-five and climbing through one hundred twenty-eight miles’ altitude up to our final altitude of two hundred and ten miles,” Boomer went on. “Course corrections are nominal. When we stop coasting at orbital speed, we should be within ten miles of Armstrong at matching speed, altitude, and azimuth. It looks very cool, sir, very cool. Welcome to outer space. You are officially an American astronaut.”

A few moments later Jessica Faulkner drifted back to the passenger cabin, her eyes still alluring behind the closed visor of her space-suit helmet. The passenger had seen plenty of astronauts floating in zero-G on television and movies, but it was as if this was the first time he had seen it in person — it was simply, utterly unreal. He noticed her movements were gentle and deliberate, as if everything she touched or was about to touch were fragile. She didn’t seem to grasp anything, but she used a few fingers to lightly touch the bulkheads, ceiling, or deck to maneuver herself around.

Faulkner checked on Spellman first, checking a small electronic panel on the front of his space suit that displayed conditions in the suit and the wearer’s vital signs. “He looks okay, and his suit is secure,” she reported. “As long as his gyros don’t tumble when he wakes up, I think he’ll be fine.” She drifted over to the first passenger and gave him a very pretty smile. “Welcome to orbit, sir. How do you feel?”

“It was pretty rough when the rockets kicked in — I thought I was going to pass out,” he replied with a weak smile. “But I’m doing all right now.”

“Good. Let’s get you unbuckled, and then you can join Boomer in the cockpit for the approach. He might even let you dock it.”

“Dock the spaceplane? To the space station? Me? I can’t fly! I haven’t hardly driven a car in almost eight years!”

Faulkner was unstrapping the passenger from his seat, using tabs of Velcro to keep the webbing from floating around in front of them. “Do you play video games, sir?” she asked.

“Sometimes. With my son.”

“It’s just a video game — the controls are almost identical to game controllers that have been around for years,” she said. “In fact, the guy who designed them, Jon Masters, probably did that on purpose — he was a video-game nut. Besides, Boomer is a good instructor.

“Now, the secret to maneuvering around in free fall is remembering although you don’t have the effects of gravity, you still have mass and acceleration, and those need to be counteracted very carefully, or else you’ll end up pinging off the walls,” Faulkner said. “Remember that it’s not the weightless feeling you feel floating in the ocean, where you can paddle to move about — here, every directional movement can be countered only by opposing the acceleration of mass with opposite and equal force.

“Once we’re on station, we use Velcro shoes and patches on our clothes to help secure ourselves, but we don’t have those yet, so you’ll have to learn the hard way,” she went on. “Very easy, gentle movements. I like to just think about moving first. If you don’t consciously think about a movement before you do it, you’ll launch yourself into the ceiling when your major muscles get involved. If you just think about getting up, you’ll involve more minor muscles. You’ll have to overcome your mass to start moving, but remember that gravity isn’t going to help you reverse directions. Try it.”

The passenger did as she suggested. Instead of using his legs and hands to push up off the seat, he merely thought about getting up, with light touches of a few fingers of one hand on a handhold or seat armrest… and to his surprise, he started to float gently off the seat. “Hey! It worked!” he exclaimed.

“Very good, sir,” Faulkner said. “Feel okay? The first time in zero-G upsets a lot of stomachs.”

“I’m fine, Jessica.”

“The balance organs in your ears will soon have no ‘up’ or ‘down’ direction and will start feeding your brain signals that won’t correspond to anything you see or feel,” Faulkner explained. The passengers had been briefed on all this back home, but they had not undergone any other astronaut training such as simulated zero-G work underwater. “It’ll be a little worse once you get to station. A little nausea is normal. Work through it.”

“I’m fine, Jessica,” the passenger repeated. His eyes were as wide as a young child’s on Christmas morning. “My God, this feels incredible — and incredibly weird at the same time.”

“You’re doing fine, sir. Now, what I’m going to do is step aside and let you maneuver yourself toward the cockpit. I could try to guide you into your seat, but if I’m not perfectly aligned and not applying the right amount and direction of force, I’ll spin you out of control, so it’s better if you can do it. Again, just think about moving. No hurry.”

Her suggestions worked. The passenger completely relaxed his body and faced the hatch connecting the cockpit with the passenger cabin, and barely touching anything, he started to drift toward the hatch, with Boomer watching his slow progress over his right shoulder, a pleased smile visible though the visor of his oxygen helmet. In no time, the passenger had floated right up to the cockpit hatch.

“You’re a natural at this, sir,” Boomer said. “Now Gonzo will unhook your umbilical cord from the passenger seat and hand it up to me, and I’ll plug it into the mission commander’s seat receptacle. You need to gently hold on to the hatch while we get you hooked back on. Again, don’t kick or push anything — gentle touches.” The passenger heard and felt the tiny puffs of conditioned air in his partial-pressure suit shut off, and soon the umbilical hose appeared. Boomer reached across the cockpit and plugged it in. “Hear me okay, sir? Feel the air-conditioning okay?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Good. Getting into the seat is the tricky part, because it’s a kinda tight fit. The technique is to slowly, carefully, bend at the waist and lift your thighs toward your chest, like you’re doing a stomach crunch. Gonzo and I will maneuver you over the center console and into your seat. Don’t try to help us. Okay, go ahead.” The passenger did exactly as he was told, curling his body slightly, and with only a few unexpected bumps and swerves he was over the very wide center console and into the seat, and Faulkner fastened his lap and shoulder straps for him.

“Are you sure we didn’t pass each other in the hallways at NASA astronaut training in Houston, sir?” Boomer asked, his smile visible through his oxygen helmet’s visor. “I know veteran astronauts who get all hot, sweaty, and grumpy doing what you just did. Very good. Here’s your reward for all that work.” And he motioned outside the cockpit…

… and for the first time, the passenger saw it: planet Earth spread out before him. Even through the relatively narrow cockpit windows, it was still marvelous to behold. “It’s… it’s incredible… beautiful… my God,” he breathed. “I’ve seen all the photos of Earth taken from space, but they just don’t compare with seeing it myself. It’s magnificent!”

“Worth all the hoops you had to jump through to get up here, sir?” Gonzo asked.

“I’d do it a hundred times over just to get the chance,” the passenger said. “It’s extraordinary! Damn, I’m running out of adjectives!”

“Then this is a good time to get back to work,” Boomer said, “because things will be getting a little busy here. Take a look.”

The passenger looked… and saw their destination in astonishing splendor. It was almost thirty years old, mostly built of 1970s technology, and even to an untrained eye it was starting to show signs of age despite minor but fairly consistent upgrading, but it still looked amazing.

“Armstrong Space Station, named after the late Neil Armstrong, of course, the first man to step foot on the surface of the moon, but everyone who’s anyone calls it Silver Tower,” Boomer said. “It started out as a semiclassified Air Force program, combining and improving on the Skylab space-station project and President Ronald Reagan’s Space Station Freedom project. Freedom eventually became the American contribution to the International Space Station, and Skylab was abandoned and allowed to reenter and burn up in Earth’s atmosphere, but the military-funded space-station program kept going in relative secrecy — as secret as you can keep a three-billion-dollar monstrosity like this that orbits the earth. It’s basically four Skylabs connected together and attached to a central truss, with enlarged solar arrays and improved docking, sensors, and maneuvering systems, tailored more to military applications than to scientific research.”

“It looks fragile — kinda spindly, like those modules will fall off any second.”

“It’s as strong as it needs to be up here in free fall,” Boomer said. “It’s certainly not as sturdy as a building that size on Earth, but then again, it doesn’t need to be. All of the modules have small computer-controlled thrusters that move all the pieces together, because station revolves around its axis to keep antennas pointed toward Earth.”

“The silver coating is really supposed to protect against ground-based lasers?” the passenger asked. “Has it ever been hit by a laser? I’ve heard Russia hits it with a laser every chance they get.”

“It gets hit all the time, and not just from Russia,” Boomer said. “So far it doesn’t seem to have done any damage; the Russians claim they are just using lasers to monitor station’s orbit. Turns out the silver material — aluminized spray-on polyimide — is good protection against micrometeorites, solar wind, and cosmic particles as well as lasers, and it’s a good insulator. But the best part for me is being able to see station from Earth when the sun hits it just right — it’s the brightest object in the sky except for the sun and moon, and can sometimes be seen in daytime, and can sometimes even produce shadows at night.”

“Why do you call it ‘station’ instead of ‘the station’?” the passenger asked. “I’ve heard a lot of you guys say it that way.”

Boomer shrugged against his seat harness. “I don’t know — someone started saying it that way in the first months of Skylab, and it stuck,” he said. “I know most of us think of it as more than just a collection of modules or even as a workplace — it’s more like an important or favorite destination. It’s like I might say, ‘I’m going to Tahoe.’ ‘I’m going to station’ or ‘I’m going to Armstrong’ just sounds… right.”

As they got closer to the station, the passenger motioned toward the station. “What are those round things on each of the modules?” he asked.

“Lifeboats,” Boomer replied. “Simple aluminum spheres that can be sealed up and jettisoned away from station in case of an accident. Each holds five persons and has enough air and water to last about a week. They can’t reenter the atmosphere, but they’re designed to fit inside the cargo bay of any of the spaceplanes, or they can be towed to the International Space Station and the survivors transferred. Every module has one; the Galaxy module, which is the combination galley, exercise room, entertainment room, and medical clinic, has two lifeboats.”

He pointed to the lowermost center module, smaller than the others and attached to the “bottom” of the lower center module, pointing Earthward. “So that’s Vice President Page’s creation, eh?”

“That’s it, sir: the XSL-5 ‘Skybolt,’ ” Boomer said. “A free-electron laser with a klystron, or electron amplifier, powered by a magnetohydrodynamic generator.”

“A what?”

“Power for station is generated mostly by solar cells or by hydrogen fuel cells,” Boomer explained, “neither of which produces enough power for a multimegawatt-class laser. A nuclear reactor on Earth uses the heat from the fission reaction to produce steam to turn a turbine generator, which is not doable on a space station because the turbine would act like a gyroscope and upset station’s steering and alignment systems — even the flywheels on our exercise bikes do that. The MHD is like a turbine-style power generator, but instead of spinning magnets producing an electron flow, the MHD uses plasma spinning within a magnetic field. The power generated by the MHD is massive, and the MHD generator has no moving or spinning parts that can affect station’s orbit.”

“But the catch is…?”

“Creating plasma requires heating ion-producing substances to high temperatures, far past the steam state,” Boomer said. “In space, there’s only one way to produce that level of heat, and that’s with a small nuclear reactor. Naturally, a lot of people are wary of nuclear anything, and that goes double if it’s flying overhead.”

“But nuclear reactors have been orbiting Earth for decades, right?”

“The MHD generator was America’s first nuclear reactor in space in twenty years, and is by far much more powerful than anything else up here,” Boomer replied. “But the Soviets had launched almost three dozen satellites that used small nuclear reactors to generate electricity using thermocouples until the USSR went broke. They never squawked about their nuclear reactors, but when the USA launched one MHD generator after the USSR canceled their program, they go berserk. Typical. And they’re still squawking, even though we haven’t fired Skybolt in aeons.”

The passenger studied the Skybolt module for a moment, then remarked, “Ann Page designed all that.”

“Yes, sir,” Boomer said. “She was just a young female whippersnapper engineer and physicist when she produced the plans for Skybolt. No one took her seriously. But President Reagan wanted a ‘Star Wars’ missile defense shield, and he had scared up the money, and Washington was frantically looking for programs to start up so they could spend all that money before it went to some other program. Dr. Page’s plans got into the right hands at the right time; she got the money, and they built Skybolt and stuck it on Armstrong in record time. Skybolt was Dr. Page’s baby. She even talked her way into attending partial astronaut training so she could go up in the shuttle to supervise installation. They say she lost thirty pounds of ‘executive spread’ in order to be chosen for astronaut training, and she never put it back on. When her baby said its first words, it shook the world.”

“And that was almost thirty years ago. Amazing.”

“It’s still state of the art, but if we had the funds, we could probably improve it considerably in efficiency and accuracy.”

“But we could reactivate Skybolt now, couldn’t we?” the passenger asked. “Improve it, modernize it, yes, but load it up with fuel and fire it now, or in fairly short order?”

Boomer turned and regarded his passenger for a moment with some surprise. “You’re serious about all this, aren’t you, sir?” he finally asked.

“You bet I am, Dr. Noble,” the passenger replied. “You bet I am.”

A few minutes later they had moved within a few hundred yards of Armstrong Space Station. Boomer noted the passenger’s eyes growing bigger and bigger as they closed in. “Kinda feels like you’re in a tiny rowboat paddling up beside an aircraft carrier, doesn’t it?”

“That’s exactly what it feels like, Boomer.”

Boomer unstowed a wireless device that actually did resemble a familiar console game controller and positioned it in front of the passenger. “Ready to do more than be a passenger, sir?” he asked.

“You’re serious? You want me to fly this thing up to the space station?”

“We could let it drive in automatically, and the computers do a fine job, but where’s the fun in that?” He repositioned the controller over in front the passenger. “I have a feeling you’ll do fine.”

He entered commands into a keyboard on the center console, and a target appeared on the windscreen in front of the passenger. “The right control moves the spaceplane forward, backward, and side to side — we don’t bank like an aircraft, but just move laterally,” Boomer went on. “The left control is a little different: twisting the knob yaws the spacecraft around its center, so you can point the nose in a different direction than the spaceplane’s direction of travel; and you can adjust the spaceplane’s vertical position by pulling up on the knob to go upward vertically, or push down to move downward. Manipulating the controls activates thrusters — tiny rocket engines — positioned all around the spaceplane. Normally we would pay close attention to how much fuel we use for the thrusters to do a docking — another reason why the powers that be prefer we use the computer for docking, since it’s generally better and more fuel-efficient at docking than us mere mortals — but for this trip we loaded plenty of extra fuel on station so we can top the tanks before we leave and everything is cool.

“So, sir, your task is to manipulate the controls to keep the aiming reticle you see before you centered on the docking target on station, which is that big ‘zero’ you see on the docking module. As you close in, director lights will flash and you’ll see more hints on what to do. Big mention here: Remember that station rotates along its long axis once every ninety minutes, so the antennas and windows are always pointed toward Earth as it orbits, but as long as you follow the director signals it will compensate for that. Remember also that not only do you need to spear the target, but you need to align the spaceplane as directed by the director lights, and you also need to control your forward speed so you don’t ram the space station and break Midnight, which would be bad for all involved.”

“I’ll try not to do that,” the passenger said weakly.

“Thank you, sir. As Jessica instructed you when moving yourself around in zero-G, gross movements are bad, and slight movements and corrections are good. We have found that thinking about a movement is usually enough to activate a measured, proper minor-muscle response. You seemed to have that concept well in hand when getting into your seat this morning, so I have full confidence that you will be able to do the same when maneuvering our spaceplane for docking.” The passenger responded with a very noticeable nervous swallow.

“Your director indicators are telling you that you are closing at twelve inches per second, you are thirty yards low, ten yards right, range one hundred thirty-three yards, and sixteen degrees left of course for alignment,” Boomer went on. “When we get within fifty yards we’ll gradually decrease the closure rate so at five yards we’ll be less than three inches per second. You need to get within less than one degree in yaw and dead-on in heading and altitude and less than one inch per second to plug the bull’s-eye, or we’ll abort the approach and try again.”

“Want to warn the station, Boomer?” Faulkner asked on intercom. She was now seated on the jumpseat between Boomer and the passenger.

“I think we’ll be fine, Gonzo,” Boomer replied.

Boomer could see the passenger swallow nervously, even through his space suit and helmet. “Maybe we’d better not…” he said.

“I think you’ll do fine, sir,” Boomer repeated. “You have the touch.”

Boomer noticed the passenger straightening his body and gripping the controller even firmer than before, and he put a hand on his left arm. “Wait, sir,” he said. “Wait. Just wait. Take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. Seriously. Take a deep breath, sir.” Boomer waited until he could hear the passenger take a deep breath then let it out. “Very good. The key to this maneuver is visualization. Visualize the approach before you even touch the controls. Visualize what the controls will do when you touch and activate them. Can you visualize what each control and input will do? If you can’t, don’t activate it. Positively determine long before you make a move that what you are about to contemplate doing is what you really want to do. Map it out in your mind before you hit any switch. Never be surprised by what happens when you press a switch. Expect that whatever happens when you press a switch is exactly what you intended to do; and if it’s not, identify immediately why it didn’t happen the way you wanted it, and fix it. But don’t overreact. All reactions and counterreactions should be deliberate, measured, and intentional. You should know why you are moving a thruster, not just where and how much. Let’s do it, sir.”

The passenger responded… by doing exactly nothing, which was in Boomer’s opinion the best thing to do. The Midnight was already coasting to a nearly perfect rendezvous, and the passenger was very much aware that the technology that had gotten him this far was probably far better than were his own meager powers to complete, so he wisely decided to let the automated maneuver complete its evolution, study what extra needed to be done — if anything — and then complete it, if he could.

Armstrong Space Station loomed closer and closer to the spaceplane Midnight, filling the tiny, narrow windscreen with its impressive bulk and obliterating all other visual inputs… except the important ones, which were the computer-generated images on the multifunction display in front of both the aircraft commander and passenger. The proper alignment with the dock on the space station was apparent — it was which controls to touch and adjust to correct the spaceplane’s movements that required some consideration.

“I can’t start the spaceplane’s lateral motion,” the passenger mumbled, the frustration evident in his voice. “I keep on hitting the switch, but nothing happens.”

“The correction you applied is in there — you just need to let it happen, sir,” Boomer said. His voice began to sound less military and more like a shaman or spiritual guide. “Nice, easy, gentle, smooth inputs. Remember: Even one little twitch of your thumb on the vernier controls generates hundreds of pounds of rocket thrust that alters the orbit of a spacecraft weighing hundreds of thousands of pounds, traveling at over twenty-five times the speed of sound hundreds of miles above Earth. Visualize the movement of the spacecraft, and visualize the corrective actions necessary to correct the flight path, then apply the necessary control inputs. Reacting without thinking is evil. Take command.”

The passenger took his hands off the controls, letting the controller float before him on its tether, and he closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. When he opened them, he found that all of the inputs he had entered were indeed starting to register. “How about that?” he murmured. “I’m not a complete moron.”

“You’re doing great, sir,” Boomer said. “Remember there’s no atmosphere or roadway to create friction, and gravity would take several dozen orbits to take effect, so whatever corrections you put in have to be taken out. These readouts here tell you how much correction you applied and in what direction, which is how much you need to take out. Also remember how long it took for your inputs to apply, so that will give you an accurate gauge about when to take them out.”

The passenger was definitely in the zone now. With the controller in his lap, oriented the same way as the spaceplane itself, he barely touched the knobs with his fingertips. As they closed in on the bull’s-eye, the forward speed ever so slightly decreased, so by the time the crosshairs hit the bull’s-eye, forward speed had almost reached zero inches per second.

“Contact,” Boomer announced. The passenger’s shoulders visibly relaxed, and he let the controller float from his fingers. “Latches secure. The spaceplane is docked. Congratulations, sir.”

“Don’t do that to me again, would you mind, Dr. Noble?” the passenger asked, looking up and taking several relieved breaths of air, then releasing the hand controller as if it was a piece of radioactive weaponry. “All I could think about was crashing and all of us being stranded in orbit.”

Boomer held up another controller, identical to the first. “I had your back, sir,” he said with a smile. “But you did excellent — I didn’t touch anything. I didn’t tell you this, but we normally need at least zero-point-three feet per second forward speed to get the docking mechanism to latch — they latched for you with less than that.”

“That’s not going to relax my nerves any, Boomer.”

“Like I said, sir, you have the touch,” Boomer said. “Gonzo is going to get us ready to transfer to station. She’ll get your companion ready first, and some crewmembers from station will transfer him first, and then we’ll go. Normally we’d seal off the airlock from the cockpit while we get the transfer tunnel in place, in case there’s a leak or damage, but everyone’s in a space suit, so even if there’s an accident or malfunction, we’ll be all right.”

Boomer and the passenger turned and watched as Faulkner produced a checklist, attached it to a bulkhead with Velcro, and got to work. “The Midnight spaceplane has a small cargo bay, larger than the S-9 Black Stallion’s but not anywhere near as large as the space shuttle, but it was never really designed for docking or carrying cargo or passengers — it really was just a technology demonstrator,” Boomer explained. “We turned it into a workhorse later on. In front of the passenger module is an airlock that allows us to dock with Armstrong or the International Space Station and to transfer personnel or cargo back and forth without having to go into space.”

“Go into space?” the passenger repeated. He pointed out the cockpit windows. “You mean, you had to go out there to get on the station?”

“That was the only way to get to the space station in the S-9 Black Stallion and early S-19 Midnight,” Boomer said. “Sky Masters designed the airlock between the cockpit and cargo-bay with the pressurized transfer tunnel system, so now it’s easier to get from the spaceplane to station. The S-9 is too small for an airlock, so transferring means a spacewalk. It’s a short and sweet spacewalk. It wasn’t far, but it was sure spectacular.”

“Cargo-bay doors coming open,” Gonzo reported. They could hear a gentle rumble on the spaceplane’s hull. “Doors fully open.”

“Looks like your cargo-bay doors are fully open, Boomer,” a voice said on intercom. “Welcome to Armstrong.”

“Thank you, sir,” Boomer replied. To the passenger he said, “That’s Trevor Shale, the station manager. All of the personnel on Armstrong Space Station right now are contractors, although just about all are prior military, with lots of experience in space operations, and about half have worked on station in the past. We open the cargo-bay doors to vent excess heat from the spaceplane.” On intercom he said, “Pretty good docking approach, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

“Don’t get a cramp patting yourself on the back, Boomer,” Shale radioed.

“It wasn’t me or Gonzo: it was our passenger.”

There was a long, rather uncomfortable pause; then, Shale responded with a wooden, “Roger that.”

“He didn’t sound pleased,” the passenger observed.

“Trevor didn’t like the idea of you docking Midnight, sir,” Boomer admitted. “The station director, General Kai Raydon, retired Air Force, approved the idea; they left it up to me.”

“I would think that overruling your station manager would not be a good thing, Boomer.”

“Sir, I think I know and understand the reason why you’re doing all this,” Boomer said as he monitored the progress of attaching the transfer tunnel to the airlock. “You’re here to prove an important point, and I am all for that. It’s a tremendous risk, but a risk I think needs to be taken. If you’re willing to do it, I’m willing to do as much as I can to water your eyes, and thereby water the eyes of the world. If I may say, sir, I just need you to have the courage to tell the world what you did on this trip and what you’ve seen, over and over and over again, in every possible venue, all around the world. Your words will ignite the world to the excitement of space travel far more than mine could ever do.” The passenger thought about that for a moment, then nodded.

“Transfer tunnel connected and secure,” Gonzo reported. “Sealing the airlock.”

“So Gonzo is in the airlock by herself, sealed off from the cockpit and the passenger module?” the passenger asked. “Why do you do that?”

“So we don’t depressurize the entire spaceplane in case the tunnel fails or isn’t sealed properly,” Boomer replied.

“But then Gonzo…?”

“She’s in a partial-pressure suit and could probably survive the loss of pressure,” Boomer said, “but she and Mr. Spellman would have to spacewalk to get to the station, which she’s done many times in training, but of course Mr. Spellman would have to endure on his own. It’s hazardous, but she’s done it before. Mr. Spellman would probably survive it just fine — he’s a pretty healthy dude…”

“Jesus,” the passenger said. “It boggles the mind to think of how many things can go wrong.”

“We work through it and make improvements all the time, and train, train, train, and then train some more,” Boomer said. “But you just have to accept the fact that it’s a dangerous game we’re playing.”

“Clear for station unseal,” Shale said.

“Roger. Armstrong, Midnight ready for station-side unseal,” Boomer said. He pointed at the instrument panel’s multifunction display, which showed air pressure in the spaceplane, on the station’s docking module, and now inside the transfer tunnel linking the two. The tunnel pressure read zero… and just then, the pressure inside the tunnel slowly began to rise. It took almost ten minutes for the tunnel to fully pressurize. Everyone watched for any sign of the pressure dropping, indicating a leak, but it held steady.

“Pressure’s holding, Boomer,” Shale reported.

“I concur,” Boomer said. “Everyone ready to equalize?”

“I’m good, Boomer,” Gonzo replied. “The second passenger is too.”

“Clear to open her up, Gonzo.”

They felt a slight pressure in their ears as the spaceplane’s higher cabin pressure equalized with the station’s slightly lower pressure, but it wasn’t painful and lasted just an instant. A moment later: “Transfer hatches open, second passenger on his way through.”

“Copy that, Gonzo,” Boomer said. He started to unstrap from his seat. “I’ll unstrap first, sir,” he told his passenger, “and then I’ll get into the airlock while you unstrap, and I’ll steer you out and up.” The passenger nodded but said nothing; Boomer noticed a rather distant expression on the first passenger’s face and wondered what he was thinking about so hard. The hard stuff was done — all he had to do now was float around the big station, look around, and be a space tourist until it was time to go home.

But after Boomer unfastened his lap and shoulder restraints and was about to float out of his seat, the passenger held his arm. “I want to do it, Boomer,” he said.

“Do what, sir?”

The passenger looked at Boomer, then motioned out the right side of the cockpit with a nod of his head. “Out. That way.”

The passenger could see Boomer’s eyes flash through his helmet in disbelief, even alarm, but soon a pleased smile spread across his face. “You really want to do it, sir?” he asked incredulously.

“Boomer, I’m doing several incredibly amazing things today,” the passenger said, “but I know that I’ll be mad at myself if I return to Earth having passed it up. We’ve done enough of that oxygen prebreathing, haven’t we? There’s no danger of getting the ‘bends,’ is there?”

“Sir, a case of decompression sickness might be the least hazardous aspect of a spacewalk,” Boomer said, his mind racing through the checklist in his head to see what might prohibit this. “But to answer your question: yes, we’ve been prebreathing pure oxygen for over four hours, so we should be good.” He clicked open the ship-to-station intercom. “General Raydon? He wants to do it. Right now. Out the cockpit and through the station’s airlock, not the tunnel.”

“Stand by, Boomer,” replied a different voice.

“That’s the second guy on station that seems exasperated talking with you, Boomer,” the passenger observed once again with a smile.

“Believe it or not, sir, we talked about this too,” Boomer said. “We truly wanted you to have the full experience. That’s why we put you in a full ACES advanced crew escape system space suit instead of a more comfortable partial-pressure suit — it’s rated for short EVAs, or extra-vehicular activities. You sure your folks back at home base will like what you’re about to do?”

“They may not like it at all, Boomer,” the passenger said, “but they’re down there, and I’m up here. Let’s do it.” As if signaling concurrence, a moment later a mechanical arm extended from a hatch on another side of the docking module, carrying a device resembling a ski-lift chair and two cables in a mechanical claw.

Boomer flipped a few switches, then checked his passenger’s space-suit fittings and readouts before giving him a pat on the shoulder and a confident, approving nod. “I like the cut of your jib, sir,” he said. “Here we go.” Boomer hit the final switch, and with several loud, heavy SNAPs and a loud whir of motors, the canopies on both sides of the cockpit of the S-19 Midnight spaceplane opened wide.

Before the passenger could realize it, Boomer was up and out of his seat, floating completely free of the spaceplane with only one thin strap securing him to anything, looking like some kind of unearthly Peter Pan in his skintight space suit and oxygen helmet. He grasped one of the cables on the remote-controlled arm and plugged it into his suit. “I’m back up,” he said. “Ready to come down.” The robot arm lowered Boomer level with the outside of the passenger’s side of the cockpit. “I’m going to disconnect you from the ship, connect you to me and to the hoist, and plug you into this umbilical, sir,” Boomer said. In a flash it was done. “All set. How do you hear?”

“Loud and clear, Boomer,” the passenger replied.

“Good.” Boomer helped the passenger up and out of his seat, which was much easier than getting in because it was now completely open. “We can’t stay out long because we’re not very well protected from micrometeorites, cosmic radiation, temperature extremes, and all that happy space stuff, but it’ll be a fun ride while it lasts. Umbilicals are clear, Armstrong. Ready to hoist.” The robot arm began to slowly pull them up and away from the spaceplane, and then the passenger found himself floating free in space over and above the docking module…

… and within moments, the entire structure of Armstrong Space Station was spread out before them, gleaming in reflected sunlight. They could see the entire length of the structure, see the large laboratory, living, mechanical, and storage modules both above and below the truss, and the endless expanses of solar cells at both ends of the truss that seemed to spread out to infinity — he could even see persons looking at them through large observation windows on some of the modules. “Oh… my… God,” the passenger breathed. “It’s beautiful!”

“It is, but that ain’t nothing,” Boomer said. He grasped the back of the passenger’s space suit and pulled him so he pivoted down…

… and the passenger got his newest glimpse of planet Earth below them. They could all hear him gasp in utter wonderment. “Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “It’s incredible! It’s magnificent! I can see almost the entire continent of South America down there! My God! It looks totally different than through the cockpit windows — I can really sense the altitude now.”

“I think he likes it, General Raydon,” Boomer said. He let the passenger marvel at planet Earth for about another minute, floating free of the harness; then said, “We don’t dare stay out here any longer, sir. Reel us in, Armstrong.” With the passenger still facing toward Earth, the robot arm began to retract back toward the space station, pulling the two men along. Boomer pulled the passenger upright just before arriving at a large hatch. He floated up to the hatch, unlocked and opened it, floated into the opening, secured himself with a strap to the inside of the airlock, attached another strap to the passenger, and carefully maneuvered him inside the station’s airlock. Boomer detached them both from the umbilicals, released them outside, then closed and dogged the hatch. He hooked himself and the passenger up to umbilicals in the airlock while waiting for the pressure to equalize, but the passenger was absolutely dumbstruck and said not a word, even after the interior airlock door opened. Technicians helped the passenger remove his space suit, and Boomer motioned to the airlock exit.

As soon as the passenger exited the airlock, Kai Raydon, a trim, athletically built man with silver crew-cut hair, chisel-cut facial features, and intense, light blue eyes, snapped to attention, adjusted a wireless headset microphone to his lips, and spoke: “Attention on Armstrong Station, this is the director, all personnel be advised, the president of the United States of America, Kenneth Phoenix, is aboard station.” Raydon, station manager Trevor Shale, Jessica Faulkner, and several other space-station personnel stood at attention, as best they could while looping their toes under footholds, as ruffles and flourishes and then “Hail to the Chief” played on the station’s public-address system.