Гарри Гаррисон - Skyfall

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Zip up the back, will you.”

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

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

Something was wrong. He was aware of it at once — and then he saw it. The countdown clock, there was one in every room, had stopped at 83:22.

“It's a hold,” he said. “Find out what's causing it while I get out of this thing.”

They were all in the main room when Patrick got there and Nadya was just hanging up the phone. “They haven't located the source of the trouble yet,” she said. “But all fueling has stopped.”

“That can be dangerous with the tanks only partly filled,” Patrick said.

It went on for almost five hours. Only Ely seemed untroubled by the hold, his nose buried in a chess book, replaying a master tournament. He had started a game earlier with Colonel Kuznekov, but they had to abandon it because the Colonel's concentration kept wandering to the motionless clock. The numbers were frozen still at 83:22. Less than twelve hours into the countdown and already a major hold.

The phone rang at the same instant as the numbers began changing again.

“Right,” Patrick said, “we see it. Good. Let's hope it goes on this way.”

It did, for one day, then two — then the third — and it was time to enter Prometheus.

“You know,” Coretta said, kneading her hands together. “It is one thing to say you're going to do something — and another to get around to doing it. You sure I can't have a drink, Patrick?”

“Contraindicated. No alcohol for jet pilots twenty-four hours before a flight. Forty-eight for us. Space flight's an uncompromising business.”

“But you and Nadya will be doing all the piloting. The rest of us are sort of passengers.”

“Sorry. You're crew. I don't think any situations will arise where we'll need your help at once. But it could happen. Relax. Think good thoughts.”

He reached out and held her arms, sharing his strength with her. She was frightened and they both knew it, and knew as well that she must get over it. The world was watching, literally. Watching the Launch Control countdown at this moment, but all cameras would be focused on the astronauts as soon as they emerged. His hands felt good and Coretta relaxed a bit, leaning forward and placing her head against his chest. There was perfume in her hair, just a trace, and he resisted the impulse to stroke it.

“I want a rain check on this,” he said. She turned her face up to his and smiled.

“You're very good for a girl's morale, Patrick. When we get back from this little pleasure trip I want to see more of you.”

“That's a promise.” He kissed her, and that was a promise too that they both understood.

“It's time,” Nadya said from the open doorway. “They are expecting us all.” Her face was expressionless, her voice toneless.

“We'll be there,” Patrick said, just as emotionlessly, not releasing Coretta until Nadya had turned and left.

“You and Nadya aren't quite the partners you should be,” Coretta said, straightening her hair in the mirror. She was calm now, the moment of panic past. Doctors aren't supposed to let their feelings show. You learned early to put on an assured air like a suit of armor. She could do it now — but she knew that she had needed Patrick's help, had appreciated it.

“We work together all right,” he said, then smiled and looked at the lipstick on his handkerchief where he had wiped his lips. “Let me tell you, this is a hell of a lot better than the all-man days at NASA.”

“I think you're oversexed and I'll give you some saltpeter pills to calm you down. You missed a spot on your lip, there. Come on, let's go.”

They were all there, dressed in silver one-piece suits. In the name of equality the Soviets had abandoned their usual red boiler suits, the Americans their blue ones. A compromise on silver, symbolic of the great silver wings that Prometheus would spread in space, had been made and that was what they wore. On each left breast was the symbol of Prometheus One. A star-shot disc of black space with the bold silver mirror of the solar generator in the center, as it would look when opened. To one side was the red star, on the other the stars and stripes; the red star appropriately to the left. (Though a letter to the London Times had pointed out that left was, heraldically, the right.)

Ely was standing on a chair and adjusting the focus of the television pickup. Kuznekov sat before the screen talking to the technician imaged there.

“A little up, there, that's fine,” the man said. “I would like the two outer books moved in a bit. Bit more, that's fine, a real winner.”

Patrick looked at the books on the floor that Nadya had been moving and his eyes widened. “Is it permitted to ask just what the hell is going on?”

“You might very well ask,” Ely said, climbing down from the chair. “Someone in high places has decided that our morale would be immensely improved if we had a chance to chat with B and P before the flight. They come on in a couple of minutes.”

“Not in the flesh, I hope.”

“God forbid. Bandin's in Washington, Polyarni in the Kremlin I guess. A miracle of misapplied technology will permit us all to talk together. Let's go.”

The books marked the spot on the floor where they were to stand and, more or less good-naturedly, they took their places. They had to shuffle closer together to get on camera and then it was time.

“Stand by,” the technician said, and his harried face was replaced by a split screen with Bandin on one side, the Soviet Premier on the other.

“This is a very great moment in the history of the world,” Bandin said. Then Polyarni made almost the same remark in Russian. Patrick nodded and tried to look intelligent, aware of the stiff figures standing on both sides and fighting down the sensation that they must look like a row of silver-plated teddy bears. Polyarni started to talk again but Bandin beat him to it.