Brandon Morris - The Enceladus Mission - Hard Science Fiction

“Well then, let’s go inside.”

The doctor pulled at the handle of the hatch, which opened with a creak.

“This really should be lubricated sometime,” he mused.

The chamber was surprisingly spacious on the inside. LEDs on the ceiling bathed it in a warm, white light. At the left and the right stood benches, and the walls behind them were padded. Pipes ran across the ceiling. Some of them led to oxygen masks hanging from loops. At the front end of the chamber stood a tripod holding a video camera that could watch the entire room.

“First we are going up to two and a half kilometers to see how you handle low pressure. Eventually we will reach eight kilometers.”

In his head, Martin thought about what these numbers really meant. Eight kilometers; like on a peak in the Himalayas, but without the cold and the wind.

“In order to protect Willinger and you against the bends, you will breathe pure oxygen for a while before you go up. This will lower the partial pressure of nitrogen in your blood and prevent bubbles from forming in case of rapid changes in pressure. A pulmonary embolism is no joking matter. So, if you please.”

The doctor gave both of them oxygen masks, pulling one at a time down from the ceiling on its elastic cord.

“Put these on and continue breathing normally. Have a nice flight.”

The man left the pressure chamber. Martin heard the pressure lock creak. For a while, nothing happened. Then he felt the deep rumbling of a machine that was probably drawing off air.

“Two point five kilometers,” the voice of the doctor said through the loudspeakers. “Is the pressure equalization working?”

Martin had never had any problem with this. He simply had to swallow, and his ears would pop.

“Everything is fine,” he said.

“Leave the mask on. Answer with hand signals.”

Martin formed an OK with his fingers, as divers do.

“We are moving up. This will take a bit longer.”

Martin swallowed several times. Even so, the pressure difference eventually became so great he had to breathe strongly through his nose to equalize it.

“Here we are, at eight kilometers. Welcome to Mt. Everest. Take off the mask when I give the sign. Continue breathing normally. The goal is a maximum of four minutes. Don’t be too ambitious, though. We don’t want to do unnecessary damage to your brain cells. During this session, I will present you with a few tasks. Please watch yourself for symptoms of hypoxia. Let me remind you what you learned; dizziness, tiredness, extremities feeling numb or tingly, nausea, and breathing difficulties are possible, though those might not be the only symptoms. Every person reacts differently. Okay, now take off the mask.”

Martin took another deep breath and took the mask off his face. Willinger gave him an encouraging smile. The older man leaned against the wall with his legs outstretched. He looked relaxed but didn’t say a word. Martin’s first breaths didn’t feel different than those at a lower altitude. That’s surprising, he noted. His body was not yet aware that each breath transported two thirds less oxygen than usual into his lungs.

However, the oxygen level in his blood was rapidly decreasing. The tissue likely to be affected soonest consisted of the nerve cells in the brain—and it was his little gray cells that warned Martin of the danger. I am having a hard time concentrating on the doctor’s questions, he noted. Multiplying two-digit numbers should have been easy, but he kept forgetting the intermediate results. A minute later he started feeling a pounding headache. He massaged his temples, which helped a bit. These were the effects of getting too little oxygen .

The biggest problem was that Martin clearly identified these symptoms, and he unconsciously tried to compensate for it by breathing faster. The respiratory system, though, does not work that way. The gas exchange in his lungs could not be accelerated by taking faster breaths. Martin knew this, but his mind, struggling with a bad oxygen supply, did not manage to get that across to his body. He kept breathing faster and still got less and less air. Suddenly Willinger sat up, leaned toward Martin, and placed a hand on his mouth. Now Martin could not breathe at all. “Slowly, quite slowly,” the astronaut said, and then removed his hand and leaned back. Martin concentrated and took a slow and deep breath. He felt calmer.

“Two more minutes,” the doctor’s voice announced.

Martin could barely believe only half of the time had passed. The seconds seemed to stretch on endlessly. Once his breathing normalized, the less he thought about it. He looked at his fingers; the tips seemed to tingle slightly. He thought of a steak and felt hunger rather than nausea. He could no longer multiply, but he could still follow directions.

“Lift your left arm and point to your nose with your ring finger.”

No problem.

“Cross your arms. And now change the direction of the crossing.”

Finished.

“Left hand to right knee, right hand on left shoulder.”

Finally, the doctor said, “Very good. Your time on the summit is over. Please put your mask on. We are going to land.”

“I would like to talk to you about the rest of your training.” Yesterday, Willinger had announced they would be meeting an important NASA official today. The man’s name tag read, Walter Cusack . He appeared to be way past retirement age; white hair, a weathered face, and a somewhat stooped posture, but a still-energetic gait.

“Our quality standards are high, very high. I am not trying to offend you, but under normal circumstances…” Cusack began.

Willinger wanted to contradict him, but the man stopped this with a wave of his hand. Willinger leaned back in his chair. Martin had never seen him this tame.

Cusack continued. “No matter that the circumstances are extraordinary. The Europeans are trying to avoid an internal struggle and are glad you are a candidate favored by several important arguments. First of all, you are one-half German, which is enough for them. India, on the other hand, would be glad to reduce expenses. The war with Pakistan is putting a lot of stress on them. They would welcome the unexpected saving of several billion dollars right now.”

Martin thought he had misheard. “Did you say several billion? That can’t be.”

“No, you heard that right,” Cusack said. “You are worth several billion dollars. Each region sending an astronaut must participate in financing this expedition. We were lucky to find a private sponsor for you at the last moment.”

Some billionaire was willing to pay several billion so I can fly to Saturn in a spacecraft? Martin was puzzled. Couldn’t this person have sent me a thousandth of that sum and just been happy about saving his money?

“Be that as it may, we have to streamline your training. Normally, you would get a jet pilot license first, but that would take weeks, and it wouldn’t help you anyway. Who knows if you’ll ever return?” Cusack waited to see how he would react.

He seems to have expected some kind of shocked expression, Martin thought, showing no reaction.

“Well. You seem to realize what your chances look like. We are flying without any safety nets. So far, neither the spacecraft nor its drive has been really tested. You already saw what teething troubles Valkyrie had. Compared to this, the moon landing was well-prepared back in its day.”

Martin knew his history well. In retrospect, it had been by sheer luck that the American astronauts had made it to the moon and back.