Marianne Dyson - Fly Me to the Moon

“Oh, of course. I understand,” Ms. Phillips said.

They went through some preflight checks of switch positions and reviewed the procedures. Mr. Smith seemed calm and in control, every bit the old Apollo astronaut.

The liftoff was right on time. Ms. Phillips yelped when the engine fired, but Mr. Smith soothingly told her that was nominal (a word he used instead of “normal”). “You’ll go straight up for about ten seconds,” he reminded her. “Then you’ll pitch over and move horizontally with respect to the lunar surface. You should have a great view out the window.”

The image of the cockpit on the TV jiggled up and down in response to the engine. No sound penetrated through the airless cockpit. The view out the window changed from black sky to lunar gray as the ship nosed down.

“Guidance, report,” the flight director demanded.

“Flight, cg shifted at pitch over.”

A second later we heard Ms. Phillips shout, “Dr. Canterbury!” The pitch over had thrown the injured man out of his harness. One arm smacked Ms. Phillips across her faceplate.

I involuntarily winced and sucked in a breath, though she was perfectly fine inside her helmet.

Mr. Smith spoke softly. “Ms. Phillips, grab his wrist. When the ascent engine shuts down, he’ll float right to you.”

“Flight, engine shutdown.”

“Trajectory report,” the flight director ordered.

“The computer didn’t fully compensate for the cg shift. We’ll need a correction from the RCS.”

“Mr. Smith, stand by for remote ops.”

“Roger, Flight,” Mr. Smith said.

We saw Ms. Phillips pull on Dr. Canterbury’s wrist, rotating him so that he was facing her. She reached to pull the harness around him.

Dr. Canterbury’s eyes opened. He jerked and hit the hand controller. The two historians tumbled. Out the window, the gray lunar surface was replaced by darkness and then surface again in rapid succession. They’re spinning!

Mr. Smith pulled the hand controller to one side and released it. After a short delay, I noted that the view rotated more slowly.

“Flight, Guidance. LM is in stable BBQ mode.”

“Nice flying, Mr. Smith,” the capcom said. “My guy in the simulator says you used about half the fuel he would have.”

“She’s not out of the woods yet,” he said. “Look at the disk key.”

Huh? There were no woods on the Moon. And what kind of a disk had a key? Click. I yanked the plug from my laptop.

Mr. Smith continued talking. “Apo loon is…”

“Sorry, I think we’ve lost our link to the spacecraft,” I said, looking at Dr. Winkler. He in turn was looking at Ms. Pressa.

Ms. Pressa was texting quietly on her phone. “Communications restored,” she declared.

I took the hint and plugged Mr. Smith back in. A text message appeared on my laptop saying, “ ‘Not out of the woods’ means ‘not out of trouble.’ ‘DSKY’ is a display in the LM.” None of that was nonsense? My face burned with embarrassment. I had a lot to learn.

The guidance team reported that they had the orbital correction calculated, including the additional jet firings. The flight director gave them the go to have the automatic system command the jets to make the necessary corrections. “Capcom, warn Ms. Phillips that there will be jet firings.”

Ms. Phillips got Dr. Canterbury secured in his harness and tightened her own. His eyes had closed again. Surgeon feared that the acceleration, though gentle compared to an Earth launch, might have acerbated his injuries.

After the maneuver, the trajectory plot showed that the LM and “Pac-Man” cargo ship would rendezvous on schedule. Capcom informed a relieved Ms. Phillips that all was well.

“Except she’s going to crash,” Mr. Smith said.

What? I rested my fingers on the headset connection.

“Mr. Smith, Flight speaking. The trajectory looks good to us. Why do you think she is going to crash?”

“I told you, look at the DSKY. You only raised apolune from 40.1 to 40.6. That’s too low for the CSM.”

A text appeared on my laptop saying, “Apolune is the highest point in a lunar orbit. CSM = command and service module.” I looked up at Ms. Pressa and nodded to let her know I understood. I pulled my hand away from the connection.

Mr. Smith continued. “You need forty-two nautical miles or the CSM can’t get to her in time.”

“Nautical miles? What kind of dumb unit is that?” I blurted, and then covered my mouth. I hadn’t meant to say that outloud for the whole team to hear! Ms. Pressa frowned, I assumed at my outburst, and texted furiously. Nothing showed up on my laptop, though.

“Break, break,” Capcom interrupted. “Lunar Ops reports the LM is out of range by about ten kilometers!”

Mr. Smith was right?

“Guidance, Flight, we’ve uncovered the problem. The LM software uses nautical miles and the corrections we made assumed statute miles. We’re off by a factor of 1.15.”

Ms. Pressa rose from her seat and paced back and forth. Not out of the woods, indeed!

“Guidance, get me the right numbers for Mr. Smith to fly to. Capcom, inform Ms. Phillips we’ll be doing another maneuver.”

Precious time ticked by while the LM rapidly approached the point of no return. The trajectory map refreshed with a new image showing the LM arcing up but not quite reaching the intersect point with the cargo ship. Unless it changed course fast, the historians were doomed. If I hadn’t cut off Mr. Smith’s comments earlier, would they have discovered the problem sooner? Was this all my fault? Maybe I didn’t have the right stuff to be a pilot after all.

Lunar Ops reported that she had moved the cargo ship to a slighter lower orbit that would help close the gap. But it also increased her speed. That seemed counterproductive to me until I saw on the plot that the intersection point was farther around the Moon than predicted earlier. Orbital mechanics was confusing!

Finally Guidance reported they had the commands ready. The flight director said to execute them. If anything went wrong, we would know in a few minutes. If so, we might need Mr. Smith to fly to the numbers manually.

Ms. Pressa approached and held up her phone. I heard the shutter sound of a camera snapping a photo.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Smith shouted. Ms. Pressa looked puzzled. “Just taking your picture, Grandpa,” she explained.

Uh-oh. He didn’t like to be called that!

“Grandpa! You didn’t think I was too old at the bar the other night!” He squinted at her badge. “P… R… E… S… S… You’re a reporter! Get out!” He pushed her back with the heel of his big left hand. Her phone clattered across the floor, and she fell back into a chair.

The security guard from the door seemed to appear out of thin air, “Director, are you okay?” he asked, lifting her to her feet.

Director? Of what?

“I’m okay, Harry,” Ms. Pressa insisted, smoothing her suit jacket. “There’s just been a misunderstanding.” Dr. Winkler handed her phone to Harry. “Escort me to the door, please.”

“Whatever you say, ma’am,” the big guy replied, glaring at Mr. Smith.

“Paparazzi,” Mr. Smith cursed.

Dr. Winkler poured Mr. Smith a glass of water from a pitcher on a nearby table. He handed it to him and assured him that everything was under control. I’d never seen the doctor so rattled. Having a patient almost flatten his great-granddaughter was rather upsetting!

The doctor met my eyes and then darted his glance to and from the water glass. I understood that he had added something to the water. Then he said, “Sir, I suggest that you rest your feet while we wait for communications to come back.”