Martian Summer Read online

  Morten’s experiments are part of this big picture, and they came relatively cheap. Magnets don’t need power to make them work, just a camera to take pictures of the particles they attract.

  “For us, low-budget is a great budget,” Morten says. He’s used to scrambling for money to pay for his science projects.

  “We’re always on the verge of closing shop,” he says. These days funds for magnets are hard to come by. “If you want to get on a mission, just offer a lot of value for little money.” It’s useful advice from Madsen. There’s a Mars mission adage that goes “Danish magnets are like Danish cookies, they’re just better.” Probably because they come with Morten and his team.

  Morten got to work with his mentor, Jens, devising magnetic experiments that might be able to accompany space missions. Their inspiration came from an unusual place. A few senior managers at the Jet Propulsion Lab heard Morton’s mentor give a lecture about understanding iron deposits on Mars. This was just after the collapse of communism in Russia, and the JPL team was looking to engage Russian space scientists to keep them from working on nukes for despotic regimes. They thought it was a good fit. A few months later, Morten built the prototype for a Martian magnet experiment in his basement. That project didn’t get off the ground, but Morten’s magnets lived on. JPL asked Morten and his cost-effective team to talk with Peter Smith about partnering for the Pathfinder imager.

  “We hit it off, and we’ve been friends and done work together since then,” Morten says.

  The Danes combat Mars lag by living like a family. They maintain a strict regimen of meals to keep each other on track. Their neighbors were a little taken aback when they woke to find seven Danes drinking beer and barbecuing steaks at dawn. (Due to the extra 39 minutes added each day from the Martian sols, shift I now ends early in the morning Tucson time, and dinner time is now at daybreak.) And even though they have an Icelander and a couple Germans on their team, Morten’s group is affectionately known as “the Danes.”

  While the cold-cuts are assembled into lunch, there’s talk about the magnet properties of dust on Mars and how tiny dust particles would be a big danger for astronauts on Mars. These particles, I’ll have you know, could be inhaled, damaging lung tissue, or work themselves into the first Martian astronaut’s machinery, fouling up critical parts.

  “Seriously,” Kristoffer says, “part of the Phoenix requirements are to assess some of the dangers posed by the Martian environment to future astronauts.”

  BACK IN DOWNLINK—THE CENTRAL ROOM WHERE ALL THE DATA IS downlinked’a detailed analysis of Mars’s most perplexing dirt clod endures. The clod talk flows from kickoff to midpoint, then lasts through the daily science meeting, then long-term planning and short-term planning.

  Both the science and the day-to-day administrative tasks are tough on a new guy. (Me, for example.) There are nano-moments during the day when I think I know what’s going on here; I should propose some kind of solution to getting the mission back on track. Mostly, I’m wrestling with cluelessness. I have passing thoughts that I could go to school to become a Mars soil physicist. Then I’d know what was going on and how to solve the problem of sticky dirt. I even come up with a title for my thesis, “On the Cloddy Nature of the Fines in Martian Regolith.” The work nicely combines all the words from Pat’s lesson into a very compelling title. If only I could get the science team to read it, then we’d surely be out of this jam.

  At 8 hours and 7 cups of stale coffee, my brain is fogged-in and over-caffeinated; my eyes are glazed. (Mmmm, doughnuts …) I have thoughts about canceling the whole mission and returning to Earth time. There must be a big red abort button somewhere around here. Though you’d think I would have seen it in one of my many walkabouts. This Mars tagalong is tired and a little loopy. After another cup of coffee, I feel once again inspired—coffee makes me manic—and vow solidarity with the team. I’m going to stick with this dirt summit until the bitter end. These are my people now. I’m here until the last member of the shift I team calls it a day.

  But man, these eyelids are heavy. At 10 hours and 10 cups, I decide to quit.

  The tiny napping chambers tucked in the uplink room beckon. I peek inside but decide I can’t in good conscience take a bed from someone who might actually be critical to the mission. Best to sleep it off at home and return with a clear head tomorrow. It’s early evening on Mars. But the sun is coming up in Tucson. I duck out, leaving my fellow spacemen on day three.

  WHEN I LEAVE THE SOC AND VENTURE OUT INTO THE EARTH WORLD, it’s a little disorienting. It’s hot and bright. My body wants it to be the middle of the night. I walk into town, desperate for something to cover the windows and get an AC for the sleeping chamber (bedroom, to Earth folk). Everything is closed. It’s too early in the Earth morning. This is a good lesson about using a Mars watch to schedule Earth-related shopping activities. So I give up and head to a cafe for dinner.

  The tattooed barista smiles and waits patiently for me to order. She fails to notice or ask me about the Phoenix or NASA stickers prominently displayed on my notebook. That’s okay. I just casually mention my affiliation for her mental stimulation and perhaps a 10% space discount. She’s not interested in space.

  “It’s breakfast and the kitchen’s closed,” she says with a smile.

  “Give me a cup of coffee and a couple scones,” I say.

  I look around at all the folks drinking their coffee and stuck here on Earth. They seem so far away. I don’t speak to any of them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CLODDY WITH A CHANCE OF SPRINKLES

  SOL 14

  BILL BOYNTON, HEATHER ENOS, DOUG MING AND TODAY’S mission manager, Dave Spencer, are huddled up at the back of the downlink room.

  “The blocks all worked. Still the oven is reading empty. Well, we’ve never had an issue like this. All the material slid down the slope in all of our tests. Maybe the solenoid is not working?” Bill Boynton says. Bill suggests it’s possible Phoenix is running the commands and the solenoid that shakes the screen just isn’t functional. The mission manager folds his arms across his chest. He looks disappointed. Mars isn’t behaving.

  “I guess we should have a TEGA caucus,” Heather says. Bill agrees.

  “You’re not invited,” Heather says to me with a smile and a wink. They walk away.

  In a back room, Bill, Heather, the TEGA engineers, and mission managers discuss options with the spacecraft team. A science and engineering task force works on a solution. They’re going to take things slow. It’s too soon to panic, but now is certainly a good time to worry.

  The mission has two tasks now. First, and most important, is figure out how to de-lump the clumps before they try to put them inside their instruments. The RA team is devising new methods to deliver samples to solve this problem.

  “It was a long night for some of us,” one of the RA engineers says. All the activities needed to get coded and validated. Whenever there’s a first-time activity, there’s an extra layer of scrutiny added to protect the spacecraft. When it comes to robots, Do No Harm is engineering’s mantra. The test is code-named “the sprinkle.” Today the RA team will unveil their sprinkle plans to the team. My sources say the sprinkle is where it’s at. They have no doubt we’ll sprinkle our way to glory. And I have faith they know what they’re doing, even if I do not.

  The second task is to get the pile on top of TEGA into the TA-4 oven. This problem is less severe, but delivering the dirt would feel like progress. While morale may seem superfluous, the scientists are only human. These moments are important to keep the team sharp as our adrenaline reservoirs run dry with each passing sol. It wouldn’t hurt the PR effort either.

  An impromptu SOC-wide brainstorm happens. Everyone has an idea for how to improve delivery or get the dirt down the funnel. Mike Mellon suggests putting a rock in the scoop and shaking it, like a marble in a paint can, before the next delivery. That way they’ll break up the clumps before they dump. Good idea. I hear someone say we should chop
up the dirt with the scoop blade. This technique comes from a similar pulverizing process that involves a light-toned narcotic powder and a credit card or scoop blade if you have one. It was very popular in the 1980s. A TEGA engineer suggests they fling rocks on top of the grate. It’ll tamp down the pile. When he sees me take a note, he looks worried.

  “I was just joking,” the TEGA engineer says and quickly retracts his statement. He pulls me aside and says he doesn’t want some nonsense like that ending up in the newspaper.

  “Newspaper? Do I look like a newspaper reporter?” I ask if a book is okay. He rolls his eyes. I take that as a tacit yes.

  IN THE RA OFFICE, ASHITEY TREBI-OLLENNU AND MATT ROBINSON TYPE away. I take a seat, but they don’t really acknowledge my presence. “So, you guys working on the sprinkle test?” Yes. Yes, they are.

  “Wait, why don’t you have a media badge?” Matt wants to know. Even though we’ve engaged in casual conversation for several days, they have a flash of lucidity. They don’t really know who am I or why I keep trying to pump them for information. I ask myself these same two questions several times a day. Who am I? What do I want from these people?

  The Jet Propulsion Lab and NASA require that journalists be escorted inside their facilities. So someone who asks questions but isn’t an engineer or scientist is an alien. There are strict rules for NASA and JPL PR.

  “Sometimes we break them, but we usually only find out after the fact,” Carla Bitter from the outreach team told me before the mission. “There’s no ‘working for NASA 101’ and they can make it tough if you’re trying to do something creative that inspires people.” For the most part the engineering team doesn’t get too involved in the mission message.

  “No, what are you really doing here?” Matt asks. I tell them I’m here to write about the people who work in Mission Control.

  “That doesn’t sound very interesting,” Ashitey says. There’s no hint of irony in his voice; a purely professional assessment.

  “Maybe a movie is a better idea,” Robinson adds. He thinks for a moment. “Maybe Bob Bonitz [their boss] should be Clint Eastwood,” Robinson says, content with his casting choice. Bonitz is a wiry man of few words, considered one of the top robotics engineers in the country, and counts 15,000 sky-dives (included many world record jumps) to his credit.

  “And you know Ashitey is royalty in Ghana,” Matt Robinson says. “And that Coming to America is the story of his life. If he’s nice, we’ll let Sidney Poitier play him. Although Gary Coleman might be a better choice,” he says, carefully considering his options. In spite of his boyish looks, Ashitey is a JPL veteran. He’s got a lot of Mars experience, not enough to make Sidney Poitier a good casting choice, but still he’s a pro. He was even a driver for the last rover mission.

  Robinson is affable and earnest—a good-natured guy who married his high-school sweetheart.

  “You know his wife still brings him his lunch,” Ashitey says. One reason Matt is not too fond of spending the rest of his summer here in Tucson Mission Control. Bologna sandwiches and ice cream are good but haven’t got much on a home-cooked meal.

  Phoenix is Matt Robinson’s first space job. Since he finished graduate school—who knew you could get a Ph.D. in the claw game?—the robot arm is all he ever does. When he says he spent the last five years scraping concrete, that’s not a joke. The permafrost Phoenix is after is as hard as or harder than concrete; so they practice in concrete.

  “We don’t want to just turn the scoop over and dump. If we just keep dumping for every delivery, we’ll eventually start to cross-contaminate the other instruments on the deck,” says Ashitey. He clacks away, working the vector angles and timing for the dirt sprinkle. He’s used to reporters getting the story all wrong and takes his time to explain. He’s patient with me but keeps his expectations low.

  “If there are no precise controls, you can’t easily deliver a small sample.” Ashitey takes out a plastic engineering model to show me. “You want a scoop? I’ll give you the scoop,” he says and laughs.

  First, it’s not a scoop. Officially, it’s the ISAD, Icy Soil Acquisition Device. This is a precisely engineered piece of machinery, not a shovel you’d use to clear snow from your driveway. The angles, width, height, and shape, every aspect of the mechanics carefully crafted to capture and guard the Martian muck.

  “There’s a lot to think about when you design an instrument,” Ashitey says. The scoop can’t be reflective, lest the reflection of the sun blind the camera or generate heat and melt the contents. With so many variables in the design process, you’d need a whole edition just to describe scoop and RA genesis. Even the simple stuff, like buying the right ball bearings, isn’t as easy as it sounds. You know the shiny number five ball bearings that really trick out your gear box? They were impossible to come by. Phoenix battled government procurers snapping them up for the Iraq war effort. Once they got the goods, there were new challenges. The materials and construction processes were crucial. The methods they chose absolutely couldn’t interfere with the science data. Any stray chemicals used in the manufacture would foul up the Martian signals. So each part must be closely scrutinized, its materials and possible defects well understood, every last potential variable accounted for.

  The end product is a fine scoop. Some of the design highlights include a titanium scraping blade and a rasping tool—a small drill-bit-like device—for excavating the cemented ice-soil. The ISAD’s rasping tool and load plate should deliver the ice shavings of soil that’s been frozen for eons at hundreds of degrees below freezing. And do it with aplomb. Later in the mission, the scheme goes like this: plant the load plate onto the ice and drill small shavings that will ride on the rasp bit into a channel in the back of the scoop. From there, a series of precisely-machined little grottos at the back of the scoop allow the RA to transfer the ice into the main scoop compartment for delivery.

  Another groove down the center of the main scoop compartment works in concert with the rasp to achieve the sprinkle delivery. It’s kind of a clever trick. They turn on the small drill but they don’t use it for drilling. They use it to get the sprinkle effect.

  “If you put the scoop head at the proper angle and turn the rasp motor on, the particles will dance down the center groove and file out like a stream of water,” Ashitey says. “It’s beautiful.”

  This is the sprinkle.

  The sprinkle was intended to deliver small amounts of dirt to the microscopes on Phoenix. Now it’s being adapted to delivering sticky dirt.

  Ashitey hands over the scoop. It’s like a pacifier for nosy guests. They’re able to get back to work while this guest plays with their toy. Awesome.

  MIKE MELLON AND PETER SMITH ARE AT MELLON’S DESK WITH A COUPLE other instrument co-investigators. They focus on the clump: calculating and figuring. One of the JPL press attachés, Guy Webster, stands close by. He is responsible for molding the clump into a media-friendly story. When the dirt didn’t budge the first time, the press office put out a story: “Phoenix Checking Soil Properties.” They had to say something. They sorta jumped the gun the day before by preparing everyone for a big delivery but not preparing for the complexity of it all.

  I would have gone with “130 Brilliant Scientists Fail to Get Dirt in Cup.” The press release is a non-story designed to hedge. It’s written more for NASA insiders who already know what’s going on. The press release describes the soil as “resting on the screen.” Which makes me think of telling the kids the family pet fish is “resting,” when it’s really just dead in the water.

  So now what? The idea that dirt on Mars is too sticky to experiment with is subtle. Is the average Mars news consumer going to buy the “resting” approach?

  Peter and Mike discuss the resting clump. I’m poised to sidle up to the captain, but I then I take pause. Even though eavesdropping is how I glean most of my scientific insights, I realize it’s day four of my five-day trial, and I don’t want to be in Peter’s face when things start to go pear-shaped. Wh
at if, in some strange transference, Peter decides I’m to blame for all these issues? Kessler, you’re a real goocher, we’re gonna have to ask you to leave, I imagine Peter would say. Then I’d surely get the boot. And if I get the boot, I’ll never get the wildly compelling insider’s perspective on what makes men send rockets to Mars. There’s only one thing to do: stand behind Guy Webster. It’s not noble to use poor Guy Webster to block myself from Peter’s line of sight and potential ire, but at least I’ll live to report another day.

  Peter examines the pile on top of TEGA. There must be some hidden clue in these images. The dirt is not frozen; it’s just somehow too sticky to get inside TEGA. For all the shaking, it’s not really budging. Mellon clicks through the time-lapse photos of the shaking sequence. He goes through again. And again. Over and over. Peter stands up abruptly and marches to his office. I avoid eye contact by looking down and writing furiously in my notebook. Peter returns with a measuring tape.

  “It’s come to this,” Peter says with authority. Uh-oh, he’s blown a fuse. I hope he’s not going to smash anything or take it out on Mike Mellon because the dirt is sticky.

  Peter pulls out the tape—he doesn’t use it to beat Mike into submission—instead he gently holds it up to the computer monitor. Peter compares the movement of dirt in the images. Measures the changes on the screen. Guy Webster looks worried too.

  “I can’t tell which is the ‘before’ and which is the ‘after,’” Guy says.

  “It looks like they’re not going to figure this out soon,” he continues. NASA wants some follow-up for the “resting dirt” story. There’s not much more to say.