Martian Summer Page 7

  “we’re working with a dust pan at the end of a fishing pole,” Ashitey says. Most of the science team doesn’t really understand the limitation of the arm. Ashitey and Matt tell me that operating a robot arm on Mars is not what you might think.

  “It’s really hard,” Matt says. “It’s not obvious and it’s a point that’s lost on many from the science team. They [the scientists] think the samples deliver themselves.” Really? He assures me that in fact there’s a disconnect. The problem is conceptual.

  “Digging on Mars is easy to understand. And that’s the problem,” Matt adds. Everyone thinks it’s as easy to do as it is to talk about.

  Ashitey says no matter how many times you tell someone how TEGA computes the mass of elemental particles, there’s going to be a tiny bit of magic you have to accept. Or maybe a lot of magic. You can’t see TEGA’s atom-weighing scale. You don’t put some atoms on the scale and then slap a tag on it. It’s not a butcher shop. On some level you just have to accept that TEGA can weigh atoms. On the other hand, we all know how to dig in the sand with a pail and shovel. Understanding how a scoop and arm pick up dirt is easy. Any four-year-old can do it, right?

  “This arm is a legacy,” Matt says. The robot arm came from the design of the 2001 lander mission but had to be significantly modified. They needed new gear motors and lots of testing to be sure it could dig in the cement-hard ice. “There are no pressure sensors and the gearing is not as precise as it could be,” Ashitey says. That means it doesn’t have the ideal features.

  “They bought us a Ford Focus but we are asked to perform like we have a Ferrari,” says Ashitey. The RA was not built to the necessary degree of precision that RA team would like. Its joints have some give in them and that makes it hard to predict how and when they’ll drift out of alignment. This complicates any fine movements the team asks for.

  “We’re rated for centimeter degree accuracy but the scientists ask us for millimeter accuracy,” Ashitey says as though he’s revealing a devastating mission scandal. I try to sympathize. While the arm is a piece of engineering equipment, it’s considered part of the science payload. It’s what’s known as a mission-critical instrument. Basically, if they can’t use the arm, the mission is a failure (to NASA).

  Operating the arm to such an exacting degree, essentially coaxing extra-precise movements out of the machine, is only possible because of the RA team’s sense of duty and dedication. It’s a matter of craftsman’s pride. It’s a craft you get good at after years of working mind-numbingly long days. They know every quirk and slip to that arm’s joints and somehow seem to anticipate problems from 200 million miles away. The ISAD is an extension of their own body. Still, no gold stars get tacked on the kitchen fridge for these heroics. Pride in their ability to deliver on, without question, whatever request the science team asks is all the reward they need.

  Matt Robinson studies an array of numbers. The figures cover two 30-inch screens.

  “This is the Matrix,” Ashitey says. Then he laughs. It’s a millisecond-by-millisecond account of every digging vector, current reading and some 45 other details of their work. There are 45 columns of data in the “Matrix.” Somehow he is reading it. Somehow it helps him do his work.

  “We can recreate what happened on Mars with a little movie,” Ashitey says as he loads the array into the computer. We watch what the arm did on Mars in the cartoon version. They use these movies to understand how the scoop operates in the Mars environment. Our geeking out on the matrix is suddenly interrupted by the boss.

  Bob Bonitz comes in. He looks tired and grimaces. Probably because he was awake all night. He asks me to leave. Well, it’s more a nod and a point. I get the idea. Bob is not much for small talk. Even if he were, there’s too much on the line for any niceties.

  “Please, close the door behind you,” Bob says. I think that means he likes me. The RA team still has a long night ahead, and I’ve overstayed my welcome.

  THE PHONE AT THE CONFERENCE TABLE BEEPS. “DENVER ONLINE,” SAYS the caller. It’s the spacecraft team from Lockheed Martin. Outside of the SOC, a large support contingent of specialists works to keep things moving as smoothly as possible inside the SOC. These are all the systems experts who know what to do if the batteries get too warm or the TECP needles are out of whack.

  Doug Ming calls the group together for the midpoint meeting. The conference table fills quickly. It’s standing room only.

  “Welcome to our shift II friends,” Doug says. The second shift team is just getting into work. It is shift II’s job to turn the plan created by the science team into solid robot instructions. That means coordinating, coding, compiling, and testing custom software that’s thousands of instructions long and bug-free, every day and in less than 14 hours.

  “It’s going to be another exciting day on Mars,” says Doug. That’s a coded message meaning the old plan was chucked out the window and we’ll be starting from scratch today.

  “There are going to be a lot of decisions to make and we have a short timeline,” Doug adds, tugging on his belt buckle. Doug is a geochemist who works in the Astromaterials Research and Exploration Science Office at the Johnson Space Center in Houston. He speaks with a Houston-space patois that’s a mix of down-home familiarity and obscure NASA acronyms.

  The engineer who tracks our data download, the TDL, is once again Jim Chase. He prepares a document on what we got and what’s missing.

  “The passes looked good and we got our data,” Chase says in summary.

  “Looks like we have a healthy spacecraft and com passes. Let’s hear about our instruments,” Doug says.

  “It worked. The dirt moved,” says Dave Hamara. He is the TEGA engineer designated to speak for the group at midpoint; officially his job title is instrument downlink engineer (IDE). Dave has his longish red hair pulled back in a ponytail and under a hat that looks like it’s been his favorite for decades. He’s always wearing sandals with socks and he’s got some gadgets on his belt.

  “Geez, I’ve been working on TEGA forever,” he says on a smoke break outside the SOC. The first incarnation of TEGA was built more than 15 years ago for the doomed Polar Lander mission. The images Dave speaks to at midpoint are the same ones that inspired Peter to measure his computer screen. TEGA engineers collapsed the pile by using the solenoid to shake for 20 additional minutes. In all the testing they only needed 10-30 second runs with their magic fingers. But now that’s not enough.

  “The effort was not enough to get dirt in our oven,” Dave says to the team. Meaning it didn’t actually work after all. “I’d like to show a movie.” It’s a time-lapse of the dirt pile. We all watch it on the main projection screen. I’ve pasted the script below:

  Fade in.

  MARS. DAY.

  A dirt pile sits on a lander.

  Dirt Pile: [Sits silently]

  PHX: [Shakes]

  Tension builds

  Dirt Pile: [Suddenly and without warning, the pile collapses on itself.]

  TEGA: Yes.

  Dirt Pile: No.

  Peter Smith: Shit.

  Andrew: Can someone tell me what’s happening?

  Engineer 1: Shh …

  Aaaand … scene.

  You can imagine where the plot goes from there. We slump with the dirt. Least dramatic sci-fi film ever.

  “Looks like some exciting physical soil properties,” Doug says, desperately trying to keep the excitement from getting sucked out of the room.

  “What’s up with the images?” Doug asks. He wants more analysis from the geology theme group.

  Mike Mellon spent the morning staring at these images with Peter and half the team. Since he’s the geology lead and clump expert, everyone expects some profound insight. He turns on the microphone in front of him. He leans forward and clears his throat.

  “It’s dirt,” he says. Classic deadpan Mars humor. There’s silence. “It moved and it slumped.”

  Doug asks if there are any hypotheses. Silence.

  “Wel
l,” Doug says, “I talked it over with the dig czar and I’d like to propose that we do a practice dump on the lander deck.” The experiment would go like this: Use a modified sprinkle test to dump dirt on the lander deck. This way they can see how the clumps fall and get more insight into the sticking.

  There are grumbles. The suggestion causes some strife, and all sorts of arguing breaks out. Soon there’s too much going on. Please, people, one at a time. I’m still new here. Now who is arguing for what?

  Chris Shinohara comes stalking into the SOC, waving lander blueprints.

  “If you start to cover the deck with dirt, we’ll contaminate the calibration targets,” he says, clearly annoyed. Chris is barrel-chested and has a booming voice. And Chris will not stand for dirt on his calibration targets. These small color wheels help create accurate color images in the hazy pink Martian air.

  “See that?” he says, showing Mike Mellon and Mike Hecht just how close the calibration targets are to the dump site.

  “I’m not sure it’s that big of a deal,” Mike Mellon says. “There’s some risk, but if we can’t determine how the dirt falls out of the scoop, we may never get a successful delivery.”

  “Yah, we should just go for it,” Mike Hecht says. Chris doesn’t like this. Dick Morris, a Senior NASA scientist and co-investigator for the geology team, defends Chris.

  “There’s already a lot of dust, and if they screw up we’re toast,” says Morris. They all move into the RA office and close the door.

  At yestersol’s science meeting, Ben Clark, one of the elder statesmen of the mission and the chief scientist at Lockheed Martin, pulled up some images from sol 57 of the 1976 Viking II mission. He thought there were some comparisons that might be useful in the stickiness of the soil. He thinks the science team might want to study the old Mars images for any parallels. That’s a pretty impressive memory.

  Doug Ming calls everyone back together.

  “We will go ahead with the sprinkle test,” Doug says. “Does anyone have any issues with that?”

  There are lots of concerned looks, but no comments. It’s 6:08 a.m. in Tucson and 8:28 p.m. on Mars. The plan for tomorrow’s sol slowly takes shape.

  Peter leaves the room and heads to the RA office to discuss the strategy with Bob.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  RED HAZE

  SOL 15

  MY HEAD FEELS FUZZY. THERE’S A BRAIN SENSATION happening. If you’ve ever had your brain removed from its casing, massaged with Ben-Gay, and then gently put back in its skull, you know what I’m talking about. The feeling involves poking, tingling, burning, cooling, light-headedness, and, most troubling, cravings for oatmeal. This is the Mars lag I’ve heard such good things about; the early symptoms of Martian mania. Exhilarating highs. Crushing lows. And of course the creamy mush-filled middles. It’s probably best if I visit the counter-fatigue office before this morning’s kickoff meeting. Better safe than sorry.

  Maybe these strange feelings are linked to the end of the Peter-imposed super ultra-secret probation. This is day five of five. At some point today, I’ll have to (space)man-up and talk to him. The truth is I avoided him almost entirely this week using members of the science or outreach team to shield myself from his view. I want to catch Peter at just the right moment. That moment just hasn’t presented itself.

  What should I think about all this avoiding? Probably that this book is going to be really boring if I hide from its main character, unless it’s going to be a mystery or some existential allegory and Peter could represent a messianic prophet. That version would end with me standing on a mountaintop, shaking my fists at the heavens and screaming: WHERE IS YOUR GOD NOW? Or I could just keep asking Peter if he has time to chat and hope for the best.

  For now, here’s to the end of my trial period. Today, I am a fountain pen.

  TWENTY MINUTES TO GO BEFORE KICKOFF. JUST ENOUGH TIME FOR A quickie with Edna and Walter from the counter-fatigue group. Just the thought of complaining about my symptoms is already bringing relief. When I arrive, Edna is packing up her things. Walter isn’t around. Edna tells me she’s about to leave. NO! Why? Why is this happening to me? Is this going to be forever? She can spare a few moments to chat. Great.

  The counter-fatigue group has a small office squeezed next to the uplink room. This is where they administer their fatigue-study tests, gather results from the actigraph sleep monitors, and collect the bags of scientist urine. Bottles of urine discreetly concealed in Trader Joe’s shopping bags are certainly a unique feature of Mission Control. Before I realized that Trader Joe was hiding pee, I thought it was some genius product placement. More than just slick marketing, however, the pee is important for understanding the stress levels of scientists throughout the mission.

  “Have you properly prepared your sleeping area to be cool and dark?” Edna asks. No. I don’t mention my feeble attempt to cover the windows with some discount holiday wrapping paper purchased at a thrift store. That might be one reason it feels like bramble pie is baking in my brain.

  “Maybe I should buy one of those airplane eye masks,” I say. Then I let out a big sigh to put a finer point of how incapable I am of taking care of myself. There’s a whole barrel’s worth of sleep-masks in her office. She sees through my subterfuge.

  “Why don’t you take an eye mask?” Edna asks me. I wonder if I’m always this needy or this is just a symptom.

  “You’ll feel better if you sleep. Black out the windows in your room and try to sleep on a schedule,” she says. Edna offers me a few handouts about my health. A quick browse confirms my suspicion: I’m doing everything wrong, from not blacking out my windows to not scheduling my meals properly.

  “Here’s an eye mask. We’ll be back the following week. We can talk more then,” she says. She’s very kind. And even though she’s doing pioneering sleep research for NASA, a visit to her office feels like going to the school nurse: she can’t really do anything for you, but you still feel a lot better.

  THERE ARE STILL A FEW MINUTES BEFORE KICKOFF MEETING, THE START of operation sprinkle. Ashitey wants Ray Arvidson to tell him how he’ll know if the sprinkle test is a success.

  “We need to know the metric,” Ashitey says. A good success metric—some way of objectively measuring he did his job—is engineer smack. He really does need it. How will he know if he passed? Engineers can’t tolerate murky requirements.

  “What exactly are they looking for?” asks Ashitey. Ray isn’t sure. Any moment the results of the sprinkle will be downloaded from Mars. And Ashitey wants to know how he’ll know if the science team considers it a meaningful exercise. He’s not satisfied.

  Joel tells me engineers become engineers because they are emotional people.

  “But they seem so rational,” I say, falling for his trap.

  “Exactly,” Joel says. “They need rules. They surround themselves with rules and precision. If they’re going to succeed, they need to know how success is defined.”

  Bill Boynton walks into downlink. He’s cheerful. He has a theory about what’s gone wrong.

  “It’s like a lava flow,” Boynton says. “No particles could get separated from the edge to let any grains fall in.”

  “I think it’s more like a Brazilian soccer-match stampede where no one gets through the door because everyone is trying to get through the door,” Ray says, disagreeing with the analogy.

  I can’t tell if they’re really arguing if it’s a lava flow or stampede, or if they’re just joking. It’s easy for the new guy to miss subtle Mars humor.

  Either way, Bill suggests they abandon the shaking effort and start over using the sprinkle method and a new TEGA oven. He doesn’t want to waste any more time. Bill is optimistic things will go smoothly for TEGA from here on out.

  Kickoff starts. Doug Ming calls the group to order and reminds everyone of the importance of today’s results. The teams report a healthy spacecraft and no dangerous weather systems.

  “Geology, you have to look at the sprinkle test and
work with the dig czar to figure out a success metric. They’ll also need a formal recommendation before midpoint on how to proceed with TEGA,” Doug Ming says to the GSTG group.

  The communication pass should start any moment. And before there’s even time to refill my coffee cup, images start arriving. There are twenty or more scientists gathered in the SSI office. Max capacity is probably six. Ray Arvidson wants in too. He barrels through.

  “Make way for the sci-lead,” Ray says.

  There are feigned grunts and groans as Ray pushes through the crowd. I try to stand on my tippy toes to get a glimpse. All I get are backs of heads. There’s a chorus of commentary and murmuring. It’s mostly neutral assessments. Until an English accent says, “Yes. Ohhh, yes.” The scientist must see something good, because we don’t usually hear English sex noises in the SOC. There’s celebration. The sprinkle test and pre-sprinkle test worked! The mission can move forward.

  There’s a nice spread of powdery dirt across the deck. No lumps, wads or mounds anywhere. The RA team pioneered a breakthrough method of Mars soil delivery. Seeing as it might be my last day (if Peter decides this isn’t working), I feel bold. It’s time to make my first scientific observation. I want to know what’s it’s like to be part of the discovery.

  “Looks like a nice even distribution of fines,” I say. I brace for the worst. No one flinches. There’s even a nod of approval.

  This is probably the most excited anyone has ever been over a pile of dirt since—wait, there aren’t any other famous piles of dirt that are less than a centimeter high that can make this comparative work. Regardless, this is a successful sprinkle pile. Matt Robinson suggests calling it “Mount Ashitey” in honor of Ashitey’s contribution to dirt science. Ashitey bristles; he does not like the idea.

  “Good thing we did that pre-sprinkle,” Mike Hecht congratulates himself.

  “I’m not sure it did all that much,” Ashitey says.