Martian Summer Page 9

  Even after years of building, NASA considered scrapping Phoenix six months before launch. NASA summoned Peter to Washington. They wanted him to defend the mission delays and cost overruns. Then he had to beg for mercy. Peter calmly defended his position and demonstrated that they would manage costs and still bring back stellar results. Somehow it worked.

  A DECADE AFTER HIS FIRST TRIP TO MARS, PETER HAD GOTTEN HIS chance to go back. I watched his rocket launch from a beach near the Kennedy Space Center at Cape Canaveral. The science team was all there with bottles of champagne.

  “That’s the most beautiful launch I’ve ever seen,” a veteran NASA engineer said to a colleague as they left the beach. The ground trembled and the sky lit up. Night was day. It was a clear morning and the solid rocket booster’s exhaust left a red and blue trail. Everyone remarked how uncannily it resembled the Phoenix logo.

  “When I saw the exhaust plume and it looked just like Phoenix, I knew everything was going to be okay. Sure, you can’t convince a NASA review board with that logic, but I knew,” Peter said. It was hard not to be moved.

  Later that day, Peter had a boat party for friends and family. Standing at the front of a pontoon boat on the Banana River, he commandeered the microphone from the ship’s official captain.

  “I’ve been working on this every moment for the last five years, and I can say now that this is the greatest day of my life.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  SPECIAL MARS PILL

  SOL 21

  SMELL THAT DESERT AIR. SUCK IT IN. SOMEHOW THE AIR IN Tucson is crisper than back east and my mind feels sharp. Sharp as a tack.

  With Mars-lag creeping over my line in the sand, I make an executive decision. I take a stand. I start a course of stimulants to combat my shift worker’s disorder, the dreaded scheduling disease afflicting both nurses and interplanetary workers alike. It’s a great decision. By the time I arrive for work, the medicine really seems to be working. God, I feel great.

  If I’m going to be here, and be alert, there’s no way to sleep like a normal human being. There are only 90 days to live my space dream, and I must cover every moment of this mission. So I turn to drugs to fight the good fight. I can’t miss any key moments because I need rest. The fog that’s been creeping in over the last week is lifting. It’s called modafinil and these pills have a fun brand name, Provigil™. Why do we call that? Because we’re pros at being vigilant. Yes, we are on the lookout, Provigil™. Marines even take these pills before they go into combat to counteract the effects of sleepless nights in the field. Now they’re our control room “GO!” pills. Since modafinil is shown to be effective in the treatment of depression, cocaine dependence, Parkinson’s disease, and even schizophrenia, I’m gonna take it too!

  Our version of shift worker’s sleep disorder is not the friendly nurse or fireman kind. No, it is a virulent form unleashed from Hades and escorted to the SOC by Cerberus himself. I wonder if one of its symptoms is rhetorical excess; but since that has not been confirmed, I don’t think the F.D.A. would approve. They might even fine you for an off-label prescription.

  I learned about Provigil™ from a pamphlet the counter-fatigue group posted in the kitchen. Initially, I wanted to go in for a consultation with Edna or someone from the counter-fatigue group. But they’re gone, again, for a week. So the pamphlet will have to suffice. The wall-reading in the SOC, especially in the kitchen, is a coping mechanism for all the times no one wants to talk to me. Between each of these paragraphs are hours of downtime. You probably glossed over my moments of profound loneliness and melancholy since they’re tucked away in the spaces between the paragraphs. So to keep my mind occupied on Mars and not turn to thoughts of being all alone on another planet, I like to read the two bulletin boards and hang out in the kitchen. (I’m starting to wonder if these pills aren’t causing mood swings.) There’s loads of time-killing reading material: thank-you notes, holiday greeting cards, and helpful tips about getting by in Mission Control. And when the walls of Mission Control recommend a course of stimulants to keep me sharp and focused, who am I to disagree? So, I’ve started to take drugs. If it’s okay with you, I’d rather not say where I got them. (Okay, shhh, I took them from a friend’s medicine cabinet. He has ADHD, but I have to go to Mars. Just don’t tell anyone.)

  Okay, maybe the counter-fatigue group doesn’t “recommend” them. That is probably overstating the case. But they do mention them. And that’s enough endorsement for me in my current state. I decide to give them a go. Mostly since I’m having many of the shift work symptoms like headaches, trouble concentrating, and the occasional spontaneous hysterical paroxysm.

  SUZANNE YOUNG AND A FEW OTHER SCIENTISTS SIT AT THE BIG conference table, scrubbing through the day’s plan. They are engaged in an odd conversation about downloading data. Not about Mars piracy or anything like that.

  “He told me we’re abusing the data system,” Suzanne says. It seems the JPL management is angry about the team’s cavalier attitude toward data safety. Really. The JPL folks are pissed that Phoenix is taking too many risks when they download stuff and delete it. “Gentry Lee told me they had six specialists managing data on the last Mars mission. But we only have one,” Suzanne tells Vicky. Gentry Lee is the head of engineering at JPL. He’s been part of all the Mars missions and is not to be trifled with. One of those annoying restrictions of using a recycled lander was that memory was very expensive when Phoenix was designed. We’ve only got 100 megs of flash memory on board, and therefore the risk of losing data is quite large.

  It’s the type of conversation I’d usually walk right past. Not today. Given my expanded state of consciousness and extreme focus, I’m intrigued. There comes a point on every Mars mission when you must ask yourself, “Is this boring or just too wide to jam through my small doors of perception?” If I can find the beauty in moving bits across space, there’s hope for me. If there’s hope for me, there’s hope for you. If there’s hope for you, there’s hope for the whole world. So I stick around and listen to them talk about data safety. Our future depends on it.

  KICKOFF SOUNDS LIKE BREAKFAST AT AN OLD-AGE HOME. WHAT? We can’t hear you! You want to dig where? There’s shouting. It’s a mess. I might be hallucinating. Vicky Hipkin is a physicist-turned-administrator from the Canadian Space Agency (CSA). She is the science lead today. This is her first time doing the sci-lead thing. She acts nervous. Probably because nothing works and she doesn’t want to let her country down. There is a super-complicated A/V system in downlink—wireless mics, conference phones, control-room accoutrement—that enables communication, but not today, something went wrong. No one can hear anything. Vicky Hipkin is generally a smiley, happy-to-answer-whatever-basis-question-you-throw-at-her type. She’s a Scotswoman who emigrated to Canada to work for the CSA. Her fair complexion betrays her nervousness as a blush creeps in and takes over her cheeks. She says, “Today is a big day” in her most convincing voice (which is not very convincing, even though her declamation is warranted).

  The mission moves forward in two exciting ways today. The TEGA high-temperature experiment is on the agenda. TEGA will heat the sample to 1000 degrees Celsius and cause some mysterious reaction that identifies organic material. (These are carbon chains—not pesticide-free veggies—that are the building blocks for life on Earth.) That’s exciting. This new TEGA experiment could tell us if Mars is habitable.

  We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Vicky wants to talk about digging.

  “There is a revised digging strategy, we’re moving to the Wonderland trench,” she says. “I’d like Ray to please comment.”

  “We’re moving away from Dodo and Goldilocks,” Arvidson begins, doing his best park ranger impersonation. “We’ll be swinging over to Humpty Dumpty and opening up the national park system. This next phase is about looking at soil strata.” This park system was identified—by best guess—as having the most potential for discovery. The strata, or dirt layers, are the key to untangling the story of what’s happened to the p
olar caps on Mars.

  “We’re looking to the trench near the top of the polygon. That sample could come from the left of the sample trench in the area called Cheshire Cat,” Ray says.

  The teams give their morning reports, updating us on everything that happened the sol before that we might have missed. Everyone gets started. We’re working toward the new dig and waiting for the results of TEGA.

  I FEEL EXTRA CHIPPER AND THERE’S AN HOUR BEFORE MIDPOINT. WITH one complicated topic tackled this morning, I think I’ll go for another. I feel surprisingly ambitious today.

  I start to learn more about what the instruments really do when they “discover” something. I spent my mid-morning break trying to learn what mass spectrometry is. Don’t tell the TEGA team, but I have an ulterior motive: I want to know exactly what it is they do. Then maybe they’ll invite me to the TEGA parties. I went to one last year at a training mission. I ended up squished in the back of some half-crazed Hollywood producer’s Mustang with a pile of scientists on my lap. I don’t really want to get into it any further.

  The leader of team TEGA, Bill Boynton, is one of the folks on the mission who makes you say, “I know that guy is awesome. If only I could understand what he’s talking about, I bet he’d be particularly awesome.” He’s half the reason we’re here. When he gives these full-on TEGA science presentations where everyone seems to be highly engaged, and I twiddle my thumbs, it makes me feel inadequate. What if he finds organic material and I have to answer questions about TEGA on The Today Show?

  Peter Smith and Bill Boynton will be all “Mars Mars Mars Mars,” and the easily befuddled Matt Lauer will stare at them, mouth agape, and then I’ll jump in, “Peter, Bill, please let me handle this one.” I’m a national hero. Everyone cheers.

  This is my moment to tackle the sublime, molecule-bending effects of mass spectrometry. Then I will understand what Bill Boynton is talking about, get invited to parties and be a big star. My ambition is met by good fortune: Mads Ellehøj, one of the Danes who works on TEGA, isn’t too busy. He takes pity on me and agrees to explain it like I was a child—a very young child.

  First, Mads talks about “valence shells” and “atomic weights.” I smile politely. I don’t want to out myself as an imbecile just yet. That’s when I hatch a dastardly fiendish plot. I say, “My audience doesn’t really know a lot about these things.” I tell him it’s for the book. And that he should keep it simple for, you know, “the people.” Then I felt the cold wave of morality wash over my drug-ravaged, stop-at-nothing to learn the ins and outs of mass spectrometry brain.

  (Yes, I used you, dear reader. I’m so ashamed. I’m sorry. I just wanted to cover for my sad inability to recall a single bond from Honors chemistry. Now there’s the crushing guilt. It will probably take years of couples therapy to repair our tattered relationship and regain your trust. I hope we can work past this. It’s the drugs, I tell you!)

  Mads, unaware of my betrayal, is happy to re-explain. All stuff breaks down into elements. These elements each offer a particular essence, their atomic weight. In our strained analogy, their scent. The TEGA is a combination baking and sniffing device—the TAs (ovens) and EGA (gas analyzer). It bakes Mars dirt and then sniffs out the particles in the elements it drives off.

  “It’s kind of like how you know when bacon is frying up in the kitchen, even though you’re in the bedroom, it’s got a specific scent, you might even be able to detect that it’s eggs and bacon.” Mads is keen on using bacon-based analogies to explain science. These TEGA samples are heated in a hand-made ceramic oven material. The gases that evolve (bake off) from the sample are chock full of protons and neutrons. These protons and neutrons are the essential crumbs that make up the elements in the sample. The gasified particles mosey past a complicated array of magnets that are all wired to sensors. Then comes the bit of magic: the trajectory of this brew is measured. How? Who knows? Well, Mads does. It has to do with how the particles move past the magnets. The path of their movement is unique. The EGA can read them as little peaks and valleys in its olfactory brain. These peaks and valleys can be matched to a particular element or combination of elements. Once the elements’ signatures are identified, you can look for a match, then you’ve identified what elements are in your dirt. And now you too can become a spectroscopist. Thanks, Mads.

  BOY, DO THESE PILLS WORK! CAN YOU SEE HOW MUCH FASTER I’M typing!? It’s true. Much faster. Hmm, maybe I can get Cephalon®, the company that makes Provigil™, to sponsor the book. Not only do you type faster but you have great ideas. Lots of fantastic ideas like finding a big-pharma sponsor for your Mars book. This book is powered by Provigil! For stellar results, try Provigil. Keeps you alert and the taste is out of this world! My tiredness is gone and I’ve got LIDAR laser beam focus.

  I’m exploding with more great ideas. For instance: NASA should buy a cruise ship that sails around the ocean to keep up with Mars Time—a floating Mission Control. If Virgin Galactic can sell tickets to space for $200,000, NASA can certainly sell out a themed cruise. Discovery during the day; Peter Smith gives lectures in the evening. No more Mars lag, there’s a buffet and you can play shuffleboard.

  I’m doing great. Except for the odd balloon feeling that’s been putting a bit of pressure on my head. It’s like the balloon is around my brain but under my skull, and it’s about to burst. It’s making for a kind of strange disconnectedness. I guess that’s the Mars lag duking it out with the Provigil™ in an epic battle of the brain. But no matter, all the weird feelings and strange thoughts can be overcome. I just have to take one more Provigil™ and maybe a Xanax to combat the balloon burst. If that doesn’t work, I’ll throw in an after-work cocktail and a barbecued steak. It’s a fine balance. If I get it right and can stomach a few peyote buttons and a half-naked Indian spirit guide, I’ll take it. I’ve got to go; there’s a press conference.

  ALONG ONE OF THE BACK HALLWAYS IN MISSION CONTROL, PAST THE MECA lab, is a long narrow room. It’s painted black and has a large peephole. It’s not where they hide aliens or count the Mars money. Nothing particularly clandestine happens there, yet the sign on the door reads “Get Outta My Swamp” under a picture of the Disney ogre Shrek. I stand there and stare for a while. I can’t figure out what Shrek has to do with Mars. I want to understand. Unfortunately, there’s nothing to understand. Hyper awareness and expanded consciousness backfire. I’ve started assigning meaning to random events that don’t, in fact, have any meaning. Yeah, but why an ogre? ’Cause he’s green?

  The editorial board meetings and teleconferences happen in the Shrek room. This room is where the media affairs team crafts its Phoenix narrative. There is a lot of non-science talk in this room. Which, of course, is great for me. I’d even participate in the talks if it weren’t for Sara Hammond always giving me the “Shhh” finger. I’ve come to the media room for today’s editorial board meeting and telecon. Hammond politely gives me the international “keep your mouth shut” hand signal when I take my seat. I mentally tell her to fuck off. It manifests itself as a polite smile. Maybe it was a smirk. Potentially this passive-aggressiveness is a side-effect of the Provigil™. My head hurts.

  There’s an open phone line with the JPL media staff, and some NASA folks are on the line, too. Sara does not want them to know I’m here and makes sure I understand with a few more hand signals. You start the morning America’s greatest gonzo space journalist and before you know it, your space family is hiding you in the basement.

  I like to believe that all these media folks wanted to be astronauts—that they might have the unmitigated drive, strength, and intelligence to actually be an astronaut or rocket scientist—and since we can’t all be astronauts, they instead chose to toil away in the space business. They know that inherently Mars and the Phoenix mission are a rainbowgasm of awesomeness.

  We’re sitting at the table with the PR team and a few scientists. Bill Boynton is re-explaining some of his initial TEGA results when I arrive.

  “We’ve done two h
eating runs,” Bill Boynton says. “The first was just about room temperature to see if there was any ice. But we didn’t expect that, because the soil has been sitting out in the sun. The second run was about 174c, and at 85c we got some CO2. Nothing particularly remarkable, yet. Viking saw the same thing. TEGA is working well and that’s what I’m most happy about.” The media clamors for the results of a high-temperature run.

  TEGA’s high temperatures might measure organic material. Oooooh, life on Mars! That’s what everyone wants, something about organics and life on Mars. That makes a good story. It’s a complicated story. As for TEGA working well? Not so much excitement. From your average news-gatherer’s perspective, this is an expensive machine we put up there on Mars—it’s supposed to work.

  “I’m not ready to talk about the high-temperature ramp. It will be several weeks, up to a month before we start to understand the data,” Bill says. Instant gratification-seeking monkeys that we are, that’s not quite what anyone wants to hear. Cue hemming and hawing.

  We take a bit of a digression and talk turns to problems with the “mainstream media.” The phrase “mainstream media” is tossed around with a sort of fist-shaking ire.

  The JPL folks think they are more interested in what’s going wrong than what’s going right. They’re particularly annoyed with a Los Angeles Times writer who always seems to find the negative in anything they say. He certainly lost his love for space.

  “They’re always looking for man-bites-dog stories,” Sara Hammond says. She’s probably right, but that might just be because we failed to explain how it’s all actually going right.