“Maybe it’s the excitement of being here for real,” O’Donnell suggested.
Muncie started to shake his head. His face turned greenish.
“Tha’s it,” Freddy agreed cheerfully. “Okay, Lance, I leave you alone.”
O’Donnell didn’t feel so well himself. He attempted a few deep breaths, but found it impossible to fill his lungs. Loosening his harness did not help. He merely bobbed against the straps without any effect on his ability to breathe. Microgravity allowed his internal organs to shift upward, which seemed to restrict his lung capacity. He settled for concentrating on the clock, its LED digits moving in increasing speed from minutes to seconds to tenths of seconds to hundredths of seconds. In front of him, two Japanese technicians jabbered noisily. Behind him, an American technician and a Swedish scientist compared microgravity symptoms. The American complained of a severe headache and the Swede stated that she had trouble focusing on nearby objects.
Just after the forty-five-minute mark, the commander announced: “We are now about twelve miles in front and slightly above Trikon Station. You’ll feel a few bumps and nudges as we use the RCS thrusters to kill off the drift rates and close in on the station. Then we’ll make a low-z translation for berthing.”
O’Donnell remembered that the RCS engines were the reaction control system jets that were used to make small maneuvering corrections. But what a low-z translation might be was a mystery to him.
The shuttle flew through night. The passengers ooohed and aaahed at the star-like patterns of city lights displayed on the portside monitor. Then came the real show—sunrise. It began with a faint rosy glow throwing the rim of the Earth into silhouette. Like a film run at fast speed, the glow boiled over the horizon, then separated into bands of brilliant colors—blues, reds, yellows, oranges. Finally came the golden bloom of the sun.
“Approaching Trikon Station,” said Williams.
“There it is,” said Freddy. “Looks like a giant silver diamond.”
“Trikon Station,” Williams called. “This is Constellation. Preparing for berthing.”
“Roger, Constellation,” spoke a voice from the station. “Damn happy to see you, too. That old bird never looked so beautiful.”
The minutes inched by. The middeck passengers could hear Williams talking with the station, but it was all the clipped, incomprehensible jargon of professionals.
Finally Williams said, “Okay, folks. We are now station-keeping—hanging just outside Trikon’s main docking port. They’re cranking up their RMS to latch onto us and pull us up to the port. We’ll be berthed in a couple of minutes.”
O’Donnell pictured the spindly robot arm of the remote manipulator system reaching out to take the shuttle in its metal grip and slowly, gently bring it into contact with the airlock.
He felt a small thump.
“Bull’s-eye,” said the station voice.
Duncan, the second pilot of the shuttle, floated down from the flight deck and squeezed past the passengers to enter the airlock and complete the mating of the two ports.
Williams announced, “There will be a slight delay as we pressurize the connecting tunnel, check for leaks, and equalize pressure with Trikon. Might as well unstow your gear.”
The passengers released themselves from their seat harnesses. In the cramped quarters of the middeck there was much bumping and banging, but eventually everyone managed to pull their flight bags out of the lockers. The shoulder straps were useless and wriggled like snakes until Freddy suggested wrapping them around the bag and holding the bag under the arm. The slight delay was much longer than Williams had predicted.
“Like deplaning at LAX,” grumbled O’Donnell. He noticed that Muncie was still in his chair. Their eyes met momentarily. Muncie looked frightened, like a kid who had lost his mother in a crowded shopping mall. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, as if trying to summon up whatever inner reserves of courage he had. Then Muncie unhooked his harness and eased himself afloat. He groped toward the lockers and did not seem to remember which one held his flight bag. When he finally located the locker, he fumbled with the latch until Freddy reached over to help.
“Was stuck, eh?” said Freddy.
“Yeah. Thanks.” Muncie pulled out the flight bag and wrapped the strap as the others had done.