The most innovative feature is the force-multiplier glove. Since all EMUs are internally pressurized, the limbs and appendages tend to become rigid in the vacuum of space. As a result, even the simple task of gripping a tool produces extreme fatigue since you must exert muscular energy just to keep the glove fingers grasping the tool. Force-multiplier gloves have solved this problem. Once you begin to move your fingers, the finger pressure is sensed inside the glove and the force multiplier’s miniaturized servomotors will complete the movement and hold the position until a countermovement signals their release. In essence, the force-multiplier system is akin to the power steering system of an automobile.
One drawback of the EMUs you will be using is that they are pressurized to only six pounds per square inch. The atmosphere within Trikon Station, composed of 20% oxygen and 80% nitrogen, is pressurized to standard sea-level pressure of 14.7 psi. Since you will be going from a higher to a lower pressure when suited up for EVA, you must purge your bloodstream of dissolved nitrogen gas prior to depressurizing the airlock and being exposed to the vacuum of space. This is accomplished by prebreathing pure oxygen provided at the EMU servicing panel located in each airlock. Prebreathing oxygen will gradually remove the nitrogen from your bloodstream so there will be none left to bubble out of solution in the blood as the pressure drops during depressurization of the airlock.
A graph/chart is prominently displayed in each airlock showing the amount of prebreathe required if station pressure is less than normal. It is imperative that you follow these guidelines. Failure to do so may result in a potentially disabling gas embolism, such as the familiar “bends” experienced by deep-sea divers.
Hugh O’Donnell felt intensely alive. He awoke each day without need of an alarm clock and performed his morning ablutions while the rest of the station slept. It occurred to him that he never explained to Dan Tighe exactly why he refused to grow a beard. Part of the reason was simple vanity: his beard contained far more gray than the hair on his head. But the main reason was the regimen stressed by the counselors at the substance abuse clinic: male patients were required to shave every day. The rationale was not predicated on some archaic notion equating facial hair with drug abuse. The idea was that each patient would forever be in danger of reverting to his habit if he allowed his life to wander from an established routine. For a male, a daily shave was the perfect object lesson.
It was the routine of life aboard Trikon Station that allowed O’Donnell to flourish. Each day, he accomplished three solid hours of work in his lab before reporting to Lorraine Renoir for his required session. Then it was a quick breakfast in the wardroom before returning to the lab for another three-hour stint. The lengths of his afternoons and evenings were dictated by the pace and progress of his work, but they rarely came to less than another eight hours.
After dinner each evening, he threw darts with Dan Tighe. He knew that the commander was pumping him for information about himself, and he deliberately refused to display any pique as he carefully sidestepped any questions relating to his former habit. He liked Tighe and sensed that Tighe liked him in the way veterans of the same war will appreciate each other. They played for sodas to be paid Earthside. The nature of O’Donnell’s work never entered the conversation.
The fourteen-hour workdays began to show a cumulative effect. O’Donnell was confident that he would complete his project within the three-month period allotted him. After that, the world would never be the same. Or so he hoped.
O’Donnell cracked his lab door and peered into The Bakery. It was still early morning and the workstations were unoccupied. He slipped outside, one hand cupping a test tube filled with a solution approximately the color of seawater, and locked the door behind him. Even though he would be only a few feet away, he took no chances of unwanted eyes peeking into his lab while he was busy at the centrifuge. He anchored himself to the floor, slid open the clear plastic cover, and secured the micro-gee test tube to the centrifuge’s arm. He adjusted the proper settings and pressed the button. Instantly, the centrifuge whirred to life. The arm and the test tube whizzed to a blur. After precisely one minute the motor cut off and the centrifuge wound down to a stop. The solution had migrated into three distinct bands: clear, green, and brown.
O’Donnell sighed with satisfaction. He brought the test tube back to his lab, where he placed it on a rack within a lightproof box, and removed another test tube from a different rack along the wall. The solution in this test tube was the color of beet juice.
Stu Roberts drifted into The Bakery while O’Donnell was watching the second test tube whirling in the centrifuge. Roberts’s red hair was severely tangled beneath his hair net and his eyes squinted against the powerful fluorescent that illuminated the lab. Obviously, he had just tumbled out of his sleep restraint.
O’Donnell nodded to Roberts, then returned his attention to the centrifuge. The tech continued down the aisle, fussing with different workstations as he passed. He finally stopped at the sterilizer and began loading the previous day’s dirty glassware.
As the sterilizer hissed and rumbled, Roberts watched O’Donnell bring test tube after test tube from his lab to the centrifuge. He spoke not a word to Roberts, and the technician remained silent also. The weirdo hasn’t let me inside his lab since day one, Roberts grumbled to himself. Every time I offer to help him he brushes me off. He might know sixties music. He might be able to rap about The Who, the Stones, and Creedence Clearwater Revival. But he’s just as much of an asshole as Dave Nutt, in his own way. Of course, there’s always the chance…
“Need any help?” he called.
“No, thanks,” said O’Donnell, his eyes fixed on the centrifuge.
“I mean, I could ferry that stuff back and forth for you.”
“It’s no trouble. Thanks.”
Not this time, either, thought Roberts. He smiles, but he stays miles away. Damn!
Roberts clung to the door of the sterilizer and closed his eyes. I’m nothing but a glorified dishwasher to him, he told himself. The machine’s constant vibration soothed the taut muscles of his back and neck. The serenity didn’t last long. The shrill voice of Thora Skillen knifed through The Bakery.
“Dr. O’Donnell, what are you doing at that centrifuge?”
“Spinning test tubes,” said O’Donnell.
“Did you obtain permission from me?”
“At seven A.M.? None of your people are ever here before eight.”
“I don’t care what time it is,” said Skillen. She wore her usual stained smock. A vein stood out in the middle of her forehead, continuing the ridge formed by her chin and chiseled nose. “My people may require use of this lab’s hardware at any time. That is why we have established procedures.”
“I’m on my last tube.”
“You’re damned right you are. Next time you will be allowed a block of time no longer than fifteen minutes. Your tech is to arrange it for you.”
Roberts floated toward the centrifuge.
“It’s my fault,” he said. “He told me that he wanted to use the ’fuge this morning. I was supposed to arrange it with you. I must’ve forgot.”
Skillen’s suspicious eyes darted from Roberts to O’Donnell and back again. The anger drained out of her face, as if berating a mere tech was less satisfying than a fellow scientist. O’Donnell maintained a poker face. He knew he hadn’t told Roberts of his intention to use the centrifuge. He never told Roberts anything.