Tom opened a pocket in his suit, slipping the items in.
Dick stood close by as he scanned the room. “Or until some future astronaut picks it up.”
After sealing the pouch, Tom exhaled deeply, satisfied no one had noticed. “True. When do you think we’ll go back to the moon?”
Dick also looked relieved as he took a step back. “Good question. After Apollo 17, I think it will be a while. So enjoy yourself.”
Tom extended his hand. “I plan on having a ball.”
Dick gave him a solid handshake. “I bet you will, and the thought of it makes me jealous.”
The technician approached. “Ready to put your gloves on, Tom?”
Dick began to move off. “I’ll let you get back to suiting up.”
As his boss left, Tom double-checked that the pouch with the container was sealed before answering the technician. “You bet. Let’s put those babies on.”
While the technician got down to business, Tom observed a man with jet-black hair and a beard drag a chair over toward him. After sitting, the fellow pulled out a sketch pad and pen. As the man began to draw, Tom wondered what he was up to. “Are you sketching me?”
The man looked up with concern, and answered apologetically, “I am. Is that okay?”
“Of course. I’m Tom Novak, by the way.”
The man smiled big. “I know who you are. I’m Paul Calle.”
The loud clicking sound of a glove being fastened caught Tom’s attention. He looked over and briefly moved his fingers to make sure the glove felt comfortable. Satisfied, he gave a quick nod to the technician before turning back to the artist. “Nice to meet you, Paul. Please excuse me for not shaking your hand. Mine are a little busy right now.” Tom figured some casual conversation might help pass the time. “So do you have any kids, Paul?”
Going back to his work, the artist answered without looking up. “I do. A girl and two boys.”
“Great, how old?”
“My girl is seventeen, oldest boy is fifteen, and the youngest is nine.”
Tom watched Paul’s hand moving quickly about the paper and tried to sneak a peek at the sketch. But he had no luck. “I have a boy, too, Peter. He’s seven.”
Studying Tom’s profile for a moment, Paul returned back to his drawing. “He’s close to my youngest, Chris, who is here for the launch. The oldest two had no desire to come out. According to them, once you’ve seen one launch, you’ve seen them all.”
Tom chuckled. “From their point of view, sitting in the stands, probably all the launches do look the same. A rocket shoots up into the sky, and a few minutes later, it’s gone.” Tom thought of Peter, who would be witnessing his first launch. “So do your kids draw?”
After another quick glance to help with his work, Paul resumed sketching. “They do. I’ve tried to take the time to work with them all. Chris seems to have the most talent. In fact, I carry one of his first drawings in my bag for good luck.”
Tom was impressed Paul could keep working while chatting. “I’d love to see it when you get a chance.”
Finishing up with the second glove, the technician interrupted. “How do those feel?”
Tom moved his fingers around in both gloves. “Good.”
Paul started to get up. “Well, good luck.”
“You’re already done?”
“Yep.”
“Impressive. Well, tell your little boy I said hi.”
The artist gave an appreciative nod. “I definitely will. Chris will be excited to hear the man flying the rocket he is watching said hi.”
“Ready to put your helmet on, Commander?”
As the artist left, Tom turned toward the technician. “Let’s do it.”
Once his helmet was locked in place, Tom would be breathing processed air for the remainder of the mission until their capsule was opened in the Pacific Ocean. Tom held up his hand in a stopping motion after seeing the technician approach with the clear plastic bubble in his hands. Tom had to take one final gasp of fresh air, his last for the next eleven days. He took in a lung full of air and then slowly exhaled. Happy with his last taste of Earth, he signaled he was ready. Tom looked straight ahead as the tech lowered his helmet carefully and snapped it securely in place. The only sound he now heard was his own breathing resonating within the plastic enclosure while cool oxygen flowed past his face.
The technician used hand gestures to ask if Tom wanted to recline in his chair.
Tom nodded he did.
The tech pulled the handle, releasing the lounger, putting Tom in a more comfortable position. He shot an A-okay signal before the tech turned to monitor the pressure gauges. Tom was now in his own world, comfortably inside his personal spaceship. The machine he was wearing would sustain and protect him when he ventured out into the harsh environment on the lunar surface. It was a marvelous piece of equipment. He turned his head from side to side in the fish bowl helmet, checking out the activity all around him. The helmet of the Apollo A7L suit allowed for an unrestricted view, different from the helmet he wore on Gemini. This made it easy to work inside the Apollo spacecraft, especially when floating around. When walking on the moon, he would wear a more restricted, gold-plated visor assembly over the bubble helmet that would protect him from dangerous micrometeoroids and the sun’s rays.
For the next forty-five minutes all Tom needed to do was relax in silence and breathe in pure oxygen. To take advantage of his last true downtime, he closed his eyes and tried to think pleasant thoughts. But his mind was going a mile a minute, cluttered with the many details associated with the launch. He methodically went through each step along with any possible failure, assessing what action he should take. He would have his hand on the abort handle, and turning it would not only abruptly end the mission, but risk the lives of the entire crew since there was no guarantee they would survive the jettisoned escape. No human had ever tried it. Though past commanders had been on the brink of aborting, each one made the right call, not turning the handle. He was certain he had the balls to do the same, though he wouldn’t hesitate twisting the lever if catastrophe was certain. After being killed hundreds of times in the simulator and learning from each mistake, he was confident he would make the right call.
Frustrated with his spinning mind, Tom squeezed his closed eyelids even tighter, forcing himself to purge all the thoughts associated with the mission. There would be plenty of time in the capsule before launch to review his procedures. He wanted to focus on something more relaxing and soothing. The one subject he knew would do that was Anne. He reflected on their last moments together. Over the weekend they had enjoyed NASA’s beachfront cottage, the only beach house not torn down when the land was purchased by the government. On the last day of her visit, they took a long, loving stroll along Kennedy’s pristine shoreline to say their final goodbye. Though Tom was excited and filled with anticipation about what lay ahead, he sensed Anne was apprehensive. Virtually in the shadow of his rocket sitting just over a mile away on pad 39A, he put his hands gently on her face and looked her directly in the eye. He promised with all his heart he would return. She stayed strong as she kissed him warmly on the lips, hugging him tightly as if she didn’t want to let him go.
A sudden tap on Tom’s helmet broke his daydreaming. Without turning his head, he gradually opened his eyes. A stick-figure drawing dangled inches away from his face. He saw Paul beaming as he held up a Crayon-colored illustration of a man standing on the moon holding the American flag, obviously drawn by his son. Tom smiled at the proud parent, flashing a thumbs-up sign in his direction. Paul did a slight wave before leaving. As Tom calmly closed his eyes, a pang of jealousy shot through him, envious of the relationship the artist had with his boy. He wanted the same with Peter, but how? He was an astronaut.