“It’s been just amazing, Ann,” the president went on. “Dr. Noble let me dock the spaceplane.”
The vice president blinked in surprise. “You did? Lucky dog. I’ve never done that, and I’ve ridden in the spaceplanes several times! How was it?”
“Just as most everything else in space: just think about something and it happens. It’s hard to believe we were traveling five miles a second but talking about moving the spaceplane by just inches per second. I didn’t really have a sense of altitude or speed until we did the spacewalk and I saw Earth under—”
“The what?” Ann exclaimed, her eyes bugging out in shock. “You did a what?”
“Ann, you were the one who first told me about how you got to the station from the early spaceplanes,” the president said. “Dr. Noble mentioned it again to me as we were disembarking, and I decided to go for it. It only lasted a couple minutes.”
The vice president’s mouth was hanging open in complete surprise, and she had to physically shake herself out of her stunned speechlessness. “I . . . I don’t believe it,” she said finally. “Are you going to mention that to the press? They’ll flip . . . even harder than they’re already going to flip.”
“Probably the same reaction when a sitting president took the first ocean-liner voyage, or the first ride in a locomotive, or a car, or an airplane,” the president said. “We’ve been flying in space for decades—why is it so hard to conceive of a president of the United States traveling in space or doing a spacewalk?”
Vice President Page momentarily went back to her near-catatonic state of utter disbelief, but shook her head in resignation. “Well, I’m glad you’re all right, sir,” Ann said. “I’m glad you’re enjoying the trip and the view and the”— she swallowed again in disbelief before continuing—“. . . spacewalking, sir, because I think we’re in for a real shit-storm when you get back.” The president freely encouraged Ann to speak her mind, both in public and private, and she took every opportunity to do just that. “The cat’s out of the bag already—folks from station must’ve already phoned home to let others know you arrived, and word is spreading like wildfire. The presser will be a real stunner, I’m sure.” As all the astronauts did, Ann referred to Armstrong Space Station as “station.” “I hope you’re ready for it.”
“I am, Ann,” the president said.
“How do you feel?”
“Very good.”
“No vertigo?”
“A tiny bit,” the president admitted. “When I was a kid I had a mild case of anablephobia—fear of looking up—and that’s kind of what it feels like, but it goes away quickly.”
“Nausea? Queasiness?”
“Nope,” the president said. Ann looked surprised, and she nodded admiringly. “My sinuses feel stuffed, but that’s it. I guess that’s because fluids don’t flow downward like normal.” Ann nodded—she and Phoenix’s wife, a medical doctor, had talked at length about some of the physiological conditions he might encounter even during a short stay on station. She had avoided talking about some of the psychological ones that some astronauts experienced. “It’s irksome, but not bad. I feel okay. I can’t say the same for Charlie Spellman.”
“Your Secret Service detail that volunteered to go up with you? Where is he?”
“Sick bay.”
“Oh, Christ,” Ann murmured, shaking her head. “Wait’ll the press finds out you’re up there without your detail.”
“He’s looking better. I think he’ll be good for the return flight. Besides, I don’t think any assassins will make their way up here.”
“True enough,” Ann said. “Good luck with the press conference. We’ll be watching.”
The president was then connected to his wife, Alexa. “Oh my God, it’s good to see you, Ken,” she said. Alexa Phoenix was ten years younger than her husband, a pediatrician who had left her private practice when her husband became the surprise choice of President Joseph Gardner to be his running mate. Her olive complexion, dark hair, and dark eyes made her look Southern European, but she was a surfer girl from southern Florida through and through. “Sky Masters Aerospace called and told me you have arrived on the station. How are you? How do you feel?”
“Okay, hon,” the president replied. “A little stuffy, but okay.”
“I can see a tiny bit of facial edema—you’re already starting to get your space moon-face,” Alexa said, framing her face with her hands arrayed in a circle.
“Is it noticeable already?” the president asked.
“I’m teasing,” his wife said. “You look fine. It’s a badge of honor anyway. Will you be okay for your presser?”
“I feel good,” the president said. “Wish me luck.”
“I’ve been wishing you luck every hour of every day since I agreed to this crazy little trip of yours,” Alexa said, a tiny hint of vexation in her voice. “But I think you’ll do great. Knock ’em dead.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll see you at Andrews. Love you.”