But attitude control is important. If we can’t talk to the ground, we lose the expertise of the thousands of people in Houston, Moscow, and other sites all over the world who understand every aspect of the systems keeping us alive up here. Our spacesuits, the life support systems within the station, the Soyuz meant to get us back safely to Earth, the science experiments that are the reason for us being here in the first place—our comm system is our only connection to the experts on all of these. Our only connection to Earth. We have no choice but to take the risk.
I think about just how alone Kjell and I are out here. The ground wants to help us, but we may not be able to hear them. Our crewmates inside the station would do anything to ensure our safety, but they can’t reach us. Kjell and I have only each other. Our lives are in our own hands.
As instructed, we re-extend the spare radiator rather than taking the time to cinch it down and install a thermal cover. It will be safe in this configuration until a future spacewalk can retract it. We are nearing the seven-hour mark, the point where we were planning to head back to the airlock, but we are still far away with much left to do before we can get inside. We start the process of cleaning up our work site and inventorying our tool bags and mini-workstations to make sure we aren’t leaving anything behind. Once everything is packed up and checked, we start the laborious process of traveling hand over hand back to where we started.
We are about halfway to the airlock when I hear Megan’s voice again in my headset.
“Scott, if you’re okay with it, we need you to go back to the vent valves and make sure they are in the right configuration. The specialists are seeing some data they aren’t happy with.”
This is a simple request, but Megan’s tone communicates a lot—she wants me to know this action is not required and that I can say no without causing any problems. It’s a task that could easily be left for the next astronauts, who will be launching next month. She knows that we have been outside a long time and are exhausted. My body is aching, my feet are cold, my knuckles are rubbed raw (some astronauts even lose fingernails from the intense pressure spacewalks put on our hands). I’ve been sweating and am dehydrated. There is still so much we have to do before we can get safely back inside, especially if anything unexpected happens between now and then.
I answer her right away, putting a vigor into my voice that I don’t actually feel. “Sure, no problem,” I say.
I’ve been convincing myself all day that I actually feel fine, that I have plenty of energy left. Both Kjell’s life and my own depend on our ability to push past our limits. I’ve convinced myself so effectively that I’ve convinced the ground team too.
I head to the back side of the truss again to check the vent valves. It’s dark now and starting to get cold. I don’t waste the effort to adjust the cooling on my suit—even just that simple gesture would hurt my hands too much. I would rather just freeze.
In the darkness, I get turned around and upside down. I can see only what’s immediately in front of my face, like a scuba diver in murky waters, and it’s completely disorienting. Everything looks unfamiliar in the dark. (One difference between the Russian approach to spacewalking and ours is that the Russians stop working when it’s dark; the cosmonauts just hang on to the side of the station and rest, waiting for the sun to come up again. This is safer in one sense—they are probably less likely to make mistakes, and to tire—but they also expend twice as many resources and do twice as many spacewalks because they only work half the time they are outside.)
I start to head in a direction I think is the right one, then realize it’s wrong, but I can’t tell whether I’m upside down or right side up. I read some mile markers—numbers attached to the handrails—to Megan, hoping she can help tell me where I am.
“It looks much different in the dark,” I tell Megan.
“Roger that,” she says.
“Did I not go far enough aft?” I ask. “Let me go back to my safety tether.” I figure once I find the place where my tether is attached I’ll be able to get my bearings.
“We’re working on cuing up the sun for you,” Megan jokes, “but it’s going to be another five minutes.”
I look in the direction I think is Earth, hoping to catch a glimpse of some city lights 250 miles below in the darkness to get my bearings. If I just knew which way Earth is, I could figure out where I am on the truss. When I look around, all I see is black. Maybe I’m looking right at the Earth and not seeing any lights because we’re passing over the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, or perhaps I’m just looking at space.
I make my way back to where my tether is attached, but when I get there, I remember that Kjell had attached the tether, not me, so I’m not familiar with the area. I’m as disoriented as ever. I float for a minute, frustrated, thinking about what to do next.
“Scott, can you see the PMM?”
I can’t, but I don’t want to give up. I see a tether that I think is Kjell’s—if it is, I might be able to figure out where I am.
“Scott,” Megan says, “we’re just going to send you back now—we don’t need to get this, so just head back to where your tether location is and then head back to the airlock.” She takes an upbeat tone, as if this is good news, but she knows it will be frustrating to me to hear they’re giving up on me.
Eventually I catch a glimpse of lights above me. I’m not sure what it is at first, since above me is what I thought was the blackness of space. But as the lights come into focus, I see they are city lights—the unmistakable lights of the Middle East, Dubai, and Abu Dhabi, stretched along the Persian Gulf standing out against the blackness of the water and the desert sands.
The lights reorient me—what I’d thought was down is up—and I feel the strange sensation of my internal gyroscope righting itself. Suddenly it’s clear where I am and where I need to go.
“I see the PMM now, so I think I’m close,” I tell her. “I can go do it. I’d prefer to do it if you guys are okay with it.”
A pause. I know Megan is consulting with the flight director about whether to let me continue or tell me to come back inside.
“Okay, Scott, we’re going to take your lead. We’re happy to have you go and do that.”
“Okay. I think I’m in good shape now.”
When I reach the work site, the sun finally shines over the horizon while Megan talks me through the steps of configuring the vent valve on the ammonia tank. Once I’m done, Megan tells us to head back to the airlock.
I contemplate making a joke to the ground by calling myself “Magellan”—a nickname we used to use in the Navy for those who got lost. But they might not get it, and besides, Magellan was killed before he made it home.