Sam Gunn

Sam Gunn

By Ben Bova

The skipper used the time-honored cliché – he said – « Houston, we have a problem here. »

There were eight of us, the whole crew of Artemis IV, huddled together in the command module. After sixweeks of living onn the Moon the module smelled like a pair of unwashed gym socks.

With a woman President the space agency figured it would be smart to name the second round of lunar explorations after a female: Artemis was Apollo’s sister. Get it?

But it had just happened that the computer who picked the crew selections for Artemis IV picked all men. Six weeks without even the sight of a woman, and now our blessed-be-to-God return module refused to light up. We were stranded. No way to get back home.

As usual, capcom in Houston was the soul of tranquility. « Ah, A-IV, we read you and cpy that the return module is no-go. The analysis team is checking the telemetry. We will get back to you soonest. »

It didn’t help that capcom, that shift, was Sandi Hemmings, the woman we all lusted after. Among the eight of us, we must have spent enough energy dreaming about cornering Sandi in zero gravity to propel each of us right back to Houston. Unfortunately, dreams have a very low specific impulse and we were still stuck on the Moon, a quarter-million miles from the nearest woman.

Sandi played her capcom duties strictly by the book, especially since all our transmissions were taped for later review.

She kept the traditional Houston poker face, but managed to say, « Don’t worry, boys. We’ll figure it out and get you home. »

Praise God for small favors.

Nespresso, Ice Fest in Toronto. Photo by Elena

We had spent hours checking and rechecking the cursed return module. It was an engineer’s hell : everything checked but nothing worked. The thing just sat there like a lumb of dead metal. No elecrical power. None. Zero. The control board just stared at us as cold and glassy-eyed as a banker listeing to your request fro an unsecrued loan. We had even gone through the instruction manual, page by page, line by line. Zip. Zilch. The bird was dead.

When Houston got back to us, si hours after the skipper’s call, it was the stony, unsmiling image of the mission coordinator who glowered at us as if we had deliberately screwed up the return module. He told us :

« We have identified the problem., Artemis IV. The return module’s ain electrical power supply has malfunctioned. »

That was like telling Othello that he was a Moor.

« We’re checking out bypasses and other possible fixes, » Old Stone Face wen on. « Sit tight, we’ll get back to you. »

The skipper gave him a patient sigh. « Yes, sir. »

« We’re not going anywhere, » said a whispered voice. Sam Gunn’s, I was certain