10.

‘The Answer to the Great Question …’

‘Yes …!’

‘Of Life, the Universe and Everything …’ said Deep Thought.

‘Yes …!’

‘Is …’ said Deep Thought, and paused.

‘Yes …!’

‘Is …’

‘Yes …!!! …?’

‘Forty-two,’ said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm.

Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Houston, 5 March 2012

‘EV1,’ the test director, TD, calls out in a dry tone. A heavily built man in his forties, he’s head of operations today. ‘Go!’ Tracy replies straightaway, just like all the others in charge of various aspects of today’s training, when asked whether their respective areas of expertise are ready. They’ve all given the OK, from the doctor to the chief tool technician, from the lead diver to James, our instructor. In NBL jargon, James is called TC, or test conductor, while Tracy and I are the test subjects, or EV1 and EV2. When TD calls out ‘EV2’, I too respond with a decisive ‘Go!’, which shows my determination yet carefully conceals my apprehension – or so I hope. After long fit checks and countless classes, the long-awaited day has finally arrived. I am about to do my first suited run in the NBL pool.

The control room quickly empties after the briefing. There are still ten minutes to go before 8:30, when Tracy and I are due to be suited up. From the large window we can see the pool bustling with activity. The divers are preparing their equipment, and the technicians are almost finished getting the tools and the suits ready. Our suit torsos are already attached by their backs to the donning stand, on a platform that will be raised and then lowered into the water by a crane when Tracy and I are ready. Mini-workstations sit on a nearby table and will be installed on our suits once the suit-up and pressurization are complete.

We configured our mini-workstations this morning as soon as we arrived. I got here at 6:30 a.m. and Tracy arrived at the more sensible hour of 7:00 a.m. At 7:30 we were directed to the dressing room for a quick medical check-up before we put on the underwear for spacewalks. First of all, there’s the MAG, or maximum absorbency garment, nothing more than an adult nappy. It’s rare to have to use it in the pool, I was told, but it is reassuring to wear it, all the more so in space, where the astronauts spend up to twelve hours in their suits. I put on simple, white cotton leggings over the MAG, socks and a long-sleeved undergarment, all of which protect the body from abrasion. Lastly, I put on the LCVG, or Liquid Cooling and Ventilation Garment, taking care not to damage it. This is a white unitard that adheres tightly to the body, leaving only hands and head bare. It incorporates 80 metres of flexible transparent tubing through which cooling water flows to remove excessive heat from the body. Here in the pool, where we don’t have the real autonomous suit life support system, the water comes from the NBL plumbing through the umbilical, a bundle of hoses and cables that also provide the Nitrox feed for breathing and pressurization and the audio connection.

As I come out of the control room with Tracy and head for the suit-up, I nibble a high-calorie peanut butter bar, somewhat against my will, since I’m still full from the eggs and porridge I had at breakfast. All the same, I force myself to eat this snack because there’s no food in the suit, and I’m a little obsessed by the idea that I might not have enough energy. I’ve lost count of how many people have warned me that working in the suit is exhausting.

Actually, hunger shouldn’t be a problem today. This first session will last for only three hours, and then the hours will be progressively increased to the full six by the time we get to the fourth run. We can take our time suiting up, and Tracy takes the opportunity to show me the tricks of the trade. She speaks as an EVA veteran, having made three contingency spacewalks in orbit to replace one of the large cooling pumps of the Space Station, which had broken down.

I find that a few of my friends have gathered around the pool to share this special day with me. There’s David, the Canadian doctor and astrophysicist from our twin class, the Chumps. The undisputed world champion of anything to do with hospitality and care, he immediately offers to document the event with my camera. I remember that I need to give back his ski gloves, which I asked to borrow for my visit to the tools lab so that I could simulate, at least in part, the difficulties faced in wearing the real ones with the suit while I practised and gained confidence with the tools. Luca is also here. He’s been training in the NBL for more than a year with excellent results and has generously shared the techniques he’s learned, even though we both know that his size is ideal for the suit, and allows him to do things that will prove impossible for me. And naturally there’s Cady, and she’s brought her eleven-year-old son, a bright and sensible boy who chants a light-hearted ‘No pressure’ to encourage me to enjoy the day.

Tracy, too, has repeatedly made it clear: today is for me, and belongs to me alone. No one is expecting anything of me. I just have to become familiar with the suit underwater, maybe even have fun with it. I like the idea, but I know very well that it’s not entirely true. Even though there won’t be any formal evaluation, it’s surely desirable to leave a good first impression. Each and every person at the NBL will form an opinion of me today.

I sit on the ground on a mat and put my legs into the legs of the suit, pointing my toes to burrow my way little by little through the folds of the inner yellow membrane. Grabbing one hand each from two technicians, I stand up and then crouch under the torso, which is already hanging at the donning stand at just the right height so that once I’m in it, I can remain standing on the platform. With a sort of squat I push myself up into it: first one arm, then another, until my head and hands pop out of it. Something doesn’t feel quite right on my back, around my shoulder blades. Maybe it’s just normal discomfort; after all, the EMU isn’t really meant to be comfortable. I have so little experience that I almost don’t dare mention the problem. Luckily, however, Steven is here to supervise the suit-up process and right away he notices what’s wrong. He puts a hand into the opening at the neck and finds the large stiff ventilation tubes, which must be overlapping. An integral part of the LCVG unitard, they run along the legs and the arms, joining up on the back. In space, they retrieve the used oxygen from the areas around your ankles and elbows – which is now mixed with carbon dioxide and water vapour – and take it back to the revitalization system. Here in the NBL, they retrieve Nitrox in the same way, and it is simply sent back to the surface through the umbilical and replaced by new gas, which is fed into the helmet.

With the connection closed at hip level, Steven and the technician each take one of my hands and stick small moleskin patches on them, prepared according to a detailed checklist devised during the glove fit check. These will protect my hands from potential abrasion. I put on my gloves, and then it’s time for the helmet, which clicks shut over the metal neck ring – and the hermetic sealing of the suit is complete. Now we can pressurize. I’m wearing the Snoopy Cap and through the headphones I hear TD’s voice reminding me that I can ask them to stop increasing the pressure at any time if I have problems popping my ears to equalize. I don’t expect any difficulties. I don’t have any cold symptoms, and during fit checks and the Prep and Post it was easy for me to perform the Valsalva manoeuvre using a simple device – a piece of soft rubber – glued at the base of the helmet: you press the base of your nostrils against it and you seal them. This way you create overpressure in your airways to balance the increased external pressure. You do the same thing when you go diving or your plane is descending: you squeeze your nostrils together and blow.

A little while ago, before my suit was pressurized, it felt like any item of clothing, if a bit odd. Now that it’s stretching out and stiffening, cracking here and there, to me it looks more like what it actually is: a small spaceship, capable of keeping a human being alive in space. I have to confess, it also makes me think of those giant robots with human pilots on board in the Japanese anime series of my childhood. I’ve always been fascinated by the synergy between humans and machines, and the possibility of using technology to exceed the limits of the human body. Just as when I was training to be a military pilot, I’m attracted today by the challenge of learning to merge with a complex machine, deeply understanding it, knowing how to exploit its potential and work with its limitations. I like knowing that it isn’t easy, that it’s a long journey, that you gain the necessary skills only with a combination of sustained intellectual, physical and psychological effort. On the other hand, I am also thrilled to be on the verge of experiencing something unusual and exciting and – yes – not available to everyone. And just like the first time I flew a jet, part of my being is distilled into the pure and simple yearning for experience – as if, as a child, I’d been able to take Tetsuya’s place in the head of the Great Mazinger.

After a few photos with my friends, the mini-workstation is installed, and at that point everyone is asked to move behind the yellow line so they won’t get in the way of the crane. The platform is raised and moved over the water before being slowly lowered. I wave to my friends on the pool deck and just before my helmet is submerged, I close my eyes for a second, a trick I’m told will prevent my being disorientated by transitioning into the water. When I open them again, I’m stationary just below the surface, and the divers – happily, I see Sarah among them – are already busy around me. They detach me from the donning stand and shake me for a few seconds to free the air pockets trapped in the folds of the suit before checking to make sure there aren’t any other bubbles, which would indicate a leak. When we get the green light from Steven, who’s watching from the poolside, they drag me across the surface to the descent line on the other side of the pool. It’s an interesting effect, this bird’s-eye view of that intricate, submerged city. The mock-up of the Space Station is lying down there. I’ve explored it so many times by now during dives, but seeing it from inside the suit – when I’m totally relaxed and powerless in the hands of the divers – is completely different, almost surreal. If it weren’t for my suit, I’d have to pinch myself.

Once we get to the bottom of the 13 metre-deep pool, the divers start working on the weigh-out. They work carefully, turning me round and round in every direction to observe remaining tendencies to rotate. Meanwhile, TD initiates a comm check. He instructs Tracy, and then me, to count slowly from one to ten, to confirm that we can hear each other and that TC can also hear us from the control room.

‘TC, from TD, the test is yours,’ comes through the headphones as soon as the weigh-out is completed. James, our instructor, is now in charge. My task for today starts now: I’ll explore my work envelope, learn the limits of the EMU, get used to its size and my restricted field of view, practise moving and changing direction, identify any need to adjust the suit fit. It’s not possible to bend or turn your arms beyond the limited range of motion allowed by the joints of the suit; if you force things, you risk damaging your own joints. There’s no point trying to turn your head to look up or sideways: you have to turn your entire body. There’s no way to move quickly; turning or moving from one place to another requires focused and conscious effort, to say nothing of patience.

A sequence of small exercises is planned for this first run. We start by practising translating at the easiest location possible, that is, along the vertical side of the truss, where there’s continuous railing. From there we’ll move down towards the Lab and Node 2, a translation that’s more difficult since I have to overcome obstacles and change orientation more than once. Then I’ll try using the PGT before the divers take me to an APFR, or Articulating Portable Foot Restraint, a device that allows you to lock the boots of your suit in order to work freely with your hands, yet with a solid anchor point. Getting your boots into the APFR, however, is no easy feat. Or to clarify, the movement itself isn’t difficult – a deliberate rotation of your heels – but it’s a huge challenge to orientate yourself correctly and to find the right handholds to press your feet onto the APFR plate. It would, of course, be much easier if I could see my feet, but that’s a privilege reserved for tall people with long necks, whose heads fit higher inside the helmet.

Fortunately, I had no illusions. Every little thing I do in the suit feels extremely difficult and tiring, but I’m not frustrated. On the contrary. Maybe I expected worse. Apart from anything else, a few small worries I had have proven to be unfounded. For example, the drinking straw is well positioned, and I can take sips easily. It’s like the straws used by cyclists: the bite valve opens up when you squeeze the straw between your lips, and then closes when you’re done. The drink bag, which I attached inside the suit under Tracy’s guidance, holds roughly a litre of water.

Towards the end of my three hours, they’ve reserved time for a couple of demonstrations. One consists of a ten-minute period with my head down, which is fairly unpleasant because of the pressure on my shoulders. Finally, when I’m back at the donning stand, and still just below the surface at the side of the pool, I’ll have a chance to experience rapid depressurization. First, for safety reasons, the pressure of my suit is reduced, then a diver removes one of my gloves, and my suit immediately deflates. It’s a situation I’ll probably never face again, but I’m glad to know now that there’s nothing dramatic about it.

I’m radiant when I come back up to the surface, beaming at everyone around me. You don’t have days like this very often, where you experience something truly exceptional. Moreover, despite all the difficulties posed by my small size, I wasn’t uncomfortable. I’m actually confident that with time and a lot of practice, the suit and I will find a way to get along.

Today, a bit more than usual, I feel like an astronaut.

—

It was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life, the kind you relish little by little because you got there slowly, one step at a time … so much so that when they actually do happen, they seem almost inevitable, and it’s only later that you realize how exceptional they really were. For some time, I continued to relive those moments of my first day in the suit, as if hoping to keep the memory from fading away. Yet only a short time later, something happened that would trump everything else, emotionally speaking.

I don’t really understand the chain of events that led up to it – the time difference between Europe and America no doubt had something to do with it. But the news came from Silke, secretary to my boss in Cologne, who forwarded a message sent a few hours earlier. The subject line read:

Fwd: Fw: 2 letters from ASI regarding the assignment of Samantha Cristoforetti to Expedition 44/45 in May 2015.

The waiting had finally come to an end! No more worrying or uncertainty, no more fear of unforeseen events. Attached to the email were the official, signed letters from the president of ASI, recommending my assignment to NASA and ESA respectively. It was a watershed. For those who knew nothing about it, I was the same person I’d been the day before. But for me, everything had changed. The countdown had begun: in less than three years’ time, I’d be going into space.

The news of my assignment ushered in a slew of questions, and I was particularly keen to know what seat I’d be assigned on the Soyuz. Would I be flying, as I hoped, in the left seat in the role of flight engineer? To find out, I would have to wait for the MCOP’s formal appointment. The MCOP was a committee formed of all the international ISS partners, and together they would decide on the crew. Perhaps precisely because the seat assignment was still pending, the same day, Dmitri asked me to give him my availability for a retake of the Russian exam, since my original result, though perfectly good, was now two years old. After all the months I’d spent in Russia the previous year, and thanks to the excellent teacher who gave me occasional lessons at JSC, over the next few weeks I attained my highest level of Russian ever and got the best possible marks, surely a point in favour of the assignment I longed for. And it had to count for something that, as a reserve astronaut, I’d already completed the theoretical part of the flight engineer course.

It was actually the MCOP that confirmed after its meeting on 4 April a persistent rumour that had been circulating for a couple of weeks, to the effect that the ASI flight was being brought forward by six months. I would be the flight engineer – hurrah! – for Soyuz TMA-15M, with an expected launch date of late November 2014. As if that weren’t exciting enough, there was also a geeky aspect: my crew’s arrival at the ISS would complete Expedition 42. As every reader of Douglas Adams and his The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy knows well, forty-two is the answer to the ultimate question of Life, the Universe and Everything. The exact question is never revealed in the book, but that’s the beauty of it. As far as I was concerned, ‘Which ISS expedition will you be on?’ qualified without a doubt as the ultimate question.

With my launch date and my role on the Soyuz confirmed, my greatest curiosity concerned my travel companions. Who would they be? Veterans, or rookies like me? Men or women? Military or civilians? Pilots or scientists? A doctor? Would they be roughly my age, or older? From the MCOP, again, I had the answers to all my questions. Besides me, they’d assigned cosmonaut Sergey Zaletin and NASA astronaut Terry Virts, the same Terry I’d seen fly into space a couple of years earlier on the Space Shuttle. Our assignment also meant that we would serve as back-up crew for the Soyuz leaving six months ahead of ours. So Terry and I were now back-ups for my Shenanigan colleague Alex, a PhD in geophysics with a passion for active volcanos and wingsuit flying, and for Reid Wiseman, a NASA astronaut and former US Navy test pilot.

Our mission wouldn’t be publicly announced for some months, and we were not allowed to release any information earlier, but the machine that would propel us towards the launchpad immediately swung into action. Things moved slowly initially, but they would accelerate, relentlessly up to the launch day. One of the little signs that things had changed was that I was assigned to Luca A., an increment training integrator, whose job was to schedule my training.

For the next two and a half years, my life would belong to him.