29.

A person’s life consists of a collection of events, the last of which could change the meaning of the whole, not because it counts more than the previous ones but because once they are included in a life, events are arranged in an order that is not chronological but, rather, corresponds to an inner architecture.

Italo Calvino, Mr Palomar

International Space Station, 24 November 2014

‘Kasaniye, contact!’ exclaims Anton, with an enthusiasm that betrays his emotion and relief at having arrived at our destination without any hitches. He quickly reassumes his neutral, professional tone to relay his commentary, confirming, via radio, that the proper lights go on and off in the proper sequence, indicating that the automatic docking system is functioning correctly. We’re actually transmitting the image on the screen to Earth, so the TsUP controllers are seeing exactly what we’re seeing, but they are careful not to release Anton from his duty of reporting everything by radio. This commentary is sacred for the Russians, and may be a relic from a time when video transmission was less reliable.

Right after confirmation of contact, or confirmation that our docking probe has touched the reception cone of the MIM-1 module, the attitude thrusters go on for a final, brief push, until the capture signal is illuminated: the probe’s head has reached the bottom of the cone and has been captured by the locking latches, the so-called ‘first mechanical coupling’. Our docking probe is now being retracted, a process that will take ten minutes. It’s as if we were trying to draw the 400-tonne ISS towards us. More realistically, we are the ones being drawn closer and closer, until the hooks on the docking system close, sealing the interface. Now we are one with the Space Station.

That is, mechanically we are. In practice, we’re still separated from the Space Station by two hours of meticulous leak checks. We have to confirm that there are no leaks in the tunnel that now joins us to the ISS and that will allow us to float over to Sasha, Yelena and Butch, once we open the two hatches.

‘Holy cow, there’s a Space Station out there!’ Terry says all of a sudden. He already has that nasal tone, so characteristic of space, which is caused by the fluid shift.

‘Oh my god, the sunrise! Holy, holy cooooooow!’ I exclaim in turn. I’m ecstatic and I look outside, once more abandoning professional reserve for aesthetic rapture. Now that there’s no rush I have the time to abandon myself to the silent spectacle of light and metal beyond our window: the Space Station is emerging from orbital night. Splashes of light from the low Sun’s rays hint at the complex geometry of the space outpost, which is still mostly shrouded in darkness. As the Sun climbs higher, its light outlines the contours of the various modules in their entirety. ‘Columbus, the Airlock, PMM,’ Terry says. On my side I catch sight of the Russian segment, and also the large radiators. I’m fascinated by every detail: after all these years studying it, the Space Station is right there, only a few metres from my window. I’ve so wanted to come to this place that I can’t help but love it, all the more so knowing what a privilege it is to be here. Only 215 people have been to the Space Station. I’m about to become the 216th.

Before that glorious moment, however, I have to take care of something much more prosaic, which is becoming more and more of a problem. Anton has already gone into the orbital module to start the long process of leak checks.

‘Er, Anton … could I take care of that? I have to use the toilet.’ I keep the mic away from my mouth. It’s a somewhat unusual request, since leak checks are usually the responsibility of the commander, and in training it was always Anton who simulated this part of the procedure. But he doesn’t bat an eyelid, requesting TsUP’s authorization straightaway.

‘Can Samantha go into the orbital module to start getting changed?’

No problem, as long as I keep transmitting pressure values. TsUP relies entirely on us for these readings, since we take them on a mechanical pressure gauge, a manual instrument that doesn’t send any telemetry. We even have to tap it a few times before we start to measure, in case the arrow gets stuck. So, for the first time, I leave my seat and start floating, pushing off awkwardly towards Anton. Weightlessness is fantastic! It’s all been worth it to this point, if only for this sensation, to slip through the open hatch and climb into the orbital module without the least bit of effort. What a terrestrial verb: ‘climb into’! A few days from now – weeks, maybe months – I may stop thinking in these terms. For now, I am acutely aware that Anton and I are floating above the circular opening on the floor of the orbital module: you had to be careful on Earth, not to fall through it into the descent module. Every now and then, Anton grabs me and helps me to stabilize my position. He’s already at ease up here and knows how to move. Floating must be like riding a bike: it stays with you as muscle memory.

Before he leaves me on my own in the orbital module, Anton helps me to take off my Sokol suit. We always help one another so we don’t waste time with hooks, laces or zips, but this time I’m mostly pleased that Anton is helping me to stay still. After a quick handover concerning the leak checks, he nimbly pushes himself towards the descent module, landing elegantly in his seat. He pulls the hatch to, in order to give me the privacy demanded by the situation. I take my bearings for a moment. Much as I long for the relief of the toilet, the most important thing is to perform the checks. Right now we’re testing the pressure gauge itself for leaks, and I need to transmit an update on the pressure values every minute. After that, I’ll need to operate a series of valves to check the different air volumes in the tunnel that joins us to the Space Station. As astronauts we’re ready to joke about anything and everything, but we always take valves seriously. When we hear the hissing sound of a pressure equalization, we like to be sure – absolutely sure – that we’re not hearing the air we’re breathing as it escapes into open space. I haven’t worked with these valves since my initial lessons as flight engineer, but happily, the system is astronaut-proof: I’m sure I remember that it’s impossible to simultaneously open a combination of valves that will allow air to escape outside. Nevertheless, I quickly study the diagram that shows the pneumatic connections and is posted beside the valve block, to reassure myself that I understand the procedures well. In the meantime, Dima calls over the radio for a pressure reading.

‘TsUP Moscow, Astrey 2, at 6.56 the pressure gauge is indicating stable pressure, 3 millimetres of mercury.’ One minute before the next reading. Clumsily, I turn around in mid-air. With a push here, a kick there, I take off my leggings and my nappy and then, hanging half-naked over the partially closed hatch to the descent module, I transmit the pressure reading over the radio. I’m well aware that my situation could be perceived as slightly comical and a bit embarrassing, but on the other hand, I’m on my own. When it comes down to it, no one can see me; they can only hear me. All I have to do to preserve my dignity is to keep using the radio as if I were completely at ease, with nothing in my life to worry about besides reading a pressure value every minute. I’ve learned over the years that the best astronauts, just like the best pilots, know how and when to play the actor. So I transmit the pressure gauge readings on the dot every minute with the tone of someone who’s been checking pressures in space for years, and miraculously, between one measurement and the next, I manage to use the rudimentary toilet on the Soyuz, marvelling that the airflow actually manages to take everything in the right direction. And with this demonstration of space hydraulics at work, the spectre of having to be catheterized recedes. The rest of the mission will be a breeze.

A couple of hours after docking, we’ve finally established that there are no leaks, and Sasha confirms by radio that the hatch of MIM-1 is now open. Our own hatch, the final barrier between us and the Space Station, is still firmly in the closed position, locked not only mechanically but also by the overpressure in our Soyuz – barely 30 millimetres of mercury, the difference in atmospheric pressure between a sunny day and a cloudy one, but enough to keep us from opening the hatch at all. We therefore open the equalization valve, which allows the air to flow through to the Space Station, and we wait until the pressure is the same on both sides.

The arrow on the pressure gauge moves, but not as fast as we’d like. We all keep looking at the clock. An important deadline is approaching: the end of coverage on the Ku frequency band. We’ll still be connected on the S-band, the one that allows for audio communication and the transmission of critical telemetry, but video is sent on the Ku-band, which is subject to longer and more frequent interruptions. Well, we’ll be losing the coverage in a few minutes. And since it’s unthinkable that we should make an entry into the Space Station without sending the images to Earth, where our families and friends are anxious after a night of waiting, we have to hurry in order to open the hatch in time – or else resign ourselves to another twenty minutes of waiting.

‘745 millimetres of mercury,’ Anton reports, and he adds an implicit request: ‘Almost the same as on the Space Station.’ We still need a couple more millimetres, to be honest, but TsUP gives us authorization to proceed with opening the hatch. At this point, things start to speed up. I assist Anton with the installation of the crank handle. A couple of turns, and the hooks release their hold. Anton tries to open the hatch, but the tiny bit of remaining overpressure keeps it shut. The knocking coming from the Station tells us that Sasha is trying to help us from his side. He pushes, Anton pulls, Terry and I wait, by this point resigned to a delay of another twenty minutes until we recover Ku-band. But suddenly the hatch begins to open.

‘Ready, Samantha?’

I’m somewhat nonplussed. We never talked about who would go in first, but I certainly didn’t expect it to be me. Anton is the commander of the Soyuz and Terry will be the commander of the Space Station. I ought to thank them and politely decline, but in the rush of the moment it feels like arguing would not be appropriate. And I must confess, this makes me happy. As soon as the hatch is open wide enough, Anton gently pushes me through to the Space Station.

‘Go, Samantha, go!’

It’s like a second birth. I squeeze from the cramped quarters of our little spaceship into my new life, floating towards the human beings who inhabit it. It’s an intense moment, one of those rare points of connection between past and future that propel you toward what is yet to come while shaping and completing everything that occurred before in an instantaneous backward action that flows upstream through time.

I hug Sasha, Butch and Yelena tightly, at the same time trying to move along the narrow MIM-1 module so I won’t block Anton and Terry behind me, or the cameras filming the event. We need to get into the Service Module right away for the Space-to-Ground chat with our families. Yelena leads the way along the FGB, another long, narrow module that has lots of handles for pushing yourself along. We emerge into the Service Module, and for the first time I’m able to float in a large space. I can’t find any handholds: on all the walls that I can reach there are cameras, lenses, pens and other objects attached with Velcro. Then I see a window, small and round. Somehow I manage to grab hold of a handrail and I find myself with my face against the glass, without even knowing how. A patch of Earth glides by beneath me, as lazy and majestic as a river on the plains. I watch red, sandy expanses alternate with and wrap around dry, black reliefs, a harsh landscape immediately softened by a host of small clouds. I can’t make out any cities or streets. Those who wish to look carefully at the earth should stay at the necessary distance,’ says the Baron in the Trees.fn1 I have done my best.

Sasha reminds me that Baikonur is waiting for us to make a video call and suggests that I come to the back of the Service Module, where Anton is doing somersaults, as gleeful as a child on a merry-go-round. Yelena helps me to get in position behind the table while Butch moves elegantly over my head and then comes feet down behind me. Soon we’re all lined up, the new arrivals wobbly in the front, the space veterans floating steadily behind us. Somehow I find myself wearing headphones and a microphone. It’s all been so quick! It’s only been about five minutes since we got here.

All at once they call us over the radio: ‘Station, Houston. Are you ready for the event?’ Anton starts to answer in his halting English, but Terry jumps in, surely delighted to hear his own language through the earphones after all these weeks.

‘Station is ready for the event,’ he confirms.

‘Baikonur, this is Houston. Please call Station for a voice check.’

So begins every public in-flight call with the Space Station. This time, however, there aren’t any students, journalists or VIPs on the other side – just our families, tired and emotional. It’s naturally a bit embarrassing: what do you say to each other during an event streamed worldwide? The adorable Kira, too little to worry about it, gets us all smiling.

‘Papa, I saw the rocket this time. This time I didn’t fall asleep!’

‘Well done, Kirichka! I’m looking forward to seeing your photos of the launch.’

‘Poka Kira, goodbye,’ we all say at once.

‘I’ll call you again soon,’ Anton adds.

That’s right: there’s a phone on the Space Station, a VOIP system that allows us to hook up to the Earth’s phone network, and the cherry on top is that it works in only one direction: we can call anyone, but no one can call us.

While Terry is talking to his daughter, we lose Ku-band for about a quarter of an hour. Butch, Sasha and Yelena have prepared a little feast for us. There’s a small oven compartment hidden in the table, and they’re heating up assorted cans of meat and fish in it. Butch brought some NASA packets from Node 1, and he pulls these out of a second oven, which is a sort of metallic suitcase with an electrical heater. In a minute, the table is set with packets and cans held fast by duct tape, folded sticky side up. There’s a rubbish bag tied to a corner of the table, tightly closed with rubber bands. Someone offers me a packet of water and I immediately prove to be a rookie by leaving the straw open after drinking. We’re all euphoric, despite our tiredness and the uncivil hour. It’s about six in the morning on the Space Station, and it’s been a very long Sunday, even for Sasha, Butch and Yelena. It’s not over yet: we still have a few hours’ activity ahead of us – the emergency briefing, for example – before we can rest. Anton’s crew quarter is in here, right beside the table, opposite Yelena’s. Terry and I will live with Sasha and Butch in Node 2, where there are four crew quarters arranged like spokes.

When communications are re-established, it’s my turn to talk to my family. We chat, juggling emotions with embarrassment, before Lionel casually defuses the situation. ‘I have a question for you, Terry and Anton. Now that you’re up there, can you tell me the answer to the ultimate question of Life, the Universe and Everything?’

It’s a relief to end with a joke. ‘The answer is forty-two!’

A couple of hours later, when I’m ready to collapse with tiredness, Terry calls me urgently. ‘Samantha, come quickly!’

I can guess what it’s about. Terry has jokingly forbidden me to look out of the Cupola without his permission; he wants to choose the perfect moment.

I feel like a child who’s about to unwrap a long-awaited Christmas gift: excited, but also anxious, in case it’s not as wonderful as I imagined it to be. I follow Terry through Node 3 and then plunge through a wide opening in the floor, to find myself in the Cupola at last, the Space Station’s fabulous little veranda. I’m surrounded by windows that end level with my chest. The main robotic workstation is beneath them. The rest of the lower wall area is taken up by countless cameras and lenses. I turn around to look at the panoramic view through the six peripheral windows, and then look up to the large circular window pointed towards the planet’s surface. The Earth is a black hole. Literally. We’re surrounded by stars, but below us is complete darkness. Terry has chosen the moment well. We’re flying over the Pacific Ocean, an immense expanse of water, with not a single light to suggest the presence of humanity. Eastwards, the Earth’s contour is barely outlined by a faint blue arc, like a sliver of sky bursting into a dark room through a thin, arched crack. Little by little, the crack opens, and the blue crescent stretches across the horizon like a caress. A few minutes later, the imminent dawn announces itself with a slender stroke of orange that gradually expands in an ever wider, bright embrace. The Sun arrives on the scene, shabbily dressed at first as a blotch of colour, a compact egg yolk on the horizon, before its warm light overflows and spills onto the black canvas. It’s a feast of light: the horizon is layered in infinite shades of blue and orange, swept away at the centre by the shining yellow Sun. Then, as if the split in the black canvas were finally ripped apart, I am struck by the blinding force of a fully risen Sun, which unfurls its light over the surface of the planet, beating back the darkness.

At last I go to bed, reluctant to let go of this long and perfect night, but with the warmth of the newborn Sun on my face.