38.

International Space Station, 28 April 2015

The entire crew is gathered around the table in the Service Module for supper, but there is no hint of the usual banter. The conversation is serious, and it revolves around a single subject. We’re recalling precedents, discussing theories, making conjectures. And we’re all asking the same question: what next?

This morning, everything went to plan, at least initially. When we flew over Baikonur at around 7 a.m., a few minutes before the launch, I was already in the Cupola, ready to scan the horizon for some sign of the rocket. I didn’t see anything, but that didn’t surprise or alarm me, since my attempts to track the launch in broad daylight had little chance of success. Similarly, at the morning DPC, there was no mention of any problem.

So we were waiting for the Progress 59P to arrive by early afternoon after the usual four orbits around the Earth, a prelude to what is always a fascinating encounter between two space vehicles in the vast emptiness of space. Gennadi and Anton had already set up the TORU in the Service Module, to be able to take manual control in case there was a problem with the automatic approach, when CAPCOM called us with an update: Moscow had announced a change from the fast six-hour rendezvous to the slower, classic rendezvous in two days. Still, nothing particularly alarming about that. There are so many minor malfunctions that can disrupt a fast approach without compromising the arrival at the Space Station. So we adjusted our expectations for the docking in two days’ time.

But as time went on, we began to suspect that the Progress 59P would never arrive. In a rush of official announcements from Moscow combined with unconfirmed information obtained by our Russian colleagues, an account began to take shape. A catastrophic failure had occurred during the burn of the rocket’s third stage. Gennadi had actually received a short video taken by the camera on the Progress. When he showed it to us a little while ago we could see the Earth quickly appearing and disappearing from the field of view, the sign of a rapid rotation. The theory is that one of the tanks might have exploded. With fading hopes, TsUP is persevering in its attempts to establish contact with the vehicle in order to obtain telemetry and send commands. But by this time it looks like the Progress has been lost.

How will this loss affect our mission? It’s not as if they’re going to make us come back early to save food supplies, is it? I’ve been on board for more than five months, and there are barely two weeks left before my departure, but the idea of having to give up even one day in space is distressing. Yet it’s easy to persuade myself that it’s silly to worry: a few days more or less will hardly make a difference to our supplies, and certainly wouldn’t be enough to justify the enormous logistical effort involved in bringing our landing forward, with the associated deployment of staff and resources. Instead, I ask myself tentatively – not putting too much stock in it – doesn’t this accident mean there’s a chance that our re-entry will be postponed, as Anton and I have been joking? He gives a sly smile, saying little beyond, ‘Who knows? There may be a chance now …’

International Space Station, 6 May 2015

Attempts to regain control of the Progress were abandoned after a couple of days. The cause of the accident is still unclear, but the chief suspect remains the Soyuz rocket, the very one that launches crews bound for the Space Station, though with a different third stage. It’s therefore more than wishful thinking to suppose that the incident may have an impact on our return, since it seems inevitable that Oleg, Kjell and Kimiya’s launch will have to be postponed to allow time for a full investigation; for the implementation of possible corrective measures; and possibly for the launch of another cargo vehicle before sending a crew to the launchpad. In this scenario, if we went back to Earth within a week as planned, Scott would be the only non-Russian crew member for some time, which would lead to an undesirable slowdown in activities. As it happens, shortly after the incident we had confirmation that NASA would like to postpone our departure.

However, it’s not at all clear that it’s possible. What is the situation with the provisions, now that we’ve lost a second supply vehicle barely six months after the Cygnus incident? What if the existing supplies of food and various frequent-use items were insufficient for a crew of six; would that rubber-stamp a 13 May return? From oxygen to wet wipes, from water to bin bags, from filters for the urine funnel to toilet inserts: Houston keeps track of these and many other consumables. In the hours immediately following the incident, the specialists promptly got to work to take stock of the situation. The verdict? Believe it or not, what seems to be in shortest supply are the solid waste containers from the toilet. When consulted, we didn’t hesitate to say that we’d cut back and eke out the current stock. When it comes down to it, we’ll just have to squash everything down, and we still have lots of single-use gloves.

However, the shortages on the Russian side seem to be more serious, and the advantages of extending our mission much less obvious, since in any case two cosmonauts would remain on board. So the question of our re-entry remains unresolved. It seems every day starts out with the promise of a decision, but the meeting of the Russian committee, which should make an announcement on the cause of the Progress accident and accept or reject NASA’s request for an extension, is regularly postponed. There’s a sense of stagnation on the Space Station, of unfulfilled expectation.

Despite the lingering uncertainty, we naturally continue to prepare for our re-entry, and all the required tasks are put on our timeline as if there were no doubt about a 13 May landing. For a start, we study. Six months have gone by since the exams session in Star City, when we demonstrated how well we had mastered a nominal re-entry, as well as any emergency. It’s time to refresh our knowledge. The thick descent checklist with its green cover and the malfunctions one with a red cover have both kept me company in my crew quarters for several days. It’s a little risky, since if there were an emergency evacuation I’d have to remember to come and get them, but I want to take advantage of these snippets of time to refamiliarize myself with procedures, so I can face the return to Earth confidently. During some of our study sessions we got to hear the friendly, reassuring voice of Dima once again. Our young Soyuz instructor was at TsUP and ready to answer our questions after all this time. Anton and I also tackled a couple of manual re-entry simulator sessions, using custom software to practise taking control of the descent module and manually guiding it through the atmosphere to the designated spot for parachute deployment. We were definitely a bit rusty, but still comfortably within acceptable margins.

Continuing our preparations for re-entry, we put on our Sokol suits today for the first time in many months, and with bittersweet emotion. We strapped ourselves into our Soyuz seats and did a leak check on the suits to confirm that, in case of an emergency depressurization, they will be ready to save our lives. On a more pedestrian level, we’ve all confirmed that we still fit in the seats, despite a few centimetres of extra height acquired here. We’ll lose them soon after landing, when the return to gravity will recompress the discs in our spine. Putting on the Sokol, taking in the unmistakable odour of the Soyuz, struggling to fasten all the straps, connect the oxygen and ventilation hoses, clumsily flipping through the checklists with thick gloves, and becoming one again with our little spaceship took me back to the whirlwind of emotions surrounding the launch, the overload of sensory stimuli on that incomparable night. But it’s all different now. There’s no trembling expectation of a voyage I’ve yearned for. Instead, I’m reluctant, and resigned to the inevitable end of a great adventure. Maybe because of all the uncertainty and the ongoing rumours of delay, I really don’t feel emotionally ready for my extraterrestrial experience to end. There hasn’t been any gradual leave-taking from space, no mental preparation for the return or anticipation of all the nice things waiting for me on Earth. I’ve packed my personal things only half-heartedly. More or less knowingly, I’m betting on our staying, and if it doesn’t happen, I’ll be bitterly disappointed.

International Space Station, 10 May 2015

Finally, the uncertainty has come to an end. A couple of evenings ago, we gathered around a radio panel and listened over a private channel to the long-anticipated announcement from our lead flight director. The decision has been taken, and our Russian colleagues have accepted the postponement of our landing. I looked at Anton with an irrepressible smile: they’ve gifted us with at least another month in space. As if seeking further confirmation of this confidential communication, I anxiously awaited the evening’s DPC for updates on the next day’s timeline. Hurrah! The pre-departure test on the Soyuz navigation system, scheduled for tomorrow morning, had been cancelled. There was no explicit reference to the postponement because we were using an open channel, and a public announcement of the delay had yet to be made by the Russians. But now I was sure I could in good conscience set aside all preparations for departure.

And in fact, there were things to do to prepare to stay. After supper, I went to get a couple of new t-shirts I’d used to wrap things in a bag ready to load on Dragon. Other than some residue from the duct tape, they were in perfect condition. A rapid inventory of my wardrobe convinced me that there’d be no problem as long as I was careful. I still have a small stock of bonus food, including my favourite dish, quinoa salad, and as if that weren’t enough good news, I even found a tiny bottle of barely used olive oil, and some bars of dark chocolate.

What might have been a weekend of frenetic pre-departure preparations had become instead a calm, ordinary weekend of life in space, and I’ve invited everyone to come to Node 1 for a cup of coffee. Literally a cup. Not only have I installed the espresso machine and got it going, but I’ve fetched some special cups from Dragon, designed for weightlessness. They were the brainchild of Don Pettit, a multi-talented NASA astronaut of explosive creativity. Some years ago, while he was on the ISS, he improvised the first prototypes with semi-rigid plastic sheets and adhesive tape. Everyone knows that in space you have to drink from sealed packets with a straw. It’s not only a question of containing fluids: when you bring a cup to your lips and tip it, it does not, in weightlessness, cause the liquid to flow towards your mouth. The liquid stays stubbornly attached to the walls of the container – unless it’s tapped, and doing that can set some of the beverage flying, forcing you to intercept it in mid-air with an open mouth. The space cups, though, are drop-shaped, with an acute angle precisely calculated to encourage the beverage towards the edge by capillary action. We can drink our coffee, then, by mimicking the gesture of drinking it on Earth, and more than that: we can savour the aroma. Who knows? Maybe one day Don’s invention will be considered the beginning of design for weightlessness.

International Space Station, 7 June 2015

We’ve made good use of our extra month on board. Thanks to great rescheduling work on the part of the ground team, these weeks have been extremely productive. Suffice it to say that we have moved PMM: we’ve removed a module on the Space Station from its position on the nadir port of Node 1 in order to berth it to the forward port of Node 3. In truth, the actual move was effected from Earth, through remote control of the robotic arm. But we had a lot of preparation to do. In effect, we had to move a room in our space home. On one day alone, I worked from morning to night to dismantle and rebuild an entire section of Node 3’s intricate ventilation ducts to a different configuration, so that the PMM could receive fresh air in its new position. So many tools were needed that Houston advised me to take down an entire drawer of tools and carry it with me. Luckily, with six months’ experience behind me, I am good at organizing my workplace, optimizing my movements and preventing things floating away from me. Back on Earth, I’ll miss these days of manual labour. When I’m no longer an astronaut, it would be lovely to find work as an artisan.

During the work of reconfiguration, I found myself in the bowels of the Space Station more than once, behind a tilted rack and in direct contact with the curved hull, usually hidden, which separates us from space. It’s very thin, but on the outside there’s a micrometeorite shielding that protects us from the smallest bits of debris. When they hit the shield, they are pulverized and scattered. This way, when the debris reaches the actual hull, the impact energy is spread over a larger surface. Bigger micrometeorites, however, would not be stopped this way. The larger ones, say, more than 10 centimetres in diameter, can be observed by the ground surveillance network, and when there’s a risk of collision, however minimal, the Space Station is moved to prevent the undesirable encounter. It hasn’t escaped anyone’s attention, though, that there’s an intermediate dimension, too small to be observed and too large to be neutralized by micrometeorite shielding. That’s why it’s so important to train for the scenario of rapid depressurization.

My last Sunday on the Space Station is coming to an end. I’ve spent it recording short explanatory videos about life on board, and they’ll be inserted into an immersive tour of the ISS, for which I’ve shot a sequence of panoramic photos at high resolution. I also found time to film myself reading some fables, and – for Towel Day – an extract from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.fn1 These will be my best-loved videos, along with my reading of a few verses from The Divine Comedy in the Cupola, and unfolding the flag of my friends of the WeFly! team, an aerobatic team formed by disabled pilots with an inspiring story of endurance and friendship. This extra month on the Space Station has truly been a great gift. I’ve also discovered that it’s allowed me to beat the record for a continuous stay in space by a woman, a record of whose existence I had never really been aware, to be honest, and which I’m achieving now because of the dubious distinction of having been unable to return to Earth according to schedule – a circumstance that had made me happy, incidentally. Now though, the moment has actually come to leave.

I enjoy a few more minutes in the Cupola, more in tune with my slight melancholy than with the spectacle of the Sun plunging into the ocean. Suddenly, high above the horizon, I see delicate blue filigree. The noctilucent clouds at last. Now I know I’m ready to go home.