In Joan's estimation, we aren't ill-suited at all. We are exactly who belongs out there. We are the only intelligent life-form we know of in our galaxy that has become aware of the universe and worked to understand it.
We are so determined to learn what lies beyond our grasp that we have figured out how to ride a rocket out of the atmosphere. It is a thrilling capability, one ripe for cowboys, but it is best done by people like her. Nerds.
Everything about space exploration is about preparedness over impulsivity, calmness over boldness. For such an adventurous job, it can be achingly routine. All risks are carefully managed; no corners are cut. There are no cowboys here.
This is how NASA keeps everyone safe. Predictable models, prepared for every scenario.
When the airlock completes depressurization, Jack gives Joan the go-ahead, and Joan keys the shuttle loop.
Now Joan is aware of her own breath, her own heart rate. Not because she is afraid of what this mission entails—there is no logical reason to be afraid yet—but because she gets nervous every time she talks to Vanessa Ford.
"Navigator, this is Houston," Joan says.
"Houston, we read you," Steve Hagen says.
Hank Redmond chimes in with his gruff Texan accent: "Good mornin', Goodwin."
"Exciting day today," Lydia Danes says.
"Indeed it is," Joan responds. "With a lot on the agenda, which is why I'm happy to tell you, Griff and Ford, that you are cleared for the spacewalk."
"Roger that," Ford says.
"Yes, roger that, Goodwin," Griff says. "Nice to hear your voice."
These are the last forty-five minutes before.
Vanessa Ford has had biomedical sensors all over her body for hours. They have been transmitting her vitals down to the flight surgeon, who monitors every breath she takes. But even well before the electrodes were placed on her body, Vanessa has been aware that someone on the ground is always watching.
Mission Control knows everything that happens on the shuttle—every temperature, every coordinate, the status of every switch. Wherever Vanessa turns, there is Houston, hearing and sensing everything around her.
This does not seem to bother anyone else on the crew as much as it bothers her. But knowing that everyone can see her heart rate—that they can see how her body reacts every time Houston speaks up—makes her feel like she has nowhere to hide.
"Nice to hear your voice, too, Griff," Joan says. "Good start to the day here."
Vanessa can hear the smile in Joan's voice. She can hear it in the lilt of her tone.
Vanessa reaches out and places her gloved hands on the airlock hatch to the payload bay. She feels a vibration in her chest. With the payload bay doors already open, this is all that stands between her and space.
There is no data feed from the airlock hatch. It is one of the few things on the shuttle that doesn't send its own signal. Which means one of them has to notify Houston that they are about to open it.
Vanessa looks at Griff. She's glad she's doing this alongside him. She's always liked him. Not just because they are both from New England, although that helps.
"Houston, we are opening the airlock," Griff says.
Vanessa begins to open the hatch. She tries to keep her heart rate steady. She's been working toward this moment for five years, dreaming of it most of her life.
Space.
She and Griff both inhale when they can see through the hatch.
They've looked through the window, but nothing quite prepares them for the sight of it now.
Vanessa's mind goes blank. There are bright lights from the ship, but beyond that, everything is black. There is no horizon, only the edge of the *Navigator* and then nothingness, with the brilliant colors of Earth in the distance.
"Wow," Vanessa says. She looks to Griff. He's lost in the sight himself.
She lets go of the ship and moves through the hatch, taking her first step into space. Her legs feel steady as she moves into the darkness. Her eyes widen at the intensity of it, a void unlike anything she's ever seen.