"Pearson, Martin - So You Want To Be A Space Flier" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pearson Martin)

just right and go to sleep (falling off a cliff in your dreams); while you're
having your nightmares, the ship has swung slightly on its own axis and you wake
up (screaming) either half frozen or half roasted.
And, you know, there's nothing to do on a spaceship, outside of keeping alive.
That's what finally gets you. But there couldn't be two people, even if the
ships were made larger. Under those conditions, two people would hate each other
in a week and murder each other before the voyage was over. Three or more people
would be impossible.
Well, you ask yourself, why one man then? First of all, let's touch on
generalities.
The course of a space-ship is all figured out by mathematics before it leaves
the planet. The weight is calculated down to the last gram, including crew of
one, food, and so on. The exact second for starting, flight, figures on the
orbit the ship will follow, the orbit of Earth, the orbit of Mars--precisely
where both planets will be at the moment of starting, where they will be the
first day, the second day, etc., midpoint, and when the ship arrives. Plus
research on the orbits of about three thousand asteroids, meteor swarms, the
moon, comets, the sun, the other planets.
It takes about a week of solid calculation by trained mathematicians and
super-machines to work out all the factors. Humans alone could never do it. When
the ship is dispatched, its course is fixed on its control. It doesn't require a
single human hand in operation; no human hand could possibly be as exact as
control timing requires. Once in space you don't navigate; you couldn't possibly
figure out your exact speed and position. All you can do is sit around wondering
whether or not someone made a mistake, or if, perhaps, a wheel slipped somewhere
in the calculating machines. If anything did go wrong, then it's curtains for
you.
So, what's the one man for? Well, in case of accidents--minor accidents--he can
be useful. He can put out fires, prevent cargo from shifting, keep the ship from
absorbing too much heat in any one spot, thus damaging the cargo and records, or
keep the ship from freezing solid in spots, thus ruining the mechanism. And,
after the ship has reached a point of about one hundred miles off the surface of
the planet, the space-man lands the ship.
But, out in space, there's nothing more you can do. Keeping the temperature
steady doesn't require attention; you know it when it hits extremes. You don't
navigate; you don't take readings, and you don't have to swab the decks or clean
the place or oil the engines. You couldn't.
On the whole, the life of the spaceflier is easily the dullest, most dreary and
sickening, irritating, and unhealthy life you can get. That's why there's always
an opening for applicants; it's also why few of them last a year. When you get
back from a flight, you're as weak as if you spent the time strapped to a bed;
you can barely walk; your digestion is ruined and you're filthy, groggy, and
smelly. Your eyes are bad; your lungs are bad, and your stomach's bad. Your skin
is ruined; you've the hair and beard of a hermit. Shaving is impossible under
no-gravity conditions, and the no-gravity treatment for baldness is unbeatable.
You're ornery anti-social, and grumpy when you get back. A 100% sourpuss. You're
poison to your friends and family. It takes days really to get clean, and, until
you do, no one wants to come near you; in comparison, the camel is a
sweet-smelling, pleasant beast. There is no camaraderie among space-men. You
can't make friends on the job, and there's nothing to talk about, for all you