Falling to Earth

and drinking well, because of the EVA yet to come.” If they had told us the truth, we would have shared their anxiety and probably followed their requests.

Instead, oblivious, we continued with our science objectives, mapping and measuring the moon until mission control told us, “You’re ready for sleep and we’ll tuck you in.”

We were up the next morning raring to do more of the same. We zoomed in on the shadowy amphitheaters of crater rims and floors, prying out their secrets with our lenses. “As we go around in lunar orbit,” Dave told our geology team back on Earth, “I could just spend weeks and weeks looking. And I can pick out any number of superb sites down there.” Almost misty-eyed, he continued, “There is just so much here. To coin a phrase, it’s mind- boggling.” I couldn’t have put it better myself.

We were pleased to hear from Karl Henize that our flight was making front page news around the world. Perhaps the public was still interested in moon exploration after all. He also told us that, back in Houston, they’d been soaked with rain all day. “Going to be a lot of grass cutting to do when you get back down here, guys,” he quipped.

“Oh, yeah, but we’ve sure got nice sunny weather up here,” I replied with a chuckle. “It’s just as clear as crystal.” Besides, what did I have to worry about? I lived in an apartment. No lawn.

We began our final lunar orbits, operating the panoramic camera until the film ran out. No sense in wasting it, and who knows what it might pick up. Somewhere below us, a Soviet robot was driving around on the surface making discoveries of its own. Perhaps we would capture it on film and have a cool photo to present to the Russians.

“We’ve powered up the drugstore to receive the film when you get home,” Joe Allen joked from mission control.

“Better get a couple,” I quipped. We had a mile-long roll of film to develop.

It was time to raise our orbit a little, so the little satellite we were about to deploy could circle for a year before it was tugged down by gravity. A quick three-second burst from our engine raised our orbit by more than ten miles.

In our last hours around the moon, I received a heart-warming message. “I have a message for Al,” Joe Allen radioed from Houston, “from the King.”

“Go ahead, Joe,” I replied, curious to hear what Farouk wanted to tell me.

“The message to you is to stand by to copy your final exam grade in orbital science and observation,” Joe replied. “It’s an alpha-plus, with a subnote of: well done.”

“Tell the King thank you very much, Joe,” I responded with a grin. “I expect to see him back in Houston soon.” I was delighted that Farouk was so happy with my work.

It was time to launch our small subsatellite from the side of the service module. Launching an unmanned spacecraft from a manned spaceship around the moon had never been attempted before. I carefully aligned Endeavour, flipped a switch, and from its cradle inside the service module I could hear the satellite whipping along a curved groove in its spring-loaded release device like a bullet in a rifle barrel. By the time it spun off the end and into its own lunar orbit, the little tubular satellite was rotating fast enough to push out three whip-like arms which stabilized its wobbling spin. We watched it leave from our windows, its tiny solar panels glinting in the sunlight. Dave cried “Tally Ho!” to mission control, an old pilot’s phrase for spotting another aircraft, adding “a very pretty satellite out there.” Scientists on Earth would track the satellite for months to come, learning more about the moon’s gravity field, Earth’s magnetic field near the moon, and solar particles. The moon’s gravity would eventually drag it down to make a new crater, our mission’s final touch of the lunar surface.

I had enjoyed my six days in lunar orbit. It sounds like a hell of a long time, but there was so much to see and explore that I never grew bored. The sunlit part of the moon shifted as the days went by, so there were always new places to view. I could have happily spent a few more days there—the same feeling I get at the end of a great vacation. But it was time to go home.

I busily checked the temperatures and pressures of our main engine’s propellant tanks. If there was ever a time that I felt particularly tense or nervous on the spaceflight, this was it. With no lunar module, we were down to one engine. If it failed, I’d be looking at the lunar surface for the rest of my life, which would be as long as our oxygen lasted. In addition, without Falcon attached to the nose, Endeavour was a much lighter machine. If our engine’s control system did something wrong, I would have to react instantly, or we could be quickly rocketed in the wrong direction.

As Earth began to set on the lunar horizon and we prepared for our final pass over the lunar far side, Joe Allen wished us luck with a final nod to James Cook’s era of exploration. “Set your sails for home,” he told us. “We’re predicting good weather, a strong tailwind, and we’ll be waiting on the dock.”

“Thank you very much,” Dave replied. “We’ll see you around the corner.” Mission control would not know the success of our engine firing for sure until we emerged from behind the moon.

Then we lost radio contact with Earth for the last time. I thought back to my television interview with Fred Rogers. A child had wanted to know if I’d be scared flying to the moon. It was important to be honest. Yes, I replied, risky work can be scary.

When the engine lit, it was a real kick in the pants. I could feel the steady acceleration as it burned for over two minutes. I warily watched the gauges that told me our engine was burning smoothly and steadily, speeding us on the correct curved pathway out of lunar orbit and back to Earth.

To my relief, the burn was beautifully smooth. Soon we rounded the far side again and, as we climbed away from the moon on our new course, Dave could announce “Hello, Houston. Endeavour’s on the way home.”

We shot away from the moon at more than fifty-seven hundred miles per hour, turning the spacecraft so we could look back and use up much of our remaining film on the rapidly receding moon. “We’re almost speechless looking at the thing,” Dave told mission control. “It’s amazing—looks like we’re going straight up,” he added, commenting on our new burst of speed. “We’re leaving, there’s no doubt about that.”

It was clear from my first glimpse out of the window that the moon was shrinking. And the dramatic sun angle highlighted new features for our parting glimpses. Parts of the lunar south pole and the immense crater Tycho were visible for the first time, and I took pictures with a mixture of fascination and sadness. I’d never get to see them up close again.

“That’s a pretty good view after all those days of going around and around, isn’t it?” Dick Gordon radioed from mission control.

“Yeah, boy,” I replied, scanning the rugged terrain that bulged out in our direction. “We’re looking at new territory.” For the first time in a week, I could gaze at the entire sphere of the moon in one window. “You can see it all in one big gulp, and boy, what a gulp!” I continued to describe lava flows that we had not spotted before, until the details were too hard to make out anymore.

I fiddled with some SIM bay experiments, placed the spacecraft back into barbecue mode, then settled in for our three-day coast back to our home planet. Mission control signed off, reminding us that “our ever-watchful eye will be on you while you sleep.” Before the day was out, Dave shared a pleasant thought with Houston. “We’ve got another unanimous vote up here. That was really a great trip.”

It almost sounded like the mission was over. But as I went to sleep, I knew that tomorrow would be one of the most important days of my astronaut career. I would make the first-ever deep-space EVA.

When I woke the next morning, I first had to carry out some navigation. We had one shot to get back home, and I wanted to be on course from the beginning. While Houston kept an eye on us to make sure we didn’t stray out of a general path of certainty, I hoped to prove that it was possible to navigate to and from the moon without their help. I was aiming for a narrow sliver of horizon on a planet tens of thousands of miles away, and there was no margin for error. This far from Earth, the tiniest changes in direction could result in huge errors once we had traveled the remaining distance in our voyage.

I used my sextant and measured the angle between Earth’s horizon and my preselected stars. However, I also had to choose the right place on the horizon. Our planet is about eight thousand miles across, and the horizon is only fifty miles thick. That sounds tiny, and it looked tiny from so far away, but fifty miles was too wide for what I needed to do. I needed more accuracy.