Riding a rocket outrageous stories. Mike Mullane, Riding a Rocket

Helpful Hints 27.06.2019

Helpful Hints

Interpreter Igor Lisov

Editor Rosa Piscotina

Project Manager I. Seryogina

Correctors S. Chupakhina, M. Milovidova

Computer layout A. Fominov

Cover designer Y. Buga

The editors would like to thank Leon Rosenblum for his help in preparing the book.

All rights reserved. The work is intended solely for private use. No part of the electronic copy of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet and in corporate networks, for public or collective use without the written permission of the copyright owner. For copyright infringement, the legislation provides for the payment of compensation to the copyright holder in the amount of up to 5 million rubles (Article 49 of the LOAP), as well as criminal liability in the form of imprisonment for up to 6 years (Article 146 of the Criminal Code of the Russian Federation).

* * *

To my mother and father, who turned my gaze to the cosmos.

To the thousands of men and women of the Space Shuttle program who sent me into space.

Donna, who was by my side every step of the way

Translator's Preface

The memoirs of American astronaut Michael Mullane stand apart among the books of this genre. There are a little over 500 people who have flown into space; perhaps at least a hundred of them left memoirs. There are books frankly lacquering and quite truthful, exciting and passing. different fates- different messages to posterity. Yuri Gagarin is the first man in space, a symbol of his country and era. Konstantin Feoktistov, who designed spaceships and tested them. Georgy Grechko, techie and smart guy with a wide range of interests. James Lovell and Michael Collins - members of the most difficult expeditions to the moon. Dick Slayton, who selected the crews for the Gemini and Apollo spacecraft and appointed himself to the latter. Chris Hadfield is a man of our time, "a simple Canadian guy who decided to become an astronaut and became one."

Michael Mullane is one of those for whom the Apollo lunar expeditions and the first American orbital station Skylab were already a fact of history: 35 newcomers to the 1978 recruitment were trained to fly on the reusable Space Shuttle system. These people, with whom the author mastered the craft of an astronaut, became the closest to him, and Mullane's autobiography can partly be considered the history of "thirty-five".

Ahead of its time and unused by a quarter of its capabilities, the Space Shuttle system was at the same time the most dangerous among all manned vehicles in the history of astronautics. For 30 years, 135 flights have been made. Two beautiful and smart orbital ships out of five built died, taking with them the lives of 13 Americans and one Israeli.

Cosmonautics for the author is not a holiday every day, but everyday hard work in a complex hierarchical structure, this happy ticket assignments to the flight crew and the fear of not returning alive from the shuttle flight. The fear is very real, not dictated by the publishers' demands for better sales of the book, but based on the knowledge of the fact that the shuttle does not have an emergency rescue system and that at the most dangerous stages of the flight, practically nothing depends on the knowledge and efforts of the astronauts.

Mullane describes in detail the period of preparation and the first decade of operation of the system, which was covered in the domestic media almost exclusively in the interests of propaganda, so that the real goals of shuttle flights, achievements and mistakes along the way remained practically unknown to the Soviet reader and viewer. This accounts for a significant amount of footnotes, many of which explain details of the program's history that are well known to American audiences.

We knew even less about the human side of the program: how to become an astronaut, how crews are selected and trained, what American “space explorers” live and breathe, when and why people leave the detachment, what they do after completing their space career. The short “window” of mutual sympathy and ties during the years of the Apollo-Soyuz project closed, and American astronauts were once again seen as representatives of a geopolitical adversary.

Yes, Riding a Rocket is also a portrait of an era. Michael's father was a US Air Force officer, and Mullane himself, carrying out reconnaissance flights over Vietnam and in Europe, along the borders of the Western and Eastern blocs, was ready at any moment to engage in battle with the "damned communists." The hatred for the USSR brought up from childhood, which is characteristic both for the author and for many of his colleagues in the astronaut corps, often splashes out on the pages of the book, and the cynicism of American officers at times causes shock. It is strange to realize that in 1995, just a few years after the events described, Mullane's commander and idol Huth Gibson "steps on the throat of his own song" and leads the first shuttle to the Russian orbital station Mir.

Mullane narrates space technology, flight preparations, three trips to orbit in trench-truth style, using not an academic lexicon but the salty language of a barracks. There is no smell of political correctness here - both religion and women get it. We had to soften some expressions in order to remain within the law.

The book contains a large number of abbreviations of English technical terms and names of space organizations that are commonly used in the American space program. Most of them are summarized by the author in a separate glossary at the end of the book and, with some clarifications, can be used, in particular, to search for more detailed description corresponding objects in English-language literature. Some of the abbreviations in the translation are replaced by the full or abbreviated name or common Russian abbreviation with the same meaning, some by neologisms like askan, emes and capcom, however, it turned out to be impossible to completely abandon the English-language abbreviations. For the convenience of readers, their decoding is given at the first use by the author and is recalled in a number of cases when they are repeated. Translator's notes necessary for understanding the text are given in footnotes, more detailed comments for enthusiasts and connoisseurs of space can be found at the end of the book.

My friend and colleague Leon Rosenblum previously translated, on his own initiative, some fragments of this book and kindly allowed them to be used in the text offered to the reader. (The mentioned fragments, being published on Leon's personal page in social network, brought Mullane's book to the attention of a wide range of space enthusiasts, and eventually to the publisher.) He also reviewed the finished translation and made a number of valuable comments.

Gratitude

My first and greatest thanks go to my wife Donna for her patience, love and support during the writing of this book. My children Patrick, Amy and Laura also helped me enthusiastically. Thank you!

I am deeply indebted to my agent Faith Hamlin of Sanford J. Greenburger Associates, who convinced me to write my life story. Thank you, Faith, for your support and enthusiasm in promoting the Riding Rocket manuscript.

Editor Brant Rumble at Scribner put his exceptional talents into my story, and I am indebted to him. He not only helped me hone my literary skills, but also supported me most of all throughout the entire publishing process. A heartfelt thank you to the rest of the amazing Scribner team who contributed to getting my story to print.

Johnson Space Center Shift Leader Jay Greene was the first to read the manuscript, and I am grateful for his advice. Thanks also to astronaut Robert Hoot Gibson, astronauts Ray Seddon, Michael Coates, Pierre Tuot, and Dale Gardner who took time out of their busy schedule to proofread. By thanking them, I do not mean that these discerning readers agreed with everything written. One of them thought that I was too harsh about the "political" astronauts. The second considered my criticism of some of the leaders of NASA insufficient. I am grateful for all the opinions expressed, but I did not change myself to please them. "Riding the Rocket" is my story, written as I remember it.

Many of the conversations I recount in the book took place decades ago. Therefore, quoted quotes should not be taken literally: this is how I remember these conversations.

Chapter 1
Guts and brains

I lay naked on my side on a table in the bathroom of the NASA Flight Medicine Clinic and stuck the tip of an enema into my anus. This is how the astronaut selection process begins, I thought. It was October 25, 1977. I was one of about 20 men and women undergoing a three-day program of medical examinations and personal interviews in the process of selecting candidates for astronauts. Nearly a year earlier, NASA announced that it was starting to accept applications from those wishing to be part of the first group of astronauts to fly on the shuttle. 8000 people responded. The agency reduced this whole pile of resumes to about two hundred, and somehow, miraculously, I was among them. In the following weeks, all of us, each of 200, were supposed to be on this gurney and provide our "lower floor" for testing - we were preparing for the study of the intestines.

We have heard that NASA intends to select from our group about 30 people who will fly on the shuttles. There was little chance that I would be among these chosen ones. Not because I didn’t fit - there were ticks on all the necessary points of the requirements. As a West Point graduate with a US Air Force contract, I couldn't be a pilot because my eyesight wasn't good enough. But I flew about 1,500 hours in the back seat of an RF-4C, which was a reconnaissance variant of the F-4 Phantom. Like Goose in Top Gun, I was the back row guy. For 10 years, I participated in 134 sorties in Vietnam, received a master's degree aviation engineer and completed a flight test engineer course at the US Air Force Test Pilot School. I definitely met the requirements, but several hundred other applicants looked just as good. There were too many outstanding military pilots around for me to be able to deceive myself. Even if I am a "guy that is necessary", but there are legions of others nearby who have the right qualities in abundance, pilots that made Alan Shepard and John Glenn look weak compared to them.

Yes, there were few chances, but I intended to do my best. AT this moment this maximum meant an exact hit where the sun never looks: I was preparing for the first rectoscopy in my life.

Just before I entered the bathroom, I overheard one of the civilian applicants complaining that he had failed his examination. At the word "failed" my ears perked up. It turned out that he was too lazy to thoroughly cleanse the intestines and received an appointment for a second procedure for tomorrow.

"I didn't prepare for the rectoscopy." I imagined those words written in big red letters on his medical record. Who will read them? Will this be taken into account in the selection process? When the commission has to choose one of seven people and each of us is a superman or a wonder woman, you cannot be allowed to be told about you “failed” or “could not stand it”, even if we are talking about such a harmless matter as bowel cleansing. My paranoia in this matter was fueled by the mortal fear that every military pilot has of a flight doctor. When the stethoscope approaches your chest, when the needle jumps on the pressure gauge, you feel that your entire career is in jeopardy. The slightest failure - and the "wings" of the pilot will have to be put on the table. Military pilots looked forward to a medical examination with about the same feeling as they would expect an engine fire in flight. We didn't want to see a "failed" mark on any document coming from the flight doctor's office. I have known pilots who, in case of illness, preferred to secretly visit a civilian doctor outside the air base, but never attract the attention of a flight doctor. Of course, it was strictly forbidden, but the main thing was not to get caught. I followed the same logic when I flew to Houston to take part in the examination. NASA doctors, in their amazing naivety, asked us to bring medical records from their air bases in person - it was like trusting a politician with a ballot box. As the plane left for mile after mile, I ripped out pages from the medical record that I thought might raise questions I didn't want to answer. In particular, I got rid of references to a serious neck injury received a year earlier during an ejection from the cockpit of an F-111 fighter-bomber. During this incident, my head in a heavy helmet jerked as if it was on the tip of a whip snapped by a cowboy. I got a severe neck strain. After I wore a neck brace for a week, the doctors at Eglin Air Force Base agreed to give me back my flight clearance, but I wasn't sure NASA medics would take a neck injury lightly. It will definitely not be an argument in my favor: such damage with unpredictable consequences may well force them to stamp “not fit” on my application. It must be assumed that the other 199 applicants did not have such a nuisance as a neck injury in their medical history, and I did not want to risk it. So I got rid of the seditious pages, promising myself to return them to their place on the way back. I had the only ghostly chance of becoming an astronaut, and I could not be stopped by such nonsense as an illegal act. I forged official documents and, like countless pilots before me, hoped not to get caught.

Yes, I intended to do everything to qualify as an astronaut. I inserted the enema tip and squeezed the pear. I wished that the NASA proctologist who looked into my anus would see such a dazzling glow that he would have to ask the nurse to bring sunglasses.

“Hold five minutes,” the instruction said. Well, here it is, I thought. That civilian who couldn't clear his bowels must have expelled his contents at the first urge. No, I can take 15 minutes! I will keep everything in me until it climbs through the esophagus! I clenched the sphincter, clenched my teeth, and endured contraction after contraction until I felt like I was about to pass out. Finally I emptied my colon and repeated the process.

“Do not repeat more than twice,” the instruction read. Yeah, how. The title of an astronaut was at stake, and even if I had been warned: “Do not repeat this more than twice, otherwise death may occur,” I would not pay any attention to it. I poured a third enema into myself, and then a fourth. The last liquid was clear as gin.

I left the proctologist's office with the air of a first grader who received an A plus for homework. He repeated several times that he had never seen such a perfectly prepared rectum. And the fact that for two weeks after that I could not poop - I was ready to pay such a price. (By the way, the civilian that failed to prepare the intestines did not pass the selection.)

The next item was a conversation with a NASA psychiatrist, and she worried me. Never in my life have I had to deal with shrinks. Do they have a “good fit” criterion? I considered myself a mentally balanced person. (A strange self-assessment, considering that I just set the world record for the longest enema in a paranoid quest to secure a job.) But how does a psychiatrist assess mental state? Will he observe "body language"? Could a blinking eye, a throbbing vein in the neck, or a drop of sweat mean something? Something bad? Out of desperation, I began to recall what was written about the examination of the psyche of the first astronauts in the book “Riding the Fire”. All I can remember is how they were given a blank sheet of paper and asked to "interpret" what they saw, and one of the astronauts said that he saw polar bears having sex in the white snow in the picture. Was such humor appropriate? I have no idea. I flew on autopilot.

I was surprised to find out (and terrified by this even more) that I would have a psychiatric examination by two different doctors, each lasting about an hour. I went to see the first one. The doctor got up from the table and introduced himself, shaking my hand weakly with his wet palm. Before I could even spend 50 seconds in the office, I was already in a panic. Was this shrug some kind of test? If I answer so weakly, would that mean that I have some kind of hidden sexual problem? I decided to answer with a firm grip - not to try to break the doctor's hand, but to answer firmly. I watched his face, but it remained impenetrable - I could not understand anything. I might as well shake hands with Master Yoda. He had a quiet voice, so quiet that I suspected it was a covert hearing test. He nodded towards the chair. Thank God it wasn't a couch; she would have completely finished me off.

He had a clipboard and pencil ready. I swallowed and waited for some Freudian question like "how many times a week do you masturbate?" But instead he said, "Please subtract seven by seven, starting at 100, as quickly as you can." I heard the click of the stopwatch button and the seconds ticked by. One… second… third… My chances of becoming an astronaut were running out with those seconds! Only my experience as a rookie recruit at West Point, where I learned to immediately obey and follow orders, allowed me to react with lightning speed. If he wants me to subtract sevens starting at 100, then I should do it. At least it's better than answering the question about masturbation. I started counting: 100, 93, 86, 79, 72... Here I was wrong by one or two, tried to go back and start from the last correct number, stumbled again and hovered in the sixth ten, slurring the numbers. Finally I stopped and said, "I think I've gone astray." These words were marked by the click of a stopwatch, which sounded like a gunshot in the silence. Maybe it would be better, I thought. I'm a dead man - at least my chances of becoming an astronaut got death blow. I failed a test that was clearly a test of quickness and intelligence.

The psychic didn't say anything. There was a long silence, and all I heard was the scratching of a pencil on paper. I had the cleanest intestines in the world, but constipation happened in my brain. That's why I failed the test. I was sure that this very word - "failed" - would be deduced by the hand of a psychiatrist. It is clear that the remaining 199 applicants will pass the test with ease. They will probably be able to get to the last numbers - 23 ... 16 ... 9 ... 2 ... - in a few moments, after which they will ask the psychiatrist if it is necessary to repeat the task, and even extracting along the way square roots. I was sure the man across from me was thinking, "Who let this guy in here?"

There was nothing to lose, and in a hopeless attempt to break the maddening silence, I joked: "But I'm strong in counting down by one."

He didn't even smile. "That is unnecessary". The icy tone confirmed my feelings: I had failed.

After the test with sevens, the doc raised his pencil and asked: “Let's say you died, but you can resurrect in any form. What will you choose?

My panic intensified. Why this question? What minefield of my soul is he driving me into? I began to regret that he did not ask about masturbation.

This time the stopwatch was not ticking, and I decided to think a little. What to choose? Does this mean that I can be reborn as a different person? Alan Shepard? Here seems to be a good answer. But then it occurred to me that Shepard, like all test pilots, hates shrinks. Maybe it was he who impudently suggested that polar bears commit adultery on a white sheet? I couldn't remember it and decided not to risk it. I'd rather not voice my desire to be reborn as an astronaut hero, whom psychotherapists may dislike for neglecting their profession.

I asked for clarification. “When you offer to choose something, do you mean another person, object, or animal?”

He just shrugged, and body language told me, "I'm not going to tell." He clearly wanted me to step on one of the psychic mines myself.

I ran the idea of answering in my head that I wanted to come back as Wilbur Wright, or Robert Goddard, or Chuck Yeager, or some other aviation and rocketry pioneer. Perhaps this will be a signal that being an astronaut is my destiny. And again my inner voice whispered that this was unreasonable. What if the desire for such a reincarnation will manifest me as a megalomaniac seeking fame?

And then it dawned on me: "I would like to be born again ... an eagle." It was a great answer. It explicitly conveyed my desire to fly, but did not allow the doctor to get deeper into my synapses. (Later, I heard from one of the applicants that he fought the temptation to answer the question that he would like to be reborn in the form of a bicycle saddle by Cheryl Tiegs. It would be interesting how the "nut" would react to this.)

My answer about the eagle was accepted by a new pencil scratch.

The next question was a clear attempt to get me to evaluate myself.

- Tell me, Mike, if you die right now, what will your loved ones write on the tombstone?

"Wow! Is it supposed to be that easy?” - I thought, and after thinking thoroughly, I answered:

I think it will say: "To my beloved husband and wonderful father."

I was sure that I earned a few points on this. Is it possible to imagine a better answer to show that the family for me is first of all, that I have the right priorities? In fact, I would sell my wife and children into slavery if it would allow me to go into space, but I decided that this fact is better not to advertise.

What do you think is your uniqueness?

Of course, I wanted to answer: “I can hold an enema for 15 minutes,” but instead I said: “Whatever I undertake, I do my best.” At least it was true.

The conversation with Psycho No. 1 continued. He asked if I was right-handed or left-handed (I'm right-handed) and what church I belonged to (Catholic). He also asked what kind of child I was in the family (the second of six children). Hearing the answers, he wrote something for a long time. Later I learned that a disproportionate number of astronauts (and other prominent people) are the first children in the family and left-handed Protestants. Perhaps due to the fact that I was not included in any of these groups, I was not given a countdown by sevens.

In the end, he handed me over to "Psycho #2". Slumping my shoulders, I entered the new office, convinced that my fate as an astronaut depended on what Yoda wrote down in the report: "Challenger Mullane is not capable of counting backwards by sevens."

Psycho #2 turned out to be a good cop in the good cop-bad cop system. Dr. Terry McGuire greeted me with a vigorous handshake and a big smile. I have seen such a smile in used car dealers. I looked for the diamond ring on McGuire's hand, but couldn't find it.

Dr. McGuire was open and talkative and had no pencil or clipboard in his hand: “Come in. There is no truth in the legs. Sit down". Another chair, thank God. Everything in his voice and manner said, “I'm sorry for the jerk you had to deal with. He has the manners of a chiropractor, but I'm different, I'm here to help you." And just like in the car sales office, I was sure that it was all a performance. The difference was that he wasn't targeting my wallet, he was after my soul. He wanted to know what would make me twitch, and like Captain Kirk at the sight of a Klingon battlecruiser, I gave myself the command "Raise shields!" Maybe my chances of becoming an astronaut are close to zero, but I will do everything in my power until I get a rejection letter.

After a short exchange of remarks about the weather and how the examination was going (great, I lied), the good doctor finally launched an attack on my very "shields". He asked just one question:

– Mike, why do you want to become an astronaut?

I understood that sooner or later they would ask me this question, and I was ready for it:

“I love flying, and flying into space can be the most amazing experience of its kind. – Then I decided to add some more bullshit about the fact that I am driven by love for the country: – I also believe that I can the best way serve the US Air Force and the United States of America itself as an astronaut.

Looks like a good hit, I thought. I could have done more if I had dragged Dion Warwick with me.

Riding a rocket - description and summary by Mike Mullane, read free online at ParaKnig.me

The memoirs of the American astronaut Michael Mullane are devoted to one of the brightest and most dramatic pages of the conquest of space - the Space Shuttle reusable flight program. Ahead of its time and not used even a quarter of its capabilities, the system turned out to be the most dangerous among all manned vehicles in the history of astronautics. For 30 years, 135 flights have been made. Two of the five built were lost, claiming 14 lives. How could this happen? Why did great scientific and technological achievements bring not only victories, but also defeats? Mullane describes in detail the period of preparation and the first decade of operation of the shuttles. We will learn about how crews are selected and trained, what space explorers live and breathe, about the secret springs and unforgivable mistakes of the bureaucracy, about the mentality of ordinary Americans and the opposition of the great powers. This sincere book, often rude and completely politically incorrect, can be called a portrait of the era without exaggeration.

Mike Mullane

Riding a rocket. Outrageous Stories shuttle astronaut

Interpreter Igor Lisov

Editor Rosa Piscotina

Project Manager I. Seryogina

Correctors S. Chupakhina, M. Milovidova

Computer layout A. Fominov

Cover designer Y. Buga

The editors would like to thank Leon Rosenblum for his help in preparing the book.

To my mother and father, who turned my gaze to the cosmos.

To the thousands of men and women of the Space Shuttle program who sent me into space.

Donna, who was by my side every step of the way

Translator's Preface

The memoirs of American astronaut Michael Mullane stand apart among the books of this genre. There are a little over 500 people who have flown into space; perhaps at least a hundred of them left memoirs. There are books frankly lacquering and quite truthful, exciting and passing. Different destinies - different messages to posterity. Yuri Gagarin is the first man in space, a symbol of his country and era. Konstantin Feoktistov, who designed and tested spacecraft. Georgy Grechko, techie and smart guy with a wide range of interests. James Lovell and Michael Collins - members of the most difficult expeditions to the moon. Dick Slayton, who selected the crews for the Gemini and Apollo spacecraft and appointed himself to the latter. Chris Hadfield is a man of our time, "a simple Canadian guy who decided to become an astronaut and became one."

Cosmonautics for the author is not a holiday every day, but everyday hard work in a complex hierarchical structure, it is a happy ticket to an appointment in a flight crew and the fear of not returning from a shuttle flight alive. The fear is very real, not dictated by the publishers' demands for better sales of the book, but based on the knowledge of the fact that the shuttle does not have an emergency rescue system and that at the most dangerous stages of the flight, practically nothing depends on the knowledge and efforts of the astronauts.

Genre:

Description of the book: People love other people's memories. It is not for nothing that the memoirs of the great kings of antiquity, forgotten soldiers and poets are being published. And what about the memories of astronauts? It sounds very tempting, because, in fact, we know absolutely nothing about these people. Believe me, the matter is not limited to space flights alone. This is what Michael Mullane, an American astronaut of the era of space shuttles and promising programs, is trying to tell us, looking to the future with a proud head. Mullane will tell about the life of his partners from the inside, will try to explain the prerequisites for future tragedies and give a general assessment of the events taking place. Before you is a book-revelation about the harsh everyday life of astronauts of past generations

In these days of active fight against piracy, most of the books in our library have only brief fragments for review, including the book Riding a Rocket. The outrageous stories of the shuttle astronaut. Thanks to this, you can understand whether you like this book and whether you should buy it in the future. Thus, you support the work of writer Mike Mullane by legally purchasing the book if you liked its summary.

Mike Mullane, "Riding a Rocket. Outrageous Tales of a Shuttle Astronaut" April 19th, 2017

A painting by Chesley Bonestell - the author's childhood love.

Military pilots knew the subject better. Any of us would hide a wooden leg or a glass eye, reasoning according to the principle: “And you prove it!” I had a one in seven chance of being selected as an astronaut. I didn't want anything in my examinations to be questionable. I wanted to be so normal that when someone looks up this word in a dictionary, he would find my portrait there. That's why I lied. I didn't say anything about how we peeed in the radiator, how we blew up a car engine, or how we ran around. mountain peaks on the Cessna-150.

My mouth was so dry that saliva wouldn't have been enough for even one postage stamp, but I still managed to croak in response: "Yes, sir, I'm definitely interested in working at the Johnson Center." Interested?! What the hell am I carrying? I might have been interested in Hugh Hefner's work, but to become an astronaut, I was ready to kill.

Perhaps one of best books about astronautics in general and definitely the best - about the Shuttle program ( thank you very much to everyone who recommended it in the original). And also - the history of people, society and the country, from the release of the first books by Willy Ley about space through World War II, Sputnik, Vietnam, the Moon to the flight of "Columbia" (the last one). Successive casts of different eras. And you know - sometimes even creepy to read. And you understand how good it is when you are not a Catholic girl in the USA in the early 60s. How much different could be military pilots with the experience of the above and leftists / feminists, fresh from the university. Moreover, both of them are candidates for space. What was the approach to technology when it was easier to put a live crew into the first shuttle than to try it out for an extra year.
As you might guess, the author flew on shuttles. His descriptions are, hmm, specific. Jokes then soaked as ingenious as obscene. Mullane also loves nature (from her mother) and flying. Therefore, not only frankly, but also very touching.
Are you looking for anti-Sovietism in the "Time of the First"? Yes, then Mullane should be shot for any ten pages in general, as an anti-Americanist! And he's not exaggerating. This is how the project was born - figs for what you need. Without crew rescue systems. Generally without. It's just one thing to see the Challenger flying as a child, and another thing to fly and be friends with its crew. And to know, technically, that he personally was seconds away from the same funeral. And not just once. It just turned out differently. And the lottery of preparation and flight itself ... An encyclopedic-level book (at the same time, it is verified when translating with documents).

The clouds high above the terminator glowed orange and pink under the sun's last rays. The Discovery was entering this world of shadows, and I turned to the rear windows to watch the sun sink below the horizon. Its light, until now as transparent as the soul of a child, was now split by the atmosphere. A powerful color spectrum, a hundred times brighter than any earthly rainbow, formed an arc separating the blackness of earthly night from the eternal blackness of space. Where it touched the ground, the arc of color was red like royal velvet, becoming dimmer higher, passing through many shades of orange, blue and purple, and finally fading into black. As Discovery hurried away from her, the arc slowly contracted along the planet's limb toward the point of approach, diminishing in length, density, and intensity, as if liquid colors were dissolving into the sky. But only a thin, like an eyelash, arc of indigo color remained. Then it faded, and the Discovery was completely immersed in the slumber of orbital night.