Uncle Empire

By Jonathan Raye, Ph.D.

At the mere age of 21, Dr. Raye has done more than most people can accomplish in a lifetime. He has invented the device upon which all astronauts, cosmonauts, taikonauts, and spationauts depend—namely, the spacesuit.

Through mighty effort I have managed to devise what may be the greatest invention of our age (excluding sliced bread). It is the most illustrious container of that most prized of things: life. And with a capacity to protect and simultaneously empower its wearer under the harshest of conditions—the vacuum of space and the absence of heat—it has been hailed as a second skin, equal to nature's design in both function and genius.

The fate of the body in outer space without a spacesuit is unpleasant. This has been confirmed by a number of experiments on rats and several Golden Retrievers. Bubbles form in the blood, arising from ruptured lungs. The film of water overlaying your eyes and mouth boils off. And liquids in the soft tissues evaporate, prompting limbs to swell to twice their natural size.

What was notable to me at the beginning of the space race, though, and especially at the initiation of spacesuit development in 1953, was that these symptoms are not inevitable.

One day, while muttering over some stubborn equations in my lab at MIT, President Eisenhower strode through the door and said, "Johnny, old boy, I've got a new challenge for you, as I see the Manhattan Project was not enough."

"Indeed, I figured out most of that nuclear stuff in my sleep."

"Well, it so happens that the U.S. is embarking on another secret mission—that is, we aim to put a man in space, and moreover, have him orbit the earth, and moreover, have him come back to earth with the two of his family jewels still in marketable condition. And we need you to design a suit that will protect a man when he emerges into the vacuum of space."

Two days hence, a naked mole rat was outfitted with aluminum foil and inserted into a vacuum jar. Four days hence, a guinea pig was covered with a mixture of rubber cement and aluminum foil and inserted into a vacuum jar. (His survival was misleading.) Nevertheless, the shortcomings of the suit were corrected, and in short order the suit illustrated in Figure 2-1 was developed.

Picture now the moment of truth, when Alexey Leonov exited his spaceship, the first human being to do so, and vaulted headlong into the emptiness of space. It was 18 March 1965, 8:34 a.m. After 12 minutes he returned to his spaceship, the Voskhod 2. Later, he returned to the Ural Mountains of Berezniki, a trip which, ironically, was more perilous than the space walk he had just completed.

You may exasperatingly point out that a flaw exists in my logic, that Alexey Leonov was a citizen of the Soviet Union, his body the property of a Soviet Fatherland, and therefore I could not possibly have provided the means by which he performed mankind's first extra vehicular activity. But you are incorrect. I am an American, and therefore a capitalist, and I secretly sold my spacesuit technology to the Soviets.

Here's how I made my discovery: Three slide rules and a 1,000-page textbook were strewn across my desk when I called out to my assistant, "Darling, bring over my distilled mineral spirits!" Which is how I called my vodka at the time. In seconds she was at my side, and while waiting on me to finish my drink, an ember from her cigarette wafted to my arm and burned it. The significance struck me immediately: A spacesuit would need a Micrometeroid Protection System. And thus, MPS was incorporated into the early Navy Mark V spacesuit.

Many such features can be credited to my powers of foresight, like the OPS Actuator, the Primary Life Support System, and the Pressure Stabilization Mechanism. Still, the battle ahead was not merely uphill; it was 90 degrees. After innumerable conferences with NASA, the space agency rejected outright my invention, claiming that such a device was superfluous and therefore unfit for use. A pen manufacturer that had succeeded in making its product write upside down, however, was awarded a $3 million contract.

In the face of such shortsightedness, I made a proposal to the administrators of the space agency. I said, "The survival of a man in space is a function of the availability of resources upon which he depends. As you know, a man depends, on average, on 0.3 grams of oxygen per breath. Now consider that in a space vacuum the number of grams per breath is zero."

There was scoffing in the room, so I continued: "If you think man can hold his breath, and also his wits, for the length of time required for extra vehicular activity, I defy you to put a monkey in space, without the protection of my space suit, and have him come back to earth with the two of his family jewels still in marketable condition." The authorities took up my challenge with a grunt.

Shortly thereafter, Albert, a rhesus monkey of pure American stock, was sent up into orbit sans suit. His limbs expanded precipitously, his heart imploded, and bubbles of nitrogen ravaged his brain—all that remained upon his return to earth was a sizzling carcass. Not content to admit that they had been in the wrong, NASA catapulted Albert II into space. He was met with the same fate. This applied to Alberts III, IV, and V. At this point, feeling a piercing guilt, I reminded NASA that a spacesuit might resolve the issue.

Albert VI received a custom tailored spacesuit, and you will not be surprised to hear, that he returned to earth unscathed. Though NASA never acknowledged their folly, they did recognize my genius, and thereafter commissioned me to produce several thousand human-sized models.

To my satisfaction, on 3 June 1965, 3:16 p.m., Edward White of San Antonio, Texas, took off in a Titan 2 rocket, wearing the G4C, the latest and most sophisticated model in my spacesuit line. Some four hours later, he entered the realm of the stars, ecstatic at keeping such noble company. Little did he know, it was the most lethal company one could keep: micrometeroids would pierce his suit if not for the Micrometeroid Protection System; cold would freeze his skin if not for the Temperature Regulator Device; and cosmic radiation would kill his cells if not for the Aluminized Mylar Coating. Yet in spite of the constant danger, Murphy's Law could find nothing to go wrong, so nothing did. Edward White returned to earth unscathed and became an instant hero.

Later, over a dinner of dauradé à la canoise in the White House, Mr. White leaned over to me and said, "You know, Dr. Raye, it's a great suit you've designed, but it has one flaw that I know all too well—when nature calls, there's no way a man can answer." I shook my head in disappointment and replied, "Mr. White, since when was comfort the mother of invention?"

* Everything in this article, with the exception of Jon Raye's specific involvement, is true.