Rehearsal for Space

Clad in floppy hospital coat and pants, Airman Donald Gerard Farrell grinned, "Well, here goes," and clambered into a weird contraption at Texas' Randolph A.F.B. It looked like a home furnace --3 ft. wide, 6 ft. long, 5 ft. high--encrusted with tanks, pipes and electric cables. It was firmly anchored to the concrete floor, but it was the Air Force's closest approximation to the type of cabin in which a man might solo into outer space. Airman Farrell, 23, Manhattan-born son of a Wall Street accountant, was to make a seven-day simulated trip to the moon and back. Though he would not be exposed to three of the major hazards of space flight--acceleration, weightlessness and cosmic rays--the Air Force's space medicinemen wanted to study his reactions, both physical and emotional, to confinement* and fatigue.

Farrell tried to get comfortable in a seat like a combination dentist's chair and toilet seat. He wore dark glasses, because bright light beat continuously upon him for the still camera (taking a picture every 75 seconds) and the television camera transmitting uninterruptedly by closed circuit to a nearby viewing room. Electrodes were taped to Farrell's arm and chest: he plugged in the leads so that doctors from the Air Force's School of Aviation Medicine could keep watch on his pulse and breathing.

Double Oxygen. As soon as the cabin's steel door was dogged down, technicians began lowering the air pressure inside it to 8 Ibs.--just over half an atmosphere, normal for 18,000 ft. At the same time they kept Farrell's oxygen supply normal by raising the oxygen content of the air fed to him through air-conditioning leads until it was double the sea-level proportion. And Farrell was off.

To test man's adaptability to a routine with no day-night cycle, the space medics had put Farrell on an arbitrary 14-hour day: 4 1/2 hours for sleep, two work periods of four hours each, three half-hours for meals and personal hygiene. For work, he had to solve problems fed to him through a double-screen radarscope. Similar but not identical tracking patterns appeared on the two screens. By twiddling dials, Farrell had to make the right-hand screen match the left. Flanking him was a whopping panel with 30 lights, each labeled with a command. When the light flashed indicating "check oxygen equipment," Farrell did so and got his mask on in 19 1/2 seconds.

Music on Request. Farrell had already experienced weightlessness in ten parabolic curve maneuvers in a supersonic F-Q4-C. He was selected for the space-cabin test because he seemed to have just the right steady temperament. At first, in his cell, he was tense, but soon settled into the routine. He could not see out. Day after day he heard no human voice; the only sound available was recorded music which he could request (his preference: musical comedy, especially Gershwin and Cole Porter).

Farrell could talk to the outside. Every now and then he pressed a microphone button, began: "Space cabin to ground. I am now transmitting." His reports of the temperature in the cabin and how he felt were tape recorded. Everything he did and said was timed. Continuous recordings of his pulse and breathing could be matched against the kinescope showing his activities and other recordings of temperature, humidity, etc.

Chow Hound. Normally, six-footer Farrell maintains his 185 Ibs. on 2,500 calories a day. But the Air Force had stocked his tiny cabin with a rich larder: prefabricated meals of lobster, ham and chicken, with pickles and olives for garnish. He had an electric heating cup to prepare instant coffee or tea. Farrell became a chow hound, worked up to 3,400 calories a day with frequent snacks. Fearing that inactivity might cause constipation, doctors had furnished him a supply of laxatives. He never needed them.

Farrell had plenty of bottled water. He used it for drinking, for brushing his teeth, and for daily sponge baths, after which he changed into a fresh hospital suit. He stored his urine (for later measurement) in stoppered bottles, his feces in plastic bags. Air conditioning removed the moisture that came from his sweat and drew off his body heat; activated charcoal helped with the deodorizing. He slept on an air mattress stretched over a litter. Though crewcut, Farrell was annoyed to find that he had forgotten to take a comb with him. He improvised one by taping toothpicks on a piece of cardboard, contentedly ran this through his stubble. He used an electric shaver. He kept track of time with a hand-wound travel clock and a calendar on which he crossed off the dates, also kept a copious diary.

Ready If Wanted. Toward the end of his fifth day in solitary, Farrell tired noticeably. He was hard to wake (with an electric alarm operated from the outside) from his sound if cramped sleep. Then he muffed a couple of radarscope problems. But he soon snapped out of it, completed his seven-day stint--long enough to get to the moon and back at present attainable speeds--with no outward sign of emotional or physical ill effects. Only once did he show irritation, when he was fed some raucous hillbilly music. He quickly switched it off.

This week, Airman Farrell wriggled out of his space cabin, a bit stooped and wobbly from being cramped, but otherwise none the worse. He repeated what he had said before "take-off": "I would really and truly like to make that first trip to the moon. I'm available if they want me." The Air Force medics kept him under observation (surprisingly, he had lost 4 Ibs.), set about the job of analyzing the miles of records they had accumulated while Moon Traveler Farrell stayed anchored to the ground.

*The Air Force called it isolation, but Farrell knew he was surrounded by solicitous friends who would rush to his aid if he pressed a button. Thus the emotional stress of true isolation was missing.

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