True, the United States National Aeronautics and Space Administration is a civilian agency. But you’d never know that from the way they behave. NASA’s gratuitous obsession with secrecy does not merely rival that of those organizations within the Executive Branch, such as the Department of Defense, the Central Intelligence Agency or the National Security Agency, where excessive, raving paranoia is rewarded with pay raises, promotions, decorations and honors instead of being, as it would be everywhere else in our society, summarily addressed with subjection of the perpetrator’s neural synapses to immediate saturation carpet-bombing by the latest weapons in the twenty-first century’s increasingly impressive psychopharmacological arsenal; oh, no, NASA decidedly surpasses its peers in that bailiwick. So, much as I am, in general, dedicated to posting verbatim transcripts of my work, I can’t supply all the details here, Roswell fans, on pain of having my various security clearances revoked and being subsequently subjected to summary saturation carpet-bombing of my neural synapses by the latest weapons in the twenty-first century’s increasingly impressive psychopharmacological arsenal. Consequently, I beg my Dear Readers’ indulgence if, perchance, they should detect certain key omissions in this report, and furthermore, respectfully request that they not send me any e-mails concerning them.
All right, then, enough said – there’s no way today’s consultation could possibly have taken place at my office in downtown DC, of course, much less at a civilized hour, so a very early morning drive down to US 495, across the Cabin John Bridge, and around the Capital Beltway to Goddard Space Flight Center in Prince George’s County, Maryland, was de rigueur. While driving there, I reflected, as I often do in such circumstances, on Rene Descartes, the inventor (or discoverer, depending on whether you’re an Aristotelian or a Platonist), of analytic geometry. Not to cast aspersion upon all the other giants of science and mathematics, from Eratosthenes, Galileo, Newton, Einstein, or, I dare say, John Goddard himself, but the fact remains, without analytic geometry, there would be no NASA human space flight program; and, not to put too fine a point on it, Rene Descartes never got out bed before nine o’clock in the morning. In fact, he invented (or discovered, take your pick) analytic geometry while eating breakfast in bed shortly before noon on a Monday morning. Try doing that in Washington, DC and see where it gets you. Thanks to America’s twin dominatrix mistresses of Puritan work ethic and militarism, the highest virtue conceivable around the Beltway is to arrive at the office desk – as the vast majority of the Civil Service do, every day – before seven a.m., there to obsequiously smooch the appropriate nether parts of their superiors and resolutely screw up royally for eight (or even possibly eight and one-half) hours before dashing like a herd of demented lemmings back to their equally worthless spouses and ungrateful, nasty, ill-mannered broods of fledgling federal bureaucrats.
Such musing being good for just about exactly the amount of time it takes me to drive from Great Falls, Virginia to the Goddard Space Flight Center, I was thoroughly prepared for my meeting with Lofgren and Wilkins, who, since our last encounter have (I might modestly suggest, because of my sterling analysis and advice) been promoted to positions of even greater responsibility; positions with which, consequently, they are now proportionately less capable of dealing effectively. As any successful consultant will readily attest, it’s always satisfying to see your clients’ wishes come true.
Not that the reasons for one’s satisfaction are always the same – those advancements to their NASA careers, in this case, for example, were hardly causing my clients to bloom with satisfaction; but, of course, give the average American civil servant what their heart most sincerely desires, and rest assured, it will most certainly at least threaten to destroy them. Lofgren looked like thirteen miles of bad country road. The bags under his eyes would make Madeleine Albright consider a facial. Wilkins had developed a nervous tic in his left hand that, had he been of minority extraction and walking down Georgia Avenue after midnight, would give the Metropolitan Police all the probable cause necessary to haul his sorry carcass down to the precinct for a body-cavity search to find his stash of crack. I don’t know, but considered as a totality, perhaps all that goes to show that maybe there really is a God, after all.
“Gentlemen,” I lied, cordially extending my hand, “it’s great to have an opportunity to see you again.”
“Thanks,” Lofgren mumbled, ignoring my gesture of greeting, obviously distracted by some woe of Promethean magnitude, as would befit a petty federal government functionary of mediocre character and even lower mental qualification who has been, for some reason or another incomprehensible to both himself and, for that matter, anyone else, charged with a crucial role exploring the universe, “we’re really glad you could make it.”
Wilkins nodded spastically, seating himself without a word, and, I might add, like Lofgren, ignoring my extended right hand, which, without any further expression of body language, I wordlessly placed back at my side, as any truly professional consultant would.
“Forgive me,” I ventured as I seated myself, “but I can’t escape the feeling that something… extreme… has developed regarding…”
“No,” Wilkins nearly shouted in a paroxysmal ejaculation verging on hysteria, “we’re not {REDACTED} … and they haven’t {REDACTED} yet.”
“Yet?” I waited as an awkward silence lingered, and slightly too long, it seemed.
“{REDACTED}” Lofgren explained, casting a meaningful look at Wilkins, “we know about {REDACTED} and you know about {REDACTED} and {REDACTED} knows that {REDACTED} and {REDACTED} know that {REDACTED} knows about {REDACTED}, and {REDACTED}, so I can see why you thought that he was referring to {REDACTED}. But that’s not what we’re here to talk about.”
“Oh, good,” I replied, “{REDACTED}; and that’s certainly a relief.”
“Yeah, you sure as hell got that right,” Lofgren sighed, “but to tell truth, after you hear what we’ve got here, you might very well wish you had to deal with {REDACTED} instead.”
I settled back, preparing myself, and took a deep breath. “Which is?”
“I suppose,” Lofgren began, “you’ll be pleased to know that after your consultation with us back in February of 2007, the Agency made diaper time minimization a high priority for the astronaut corps.”
“It’s always nice,” I humbly responded, “when one’s advice is taken seriously.”
“After you… observed…” Wilkins added, “uh, that we may have analyzed our model of determinant relationships… um…”
“Backwards…” Lofgren jumped in, “that is; when you pointed out that wearing diapers might be a cause of infantile regression, rather than an effect, of, well, you know…”
“Being trapped in a romantic triangle with two other space cases,” I prompted.
“Correct,” Wilkins continued, “and the stress of rejection due to those circumstances leading to inappropriate conduct…”
“Such as,” I concluded, “putting on a disguise and stalking the rival for their amorous affections through an airport nine hundred miles away from where they live.”
“Precisely, Mr. Collins,” Wilkins affirmed. “Lofgren and I have co-authored two journal articles about it so far.”
“’Diaspromania,’” Lofgren nodded, “is the name I suggested.”
“That might be a bit old-fashioned, though,” Wilkins offered, now, having been given a chance to talk about his work, obviously much more his usual self. “We’re also considering ‘diasprodic dysfunctional syndrome’ – DDS.”
“So,” I inquired, more out of curiosity than anything else, frankly, “what happened to your original idea for dealing with… ah, DDS?”
“Oh, yes, our… prophylaxis protocols.” Lofgren sighed, clearly recalling what must have been a somewhat less than enthusiastic reaction to their recommendation that, prior to every mission, all the NASA astronauts involved must wear diapers 24/7 for a period of six months while concurrently undergoing psychological testing for infantile regression every two weeks. “That never got off the ground, as we say around here.”
I smiled at Lofgren’s clever, tasteful, relevant and well-placed pun, a clear indication of an improving mood. He smiled back. The tension pervading the room became considerably less palpable.
“Getting the bigwigs at headquarters thinking about it, however,” Wilkins interjected, “you know – placing that image in their minds…”
“We’re sure,” Lofgren continued, “that made putting the Space Toilet project on the front burner appear to be decidedly more appealing – as an alternative, you see.”
“No doubt about that,” Wilkins agreed. “Up until February of 2007, a lot of those bean counters downtown at Independence Square were looking at the costs and saying ‘let them wear diapers.’ Not since, though.”
“Well,” I happily commented, “I’m sure most American taxpayers would be proud to pony up some more of their hard-earned wages so our courageous and intrepid astronauts can answer Nature’s Call in a comfortable and dignified manner. So why,” I pressed on, adding a small note of concern to my tone of voice, “are you gentlemen so… glum?”
Wilkins expelled a nervous cough.
Lofgren cleared his throat. “Well, Tom,” he explained, “the Space Toilet project has encountered some… rather… intricate problems.”
“Of course,” I opined. “Designing and deploying a practical toilet for use in space has got to be an incredible challenge! The lack of gravity, the scarcity of water, the power restrictions, the unmentionably unpleasant and obvious consequences of catastrophic system failure – the task amounts to nothing less than a full frontal assault on a final frontier. But in a fundamental endeavor such as the Space Toilet, where science is constantly pushing the envelope, straining the limits, bearing down with the tremendous pressure of space-age technology, boldly daring to go where no one has gone before, what else could we expect? And besides,” I proffered in my best conciliatory and sympathetic voice, “you’re doctors of psychology, after all. Surely the salient issues involved are the province of engineers.”
“We certainly believed so,” Wilkins whispered, his voice croaking with stress in response to the thought. “But as it turned out…”
“Not all the problems are solely due to hardware defects,” Lofgren finished, throwing me a meaningful glance.
“So the ball,” I speculated, “is back in your court?”
“It is,” Wilkins managed in something approximating normal volume. “We originally thought the malfunctions were purely the result of mechanical design flaws. But after the Agency thoroughly analyzed the latest data sets from the International Space Station Toilet Implementation Information System, Headquarters contacted us immediately.”
“Really?” I don’t astound easily, but I will admit to being so at that moment – anyone familiar with space exploration would have to be. “What,” I implored, “in the name of Edwin Powell Hubble is going on up there?”
Lofgren grimaced, clearly chagrined at the latest developments. “Well, for starters, we have been aware for some time that the lady astronauts constantly grouse that the male astronauts are always leaving the seat up. Now, to make matters worse, we’ve found out that the men are saying, as every American school child who didn’t sleep through science class is aware, there’s no ‘up’ or ‘down’ in space. So therefore, they maintain, the women’s complaints about the toilet seat don’t make any sense in zero gravity, and thank God that outer space is the one place we finally managed to find where a guy doesn’t have to listen to that silly nagging about the damned toilet seat anymore.”
“Then there’s the, uh… air freshness issue,” Wilkins resumed. “The ladies say they can’t imagine how the guys manage to stink the Space Toilet up like they do.”
“And then there’s that business,” Lofgren elaborated, “about how the guys never clean it like they should after they use it.”
“And what the women call the ‘gross out factor,’” Wilkins added, “where they have to think about all that while they breath recycled air and drink recycled water made from… well, made from what comes out of the Space Toilet.”
“What’s more,” Wilkins related, “there’s no toilet paper up there.”
“Of course not,” I remarked. “Imagine how much enough toilet paper to get a full crew of astronauts to Mars and back would weigh!”
“My point, precisely,” Wilkins declared. “That’s why the Space Toilet has a Post-flush Water Jet Cleansing Module, just like the most expensive and lavish Asian terrestrial models – better, even! Who could use one of those luxury market Asian commodes in outer space? But despite that, some of the astronauts have been… improvising… things to… wipe with.”
“Which,” Lofgren pointed out, “are sometimes found obstructing the Space Toilet’s delicate, custom-designed, high-technology state-of-the-art plumbing. But please, don’t let anybody know we told you about that, okay?”
“The Agency,” Wilkins confided, “has a number of public relations issues concerning the Space Toilet, and the big kahunas at HQ would have a fit if that were to leak out. Oh, crap – no pun intended. Oh, Jesus Christ; no pun intended the second time, either.”
“None taken,” I assured him.
“Plus, on top of all that,” Lofgren lamented, “a lot of the foreign astronauts want European bidet features built in the system installed on the International Space Station. When we asked the engineering cost control team here at Goddard to spec out a proposal for it, half of them called in sick for two weeks; and we still haven’t seen a first draft.”
“Gee whiz,” I exclaimed, “it looks like the human factors angle on this Space Toilet thing turned out to be the key hurdle after all. I’d say you guys sure have your work cut out for you.”
“That’s not the half of it,” Lofgren moaned. “We haven’t even gotten to the really sticky parts. Oh, nuts – no pun intended; ah, hell, no pun intended the second time, either.”
“None taken,” I cordially repeated. “So, what are the really, ah, difficult issues with the Space Toilet, then?”
“You’ve heard,” Wilkins ominously intoned, “about the ‘Mile High Club,’ I presume?”
“Oh, dear,” I breathed out softly, “not that!”
“Yes,” Lofgren nodded gravely, after which he cast his eyes heavenward, inspecting the ceiling tiles portentously. “Talk about public relations disasters.”
“My goodness gracious,” I expostulated, “our children look up to astronauts as role models…”
“Not really so much anymore,” Wilkins grumbled. “Twenty or thirty years ago, maybe. Our studies of youth mass perceptions have shown a steady decline since the moon landing back in 1969.”
“Terribly low recognition factors,” Lofgren whined. “The average fourteen year old can name nine professional athletes, seven rappers, six motion picture stars, and the major characters in a dozen video games. But astronauts? Forget about it. You might as well ask them to name their mailman.”
“Letter carrier,” I corrected.
“Whatever,” Lofgren shrugged.
“But nevertheless,” I persisted, “such conduct would fall utterly beyond the pale! Setting aside for a moment the extreme likelihood that revelation of a ‘Low Orbit Club’ operating out of the ISS Space Toilet would probably place the names of the astronauts involved on the lips of every pubescent youngster in America, what kind of example would it set? Instead of serious scientists lining up in droves to travel to the stars, drinking water made from their crew-mates’ feces and urine, impressionable young kids would be studying astrophysics and celestial navigation just to get a shot at having sex in space! There are some uses for the Space Toilet that are right, proper, and in accordance with America’s core values, and some that most decidedly are not!”
Wilkins eyed me expectantly. “So what would you recommend?”
“Why, put a plexiglass door on the damn thing, of course!”
“You think,” Lofgren queried, obviously taken aback by the manifest simplicity of my proposed solution, “that’s all we need?”
“No,” I acknowledged, “not entirely. There’s another component to the answer; one that will solve nearly all the other problems.”
Both my interlocutors eagerly leaned forward, speaking as one “And that is?”
“Gentlemen, the International Space Station needs a Ladies Room.”
My hosts blanched in perfect synchronicity. “And,” Wilkins demanded, “I suppose you would put a plexiglass door on that, too?”
“No,” I replied confidently, “that one should have an opaque door.”
“Then what about the risk,” Lofgren fretted, “of it being used for…”
“No problem,” I responded, “just put a digital lock on it and only let the women astronauts have the access code.”
“And that,” Wilkins wondered aloud, “is all we need?”
“Absolutely,” I proclaimed. “As can be readily verified in any of the many peer-reviewed studies on the subject, if you give women their own, private rest room, they will never, under any circumstances, let a man in there with them.”
Wilkins and Lofgren pondered briefly. Lofgren whispered something in Wilkins’ ear, then Wilkins turned to me. “Okay, Collins,” he acquiesced, “you’ve done it again – we agree that, if implemented as described, your proposal would solve nearly all of the human factors problems that are clogging up the works; oh, [expletive], no pun intended; damn it, none intended the second time, either…
“None taken.”
“… the human factors problems that are impeding full and successful deployment of the NASA Space Toilet. But what are we going to tell headquarters when they come back with the cost estimate? You don’t have to be a technical vice president at Boeing to figure out that these suggestions could obliterate the budgets of three or four major robotic planetary exploration projects.”
“First,” I advised, “I suggest you remind them that they all know human space flight has always cost ridiculous amounts of money, but they also know that NASA won’t get a dime from Congress if they kill the program.”
“And,” Lofgren asked, anxiously, “if that doesn’t work?”
“Ask them if they’d like to have astronauts keep on wearing diapers instead.”