The Mission Control Corridor
A short fluorescent-lit corridor immediately outside the Mission Control auditorium, walls pale institutional green and floor waxed to a hospital shine. Through the double doors to the south you can hear the murmur of the loop -- twelve men breathing into their headsets, the hum of three thousand vacuum tubes, and the occasional bright callsign cutting through it: "FIDO, Flight." "Go ahead, Flight." The red live-loop light above the doors is on, which means the room is sealed; press, families and managers stay out.
North, a frosted-glass door bears your name and title in black caps. East, a wider doorway opens onto the public viewing gallery where the VIPs and the press pool wait behind glass.
On the wall beside you: a wall clock whose thin red sweep hand keeps time with the count, a cork bulletin board pocked from years of thumbtacks and sun-faded along its right edge, and a drinking fountain someone has captioned in marker pen. The air is dry and smells faintly of floor wax, cigarettes, and the ozone that rolls off the high-voltage tubes next door.
A short fluorescent-lit corridor immediately outside the Mission Control auditorium, walls pale institutional green and floor waxed to a hospital shine. Through the double doors to the south you can hear the murmur of the loop -- twelve men breathing into their headsets, the hum of three thousand vacuum tubes, and the occasional bright callsign cutting through it: "FIDO, Flight." "Go ahead, Flight." The red live-loop light above the doors is on, which means the room is sealed; press, families and managers stay out.
North, a frosted-glass door bears your name and title in black caps. East, a wider doorway opens onto the public viewing gallery where the VIPs and the press pool wait behind glass.
On the wall beside you: a wall clock whose thin red sweep hand keeps time with the count, a cork bulletin board pocked from years of thumbtacks and sun-faded along its right edge, and a drinking fountain someone has captioned in marker pen. The air is dry and smells faintly of floor wax, cigarettes, and the ozone that rolls off the high-voltage tubes next door.