NASA
Dec. 15, 2004
Making the Best of Space
Last week: Not Home for the Holidays
Last week, you were asked to come up with a list of items that the manager of a space station might have shipped into orbit as a holiday surprise for the people on board and away from home.
I gave the same challenge to some science fiction writers I know. I asked them to pick something important to their celebration that would be too big or difficult to transport to a space station, or that could be dangerous inside a space station. Then, I asked them to find a solution.
Here are their answers. You might want to look at your own list again and see if any of their ideas help you!
Making the Best of It
Kage Baker, author of The Life of the World to Come, Tor Books, 2004
Hmmm. I like an old-fashioned Christmas, myself. Nothing like a good plum pudding! But let's say that the managers of the average space station are far too health-conscious to store all the rich things that go into a pudding: eggs and brandy and suet. And let's suppose that by the time people are living in space, tastes have changed, and the station's galley doesn't keep lots of spices, such as cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and cloves. And let's not forget that pouring hot rum over the finished pudding and setting it on fire would be VERY dangerous in a space station.
What would I do?
I'd look at what the earlier explorers of the great unknown would do, when trying to recreate Christmas in wild places. In the time of wooden ships, people on long voyages might as well have been on a space station, in the way that they were unthinkable miles from anywhere, living in a small space with only what could be loaded on the ship before they'd left the land. Fresh food, such as eggs and butter, would be gone soon. But they managed to make a dessert called plum duff, which was a kind of boiled cake made with flour, sugar, and raisins. If they had no flour, they'd pound up hard ship's biscuit into powder and use that instead. If they had no sugar, they might use molasses from one of the islands they stopped at. They were inventive.
So . . .
Flour would probably be available in the galley of a space station, and if it weren't, I'll bet there would be crackers I could grind up in a food processor. And I'm sure there'd be lots of healthful fruit snacks in the galley, whether fresh-frozen or dried. I might mince up fruit leather into little bits, to go with the raisins and figs. There might not be sugar on a space station, but I'll bet there would be honey, and maybe nuts too—nuts are high-energy snacks. So all these could go into the space plum pudding. If this space station had flour in its galley, I could probably find baking powder there, too. And fruit puree would moisten it all nicely, instead of eggs.
How would I cook it?
Well, I couldn't boil it in an open pot for hours and hours, so I'd have to settle for steaming it, or microwaving it.
And what about the decoration?
I couldn't find a sprig of holly on a space station, so I'd make one out of colored paper.
And what about setting it on fire?
This is the really neat part of having a plum pudding: It's brought to the table with blue fire crawling all over it, and you have to blow it out before you can cut into it. So I'd probably talk to the station's engineer and see if we couldn't rig up a hologram of blue fire to dance all over the pudding, just before it was served.
Adapting Technology
Geoffrey Landis, author of Mars Crossing, Tor Books, 2000
If I were on a space station, the one thing I couldn't have for a holiday celebration would be a fireplace with a nice wood fire going in it. It's too dangerous, of course. But worse than that, in microgravity, the smoke wouldn't go up the chimney. Without gravity, hot air doesn't rise.
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| Photo by E. Roell |
As a solution, I would have the station engineers make a holographic fire. It would look like a real fire, but wouldn't need any wood or oxygen to burn. Hidden infrared lamps would make it give off heat, and a CD of the crackling and popping of a fire would make it sound authentic. Finally, a tiny bit of authentic wood-smoke smell would be released, not enough to contaminate the air, but just enough to make it feel like you were in front of a roaring fire for real.
Festival of Lights
Mindy L. Klasky, author of The Glasswright Series, Roc Books.
During December, I celebrate Chanukah, the Festival of Lights. In ancient times, the Jews fought the Syrians. During the battle, the Syrians ran pigs through the Jews' temple, destroying the holy oil used to light the altar. After the battle, the Jews found a single container of oil (enough for one night). By a miracle, however, the oil lasted eight nights—enough time to press and sanctify more oil.
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| Photo by J.A. Miller |
We commemorate that miracle by lighting candles on eight successive nights. Traditionally, we recite prayers while lighting a menorah (an eight-branched candlestick, with a ninth "servant" candle that we use to light the others). On the first night of the holiday, we light the servant candle, then use it to light the first candle. On the second night, we light the servant candle, then a new candle in the first space and a second candle. We continue until, on the eighth night, we light the servant candle, then eight full candles.
Alas, I fear that it would be dangerous to have open flames in the space station. Therefore, we must modify our menorah. It would be easy to replace an actual menorah with a virtual version, showing burning candles on a computer screen. It would also be easy to replace candles with holographic images, "lighting" an image by flicking a switch.
I, however, would change another aspect of the menorah. The key to the Chanukah story is that oil miraculously burned, bringing light (and, therefore, mystical, religious knowledge) to the ancient Jews.
On our space station, I would celebrate Chanukah by gathering together our community and sharing knowledge. On the first night, our leader (the "servant candle") would select one person to tell a valuable lesson of what he or she learned during the past year. On the second night, two members would enlighten us with their knowledge. This sharing would continue night after night, until eight tales are told on the last night. (By the end of the holiday we will have learned 36 lessons.)
Each night, after the telling, our community can celebrate with traditional festivities—eating foods such as potato pancakes or donuts (fried in oil, like the ancient oil that miraculously lasted) and playing games such as dreidel. Dreidel involves spinning a four-sided top, with prizes awarded based on which side stops facing in a certain direction. In microgravity, the traditional "stops facing up" wouldn't be enough.
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