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filled with what could only be described as ecstasy. Even the description of Skylab, the least flashy phase in JSC history, didn’t shake the elation from the audience. The story of how the Skylab space station eventually crash-landed in western Australia—causing a backwoods Australian city council to fine NASA four hundred dollars for littering—was just another parable in what could only be described as a story of biblical importance. To the co-ops, NASA was a religion. And a real live astronaut was nothing short of a deity.
    The blue-suited man finished his lecture with the story of the birth of the shuttle program. On April 1, 1969, a group of engineers was told to report to Building 36. A NASA engineer entered the room carrying a balsa-wood model of an airplane, which he tossed toward the gathered men. They assumed it was a prank, but in reality it was an illustration of NASA’s new direction. They were going to build a spaceship that flew like an airplane. By 1978, NASA was ready to elect its first group of shuttle astronauts, which they dubbed “The 35 New Guys.”
    The astronaut ended his speech to uproarious applause, and was followed onstage by Musgrove again, who told a few more jokes and then went through the actual details of the co-op program. Thad had already been through the rules booklet many times. He knew he’d signed up for at least three semester-long “tours”; after each, he’d have to return to Utah to continue his actual schooling. He’d be paid enough to cover room and board, maybe a little bit extra, but he doubted that any of them were there for the money—as evidenced by the fact that the co-ops were still mostly staring at the astronaut in his blue uniform at the edge of the stage rather than at the amiable man in the white shirt at the lectern.
    “Keep your eyes open every day,” Musgrove concluded from the stage. “Because every day in this place, you’ll see something that’s going to open your mind in ways you’ve never imagined. And maybe, if you work hard, if you’re lucky, if we’re all lucky—one day one of you will be standing here in a blue uniform telling us what it’s like to walk on Mars.”
    Thad felt his face flush as he joined the other co-ops in applause. Musgrove finished by telling them to line up again in the lobby to receive their initial work assignments—but Thad was barely listening.
    In his mind, he was already wearing that blue uniform, taking that first step on Mars.

6
    Now we’re talking .
    Thad balled up a photocopied map of Building 31 into his fist, jamming it deep into his pocket, as he stepped across the threshold of the state-of-the-art Astromaterials Lab. Overpressurized, antiseptic-tinged air smacked him full in the face, and he grinned, taking in the three-hundred-square-foot lab with quick flicks of his eyes. He could tell immediately that he was in the right place. Glistening, stainless-steel counters, bucket-style, chrome-plated sinks, skyscrapers of test-tube racks, catacombs of Bunsen burners—and enough pipettes to build a church organ. The place was a scientist’s wet dream, from the skating-rink-smooth cement floor to the achingly bright fluorescing panels that lined the ceiling. Even the overbearing hum of the level-four ventilation system seemed a symphonic throb in Thad’s ears. This place put the geology labs back at the University of Utah to shame, and Thad could hardly believe he was going to be spending the next three months watching his reflection dance across all that chrome and steel.
    Unlike Building 2, the Building 31 lab hadn’t been easy to find. The place was a maze of windowless corridors and unlabeled doors. Because Thad was the only new co-op without an engineering background, he had been the only one assigned to life sciences. It was a cool distinction, because life sciences was interdisciplinary—which meant he was going to get access to a number of different labs in a variety of NASA complexes. He was