I was emotionally unprepared. First off, Cleary and Fred had been building me up all through the three months, and I had actually gotten to the point where I thought I knew what I was doing. These space-jockeys spent most of their time deflating my ego.
My tormentor-in-chief was a wise punk from Brooklyn named Sid Stein. "How have you made out in your centrifuge tests?" he asked me at breakfast the first morning after I had reached the Cape.
"I have never done any of that stuff, Mr. Stein," I said.
"Well, how many gees can you pull?"
I shrugged. "Same as you, I suppose. How many is that?"
"Brother!"
The space medic wasn't any better. The mission chief insisted that it wasn't safe to put anybody in a satellite who couldn't pass the physical. I guess you know that about one man in a thousand can qualify. This was supposed to wash me out.
"Remarkable shape." The space medic kept saying. "You must take considerable exercise, doctor."
"Oh, no," I said. "Just jog a mile or so before breakfast. Nothing spectacular."
"No other formal activity?"