clear it.
“Whoa. That’s so weird.” He exhaled sharply then took two slow breaths. “Weight has always been a priority in this field, a major consideration in all design choices. Even the MCP suit was partly an answer to the problem of heavy, bulky EV suits.”
“So, are you okay with soda lime? According to that chart you gave me, even with moderate exertion, two kilograms will give us over five hours. And the at-rest metabolic rate would give us over twenty hours.”
He came over and said, “Show me your numbers.”
I pointed at the online data sheet. “One hundred fifty liters of CO 2 per kilogram of absorbent. The chart says a person would discharge fifty-eight point six liters per hour at a walk, fourteen point four liters per hour at rest. So, two kilos is three hundred liters divided by all that.”
“Where are your calculations?”
“Pardon? Nearly sixty goes into three hundred five times—five hours. And fourteen point four is less than a quarter of that, so four times five—twenty hours. Basic math.”
His lips moved and I realized he was doing the numbers in his head like I had. “Okay. We can use soda lime, but I want a spreadsheet, not approximations in your head.”
“Don’t trust my math?”
He held his lower lip between his teeth. “It doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “It’s not the probability of you being wrong—it’s the consequences of you being wrong.”
“Cory, I can be back on the ground instantly . I’m probably the safest test subject you could have.”
He shook his head sharply. “If you noticed . The first symptom of CO 2 toxicity is drowsiness. Understand?”
I could tell he was serious, even a bit upset.
“Sure, Cory. A spreadsheet. And checked separately on paper and with a calculator.”
“By more than one person.”
“Okay.” I smiled. “Nice to know you care.”
He blushed. “Well, uh, wouldn’t want to lose the suit.”
“Sure, Cory. Sure.”
* * *
Two days later, Cory finished wiring the pressure-sensor onesie. He calibrated each sensor using weights to exert known pressures, adjusting them in his monitoring program, then he went back and checked them all again, using weights of different sizes.
“Satisfied?” I asked when he finally stopped.
He shrugged. “I guess. This is how I calibrated the life-model pressure sensor and that worked out.” He glanced at me. “I hope.”
I jumped back to the Yukon to put it on. I had to be careful not to snag any of the wires or the multiplexor box where it clipped to the collar of the unitard. I returned, feeling like some kind of android, and jumped into the relaxed MCP suit.
Cory hooked up the multiplexor before tightening the suit, checking the readings. “Got the gravity thing happening on the soles of your feet, but pretty negligible right now everywhere else. Let’s do it.”
He reduced the voltage even slower than he had the first time, anxious not to snag any of the strain-gauge wires, but in less than a minute he’d reduced it all the way and the suit was squeezing down on my skin again.
“Feel all right?” He wasn’t even looking at me when he asked, his gaze moving to the readouts on the laptop.
“Feels fine, Cory. How’s it looking?”
“Average is good, but there’s a low reading below twenty-seven thousand eight hundred.” He was scrolling down through the individual readouts. “Huh, right armpit. Lift your arm, please.”
I raised my right arm and rotated the shoulder.
“That’s got it. Might have been twisted or there was a fold of cloth, but it’s above thirty-one now. Lower it.”
I did so and he nodded in satisfaction. “Good, excellent. Let’s do some yoga.”
It wasn’t really yoga, but it involved me standing in various poses: crouching, bent over at the waist, reaching up, reaching down, sitting, crawling, kneeling. Then we cycled the suit, relaxing it completely, then back to tight again, and did it all over.
Cory was pleased.
“Whoa. That’s so weird.” He exhaled sharply then took two slow breaths. “Weight has always been a priority in this field, a major consideration in all design choices. Even the MCP suit was partly an answer to the problem of heavy, bulky EV suits.”
“So, are you okay with soda lime? According to that chart you gave me, even with moderate exertion, two kilograms will give us over five hours. And the at-rest metabolic rate would give us over twenty hours.”
He came over and said, “Show me your numbers.”
I pointed at the online data sheet. “One hundred fifty liters of CO 2 per kilogram of absorbent. The chart says a person would discharge fifty-eight point six liters per hour at a walk, fourteen point four liters per hour at rest. So, two kilos is three hundred liters divided by all that.”
“Where are your calculations?”
“Pardon? Nearly sixty goes into three hundred five times—five hours. And fourteen point four is less than a quarter of that, so four times five—twenty hours. Basic math.”
His lips moved and I realized he was doing the numbers in his head like I had. “Okay. We can use soda lime, but I want a spreadsheet, not approximations in your head.”
“Don’t trust my math?”
He held his lower lip between his teeth. “It doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “It’s not the probability of you being wrong—it’s the consequences of you being wrong.”
“Cory, I can be back on the ground instantly . I’m probably the safest test subject you could have.”
He shook his head sharply. “If you noticed . The first symptom of CO 2 toxicity is drowsiness. Understand?”
I could tell he was serious, even a bit upset.
“Sure, Cory. A spreadsheet. And checked separately on paper and with a calculator.”
“By more than one person.”
“Okay.” I smiled. “Nice to know you care.”
He blushed. “Well, uh, wouldn’t want to lose the suit.”
“Sure, Cory. Sure.”
* * *
Two days later, Cory finished wiring the pressure-sensor onesie. He calibrated each sensor using weights to exert known pressures, adjusting them in his monitoring program, then he went back and checked them all again, using weights of different sizes.
“Satisfied?” I asked when he finally stopped.
He shrugged. “I guess. This is how I calibrated the life-model pressure sensor and that worked out.” He glanced at me. “I hope.”
I jumped back to the Yukon to put it on. I had to be careful not to snag any of the wires or the multiplexor box where it clipped to the collar of the unitard. I returned, feeling like some kind of android, and jumped into the relaxed MCP suit.
Cory hooked up the multiplexor before tightening the suit, checking the readings. “Got the gravity thing happening on the soles of your feet, but pretty negligible right now everywhere else. Let’s do it.”
He reduced the voltage even slower than he had the first time, anxious not to snag any of the strain-gauge wires, but in less than a minute he’d reduced it all the way and the suit was squeezing down on my skin again.
“Feel all right?” He wasn’t even looking at me when he asked, his gaze moving to the readouts on the laptop.
“Feels fine, Cory. How’s it looking?”
“Average is good, but there’s a low reading below twenty-seven thousand eight hundred.” He was scrolling down through the individual readouts. “Huh, right armpit. Lift your arm, please.”
I raised my right arm and rotated the shoulder.
“That’s got it. Might have been twisted or there was a fold of cloth, but it’s above thirty-one now. Lower it.”
I did so and he nodded in satisfaction. “Good, excellent. Let’s do some yoga.”
It wasn’t really yoga, but it involved me standing in various poses: crouching, bent over at the waist, reaching up, reaching down, sitting, crawling, kneeling. Then we cycled the suit, relaxing it completely, then back to tight again, and did it all over.
Cory was pleased.
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