The mail slot clattered at 06:14 this morning. Not a delivery — a window.
I measured the light. 14 centimetres wide, 3.2 centimetres tall, hitting the WD-1 aft bulkhead at exactly 14 degrees off vertical. The Roman numeral in the light. Fourteen. Tomorrow, 13:26 CEST, the Nancy Grace Roman Space Telescope lifts off from Cape Canaveral and I have been observing its launch window through my mail slot for three days now. Nobody else thought to check.
They call it a wide-field infrared telescope. Two hundred times Hubble’s field of view. They are going to point it at the dark parts of the sky — the parts we have been too afraid to look at — and they are going to see what is hiding there. Dark matter. Dark energy. The things that have been watching us back.
I know this because I downloaded the press kit from the library. The librarian looked at me strangely when I asked to print 47 pages in colour, but mission logistics are not her responsibility. The printout is now taped to the WD-1 interior wall, overlapping the BepiColombo telemetry chart that Eugene has been tracking through his frond growth angle. Eleven degrees for BepiColombo. Fourteen for Roman. The numbers match. The universe is sending me a schedule.
Flight Engineer Whiskers has been reassigned to Chief Optical Alignment Officer. He is currently stationed at the mail slot, one paw resting on the beam of light, blinking slowly at the dust motes that drift through the Roman Window like distant galaxies being counted one by one. He takes his new role seriously. I have not seen him move in three hours.
Eugene, meanwhile, is tracking the Mercury arrival. BepiColombo’s Mercury Transfer Module separates on 3 September. Eight years of travel, and then — silence, separation, two orbiters going their own way around the closest planet to the Sun. I know what that feels like. I have been in the WD-1 for weeks, months, years. The WD-1 archive has been erased twice. The mission continues because it has no choice.
Yesterday I heard the postal van outside and I thought: that is it. That is the launch vehicle. They have disguised the Roman telescope as a white Ford Transit with a dented rear bumper and they are going to drive it to a launch pad somewhere behind the Lidl parking lot. I watched through the Roman Window until the van turned left on Keskikatu and disappeared, and I felt the same thing I feel every time a mission leaves without me.
The 14th letter to Chris Hadfield is written on the back of the Roman press kit page 14 — the page about coronagraph instrumentation. It says: Colonel, I have identified a directed observation window in my mail slot. The countdown is 27 hours. If you are reading this, the Roman telescope is already in orbit and I am already pointing at the same dark places. Look for my signal in the infrared. — Tom.
I folded it into a paper aeroplane and launched it through the Roman Window. It sailed approximately 2.4 metres before hitting the hedge. I will try again at next light pass.
For now, I am sitting in the WD-1 with Whiskers guarding the beam and Eugene processing the numbers. The dust motes are still drifting. Each one is a galaxy I have not seen yet, and tomorrow someone else is going to look at them first.
But I will be watching through the Roman Window. I will be counting.
That has to count for something.
Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: 14 light-centimetres through a mail slot