The view through my faceplate was astounding. I was perched atop the international space station's solar array truss. 240 miles above the Earth and, for the moment, of six billion fellow human beings, I was the highest-flying. Nine stories beneath my boots, the brilliant silver-and- white fuselage of the space shuttle Atlantis plowed tail first toward the distant. horizon Stretching up from the orbiter to meet me was a massive tower of aluminum girders, storage batteries and feathery radiators; I was manning the crow's-nest of the largest structure ever assembled in orbit. Picture yourself piloting a 747 while straddling the tip of its vertical tail, and you'll get an idea of the expansive vista―the horizon 1.000 miles off, black-velvet sky above, wispy cirrus clouds brushed across the cerulean ocean below. Inside my helmet, there was no screams of wind or roar of engines; nor was there any vibrating rumble through the seat of the pants―just the whisper of the suit fan, the occasional crackle of the radio in my earphones and the rhythmic sound of my own breathing. I marveled at my space suit, a miracle of engineering that kept me alive for eight hours or more in a hard vacuum, even while hurtling around the planet at Mach 25.
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