f one were to achieve the proper vantage point at the proper time, one would be able to see Col. Robert William Stevenson shaking his fist at the world. This was confirmed by the crew of the space shuttle Mercy over twenty years ago as they maneuvered to dock with the United States' second space station, Skylab Revisited. The mission did not have a scientific purpose, but was one of what had already been a triannual tradition for the better part of a decade. In all of that time, Col. Stevenson had been stranded in space, forever orbiting his former home planet of Earth, never to return.

t began some two years after the completion of Skylab Revisited, a space station built in reaction to Russia's nascent orbital monopoly and in the likeness of that country's hugely successful Mir line. There had been four successful sorties to SR when Stevenson's turn came. He was to stay on the station indefinitely while implementing some top secret improvements in satellite communications for the military. The projected duration of the mission was four to six months.

Approximately two months into the mission, Stevenson began to complain of a certain light-headedness which he experienced in tandem with a recurring headache. After this condition had persisted for nearly a month, Mission Control became concerned. They began to re-evaluate Stevenson's medical information, and eventually, via various virtual simulations, found an extremely discomfiting bit of news. They had known all along that while Stevenson had a common enough type of blood-B positive-his red cell count was high enough to make his blood .074% more dense than is normal. They had also known that, as a child, Stevenson had suffered from an occasional minor ringing in his right ear. What they had not realized was that this had been due not to the garden variety of ailments suffered by a preponderance of children but to a particular misalignment of bone and cartilage. In itself, it was harmless. But, from playing various computer scenarios, NASA learned the cause of Stevenson's present problem. Apparently, the persistent lack of gravitation, when combined with the aforementioned factors, had created the particular ailment from which Stevenson was now suffering. They dubbed it vascular vestibular phlegmatisis-in effect, "thick ear blood." Because of the particular irregularity of Stevenson's right ear and the higher density of his blood, it appeared that, over time, the blood flow to and from the right side of Stevenson's brain had been slightly slowed. While it seemed that this condition would persist for the duration of Stevenson's habitation in anti-gravity, it did not appear that the condition would worsen. However, further computer projections revealed a more alarming problem. It was determined that there was an 85% likelihood that once Stevenson was returned to a gravitated state, even if only gradually, the blood flow in his brain's right hemisphere would be stalled for a trice-but a trice just long enough to begin a succession of bursting blood vessels in Stevenson's brain that would finally result in an agonizing death.

It was a week before NASA determined that their data was indisputable, another before they communicated this information to Stevenson. For his part, Stevenson handled the news with the stoicism one might expect from a career military man, saying that he knew of the inherent risks when he had volunteered for space flight. He told them that he would gladly complete his assignment and then brave the return, come what may. However, the lawyers and public relations personnel for NASA did not appreciate such courage. In a convocation featuring representatives from the upper echelons of NASA, the federal government, and the military, the real dangers of bringing Stevenson back to Earth were discussed. It seemed that while the public had forgotten the three US astronauts that had long-ago died in an oxygen fire, had never cared about the number of Soviet cosmonauts who had perished (no one at the meeting had the exact figure handy), and had felt a renewed interest in the space program in the early 1990s thanks to the film "Apollo 13" (which smothered a story of near disaster with Hollywood's formulaic "triumph of the human spirit" rigmarole. "If those idiots knew the real story!" one department head exclaimed to the amusement of all present.), they could not seem to forget the televised image of the Challenger explosion of 1986. "If you fuckers hadn't had to have that fucking school-teacher, we'd have been fine!" yelled a top lawyer at a top PR person. No use in squabbling, gentlemen, the die has been cast; and all agreed that NASA, always over-budget and playing catch-up to the Russians, could not afford another embarrassment-even if it was only one astronaut. No, they reasoned, he must stay in space.

NASA hoped that Stevenson would face life as well as he had faced death and that they could spin this contretemps as a "triumph [etc.]" story that was so popular with the general public. ("If Ron Howard were still alive, he could make the movie!" one eager young trainee was said to effuse.) However, Stevenson did not meet this eventuality with the same aplomb. "What are you talking about?" he asked initially. "I'm willing to die for my country, but I'm coming back." No, Col. Stevenson. No, you're not.

he first morning after the news, NASA sent along the usual wake-up call song-of-the-day to Stevenson. Although perhaps only an unfortunate coincidence, the insensitivity and bad taste of playing Woodstock-era pop standard "Love the One You're With" to an isolated and lonely astronaut cannot be denied. The news had not yet been made public, but the wake-up was carried live on early-morning CNN and various cable channels. The music began, a live feed of the inside of the space station being broadcast to an estimated twelve million homes across the country. A moaning was heard. Then the soon-to-be unmistakable and world-famous voice of Robert Stevenson rained down through the atmosphere: "What is that: Crosby, Stills, and Nash? Don't play that crap! ARE YOU TRYING TO DRIVE ME CRAZY?!! FUCK YOU! DON'T EVER WAKE ME UP AGAIN!"

Things degenerated more quickly than any computer simulation could have predicted. Stevenson, being a communications expert, had set up the first webpage in space. Foreseeing that space travel-at least on an orbital level-would one day be routine, NASA had anticipated that extra-atmospheric communication must be made equally routine. Establishing the Orbital Weblink was the first step down this path; and Stevenson would be its trailblazer. That first step would be simple: Earth-bound, computer-friendly astrophiles would be able to e-mail messages to and receive replies from Stevenson (as well as have access to various graphics, a FAQ, etc.) while he orbited above them and with as much ease as they enjoyed in communicating with any of their other Internet pen pals. It turned out that since NASA had not anticipated the severity of Stevenson's reaction, they had not taken the proper steps to sever this communication in a timely manner. Immediately, news of Stevenson's predicament was known worldwide. Before NASA could react, Stevenson had retained legal representation and had filed suit against NASA for negligence. It was then that NASA added cyberspace to the areas in which Stevenson was isolated; but it was too late. By now Stevenson websites and chat rooms had sprung up across the WWW and Stevenson's sudden silence was correctly attributed to NASA by the ever-growing number of people following his story closely. The ACLU joined Stevenson's attorney in taking action against NASA, claiming that this was a clear violation of Stevenson's First Amendment rights; and that unless they could prove he was actually betraying confidential military information (which he had not done), they'd better restore his Net access, but quick! NASA's attorneys knew that NASA had no legal leg to stand on here, and Stevenson was again among us, in mind if not in body.

He became an international sensation. Fan clubs sprang up, even cultish churches of which he was proclaimed head-if not a prophet or a god. The largest of these, the AstroBobs, soon boasted a worldwide membership of twenty-three million. For his part, Stevenson took an unintended hand in his own fame. As noted above, Stevenson did not take the news of his orbital perpetuity well. In fact, this permanent state of affairs gave rise to an ever-increasing amount of venom in Stevenson's communication with his lost world. By the time of the first Mercy mission to replenish his provisions (food, toiletries, etc.), he was unwilling to associate with the visiting crew. By the second, he met them in his now-permanent living quarters with clenched fists. Unfortunately for NASA, this battle royal was carried live by CNN, complete with Stevenson's rantings. At one point, he could clearly be heard to scream, "YOU NEVER COME INTO MY HOUSE AGAIN! YOU BRING ME FOOD AND THEN YOU GO BACK TO FUCKING EARTH!!!" As the crew retreated from Stevenson's assault, he broke into a sort of song: "You goddamn cunty cunties / You little cuntbag cunts." (Although it may be only coincidental, perhaps it is worth noting that this particular crew was an all female one). While the majority of his words did not make it past the delay (set up by NASA since the Stephen Stills (mistakenly attributed by Stevenson to CSN)/wake-up incident), the consensus is that the fisticuffs and floating chase scene is rivaled only by the finest moments of the short-lived 1990s series "Twin Peaks" as the most surreal spectacle in television history.

e persevered. NASA medical experts originally projected that, even with proper exercise, the bone deterioration and blood loss experienced by all those subjected to extended periods without gravity would kill Stevenson within seven years ("That's seven years or less, right?" a nervous liaison queried. "Like, it could be, say, six months?"). But Stevenson outlived their predictions, just as he has outlived many of the predictors themselves. And for the entirety of Col. Robert Stevenson's misadventure, I have followed his life: every word, every detail. You see, I've taken such an interest in Robert because he was my closest and dearest friend. We grew up together on the same cul-de-sac, we played on the same Little League baseball teams, attended the same all-boys prep school. We learned to drive together, first experienced sex at the same time, and we went to the senior prom together; and I have only the fondest memories of him. I also remember that from the day he learned of the existence of men who went into space, he desired to be among their number. No one was more supportive of him than I when he decided to forsake college for the Air Force; and no one happier or more proud when he was accepted into NASA. And as you might expect, no one was more crushed by the news of his final assignment than I. We stayed in touch at first. I was the attorney retained by Bob (my dear Bob) of whom I wrote earlier, and it is I who have done the most to help secure his place in history, I who have made him exist in this realm as much as is possible considering his bodily absence from it. Eventually, his psyche or patience deteriorated, and my only communiqué from him consisted of a single, four-word sequence:

you are who with

But I do not blame him, and do not take it personally. A quarter-century of light-headedness and headaches while being worshipped as a demigod from a distance is apt to do strange things to a person, no matter how perdurable and dedicated he may be. Now, I must be content to continue my friendship with him in memory and in the love I will always feel for him. Every now and then, though, when the night is perfectly clear, I'll take my telescope into the backyard and find my friend floating above the world. And sometimes, in those moments in which I miss him the most, I feel I can almost see his tiny, shaking fist moving across the sky.