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The 19-year-old aeronautical engineering major at Purdue University -- he was quick to point out it is Neil Armstrong's alma mater -- has been working the spring semester at NASA and vows to someday be an astronaut exploring the final frontier. His goal is to conduct scientific research experiments on shuttles like Columbia. A skinny kid who wears aviator glasses, Grant has already landed a pilot's license. He's watched The Right Stuff at least 100 times, is a fifth of the way through a Buzz Aldrin book and tries to meet every astronaut he can.
He's mastered the clipped technical lingo of space scientists, which was readily apparent from his description of viewing Columbia's launch from Mission Control more than two weeks ago:
"It was nominal; it was how we want it," he said. "The trajectory, the speed, the solid rocket booster separation looked perfect. Everybody was smiling and pleased that it was a job well done."
In the predawn hours this Saturday, he picked up his father -- John Grant, a University of Dayton physicist in for Mike's birthday celebration -- ate a bowl of Cheerios and readied himself for the euphoric ending of the Columbia mission.
Mission Control workers had seemed casual -- chatting, saying hi to new arrivals and busying themselves with phone calls. About 8 a.m., the distractions stopped. Shuttle temperature sensors and tire pressure readings were going haywire.
Major Charlie Hobaugh at Mission Control hadn't sounded alarmed, though, in talking to the crew: "We see your tire pressure message and we did not copy your last."
"Roger." That was the last word from Commander Rick Husband that Grant understood.
Grant, although a novice, soon realized what the others in the cavernous room already knew: There were big problems.
Silence. Mission Control kept asking if the shuttle copied. It didn't. More silence.
"I just stared at the screens in front of me," Grant said. A CNN news feed flashed on with video of the speck of a shuttle breaking up against the bright blue sky.
A security guard told Grant that since he was just watching and not working, he needed to get out of NASA's way. Word finally came that Columbia was indeed returning to Earth -- as no more than bits of debris showering down over East Texas.
A small cluster of cars driving down Interstate 10 in Katy had an emergency cell-phone conference call to discuss aborting its own mission.
Richard Herrera was one of the chauffeur/chaperones for Sprecht Elementary School students' Saturday-afternoon field trip to Space Center Houston, the NASA-themed educational amusement park attraction. Herrera was the first to hear the ominous news bulletins on the radio. He had loaded his kids in the car and left San Antonio at 6:30 a.m. and was just outside Katy when the radio broadcast the information.
"We didn't believe it," he said. Herrera called another father in the caravan, told him to turn off his Journey CD and turn on the radio. They had their should-we-keep-driving-or-turn-back discussion. The final miles were spent fielding calls from grandmothers, reassuring them that the children weren't heading into a storm of toxic debris.
The kids played in the car. And they continued playing at Space Center Houston, running around the giant LEGO astronaut, screaming and climbing on the robotics displays. Inside the Zero Gravity Diner, adults sat with stunned, shell-shocked expressions. Some stared blankly over star-shaped french fries and Caesar salads looking like they wanted to cry and debating whether the disaster had been the result of a terrorist attack aimed at the Israeli astronaut on board. Others said NASA had cut too many corners and maybe it was just surprising that it hadn't happened sooner.
Reactions from visitors revealed the obvious: Shuttle missions have become so routine that most people, even in Space City-dubbed Houston, were no longer aware of them.
"Civilians or astronauts?" he asked.
"Oh, fuck," he said. "Another tragedy."
Awareness began to become apparent at the cash registers inside the tourist attraction. Hardly anyone had bought Columbia pins and patches before Saturday. But the gift shop quickly sold out of a new shipment by lunchtime, said Blanca Ontiveros, the 20-year-old cashier.
Her thoughts were with shuttle pilot William McCool, whose picture and biography she has next to the register. His son, Chris, worked with her in the gift shop last summer. She said he kept bragging about how neat it was that his dad had gotten picked for this mission. "We haven't heard from him yet," Ontiveros said.
She spent the morning hoping that his dad was alive and that everything would be okay.
Tension began to escalate nearby, at Johnson Space Center. Security guards yelled at part of the caravan from San Antonio when they made a wrong turn in the parking lot and began to edge near off-limits areas. The Space Center tours were halted, as well as the tram that takes people to peer through the glass of Mission Control.
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