Another long day...
Jul. 7th, 2006 08:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alexpgpTime, says conventional geek wisdom, is what keeps one thing after another from becoming everything all at once. All I can say is: "Thank goodness!"
Sergei Z., the lead interpreter, kindly arranged to go in at 5 am this morning instead of me, but when I got in at my appointed time of 8:30 am, the action picked up at a furious rate. First off, I relieved Sergei in Hall 101, which is one of the processing areas at the полтинник, a cavernous room equipped with bridge cranes, railroad tracks, and huge rollaway doors, and large enough to lay out a football field inside and probably high enough for only the most ambitiously kicked balls to touch the ceiling.
The container with the space craft spent most of the night traveling by rail from the airport to the facility, where it was rolled into Hall 101 and removed from its railcar. When I got there, the satellite manufacturer was just getting ready to crack open the container, a box the size of a small house that opens like a clamshell to reveal a boxy payload somewhat larger than an old-style Volkswagen microbus swathed in a special foil that gives it the appearance of a giant cinder block made of gold.
The first order of business was for representatives of the various participants to get inside the container and make sure the satellite had suffered no visible damage and that - heaven forbid - nothing had somehow come into contact with the payload and left some kind of mark. At about that time, I was standing at the edge of the container, trying to interpret for the folks inside, and I was scuttling back and forth around the hall helping out with a sentence here and a paragraph there. Dwight M., the safety guy, observed that I might do well to acquire a set of roller skates, the way I was moving about.
A morning meeting is held on a daily basis, and normally, it occurs at 9:30 am. Today, it was delayed for half an hour, and Sergei figured that, since I was Johnny-on-the-spot at the airport yesterday, I should interpret the meeting. As it turns out, the events that transpired yesterday were mentioned only in the context of arranging for a so-called "lessons learned" meeting sometime in the next couple of days.
One notable event at the meeting occurred during the discussion of a trip planned for the French team to Baikonur on Saturday night, to the "Luna" club, a place where they play loud music to a crowd of locals and serve passable liquor. In response to my saying something about the group's "going to Baikonur," there was a titter from the Russians present, and the lead on the Russian side observed that such a trip would take some time. I looked about with some confusion and asked, in Russian, "what did I say?"
"You said Barnaul!" came the response.
Hmmm. Yes. It would take a while to go there, as a casual look at the map will confirm that Barnaul is located quite a distance away, across Kazakhstan and further, near Novosibirsk.
When I explained what had happened in English, it apparently was good for a laugh. I would venture to note, however, that this was undoubtedly a Freudian slip of some kind, as Galina originally comes from Barnaul, and I must've been unconsciously thinking of her while working.
There was a lot of running around in the afternoon, helping with various individual tasks. At one point, I had three requests to get in contact with various parties on the Russian side, and only a few minutes to address them before having to go support yet another meeting.
Then the lights went out, which is a story in itself. It turned out to be a problem with the commercial grid, which was soon corrected. In the meantime, the facility's diesels provided us with power.
Tomorrow, I am slated to support loading the empty container on the Antonov in the morning, and then providing support downstairs during the evening. Should an interpreter be required to go with the French group to the Luna, it will not be me.
Plans are even now being drawn up for the French (and others who are interested) to watch the World Cup final on Monday at midnight. There is a small contingent of Italy fans here and there (notably the head of the Russian security office and our own spacecraft integration manager), so there'll be cheering for both sides, albeit at different volumes.
Time to get up and about, and then later check email from my room before hitting the hay.
Cheers...
Sergei Z., the lead interpreter, kindly arranged to go in at 5 am this morning instead of me, but when I got in at my appointed time of 8:30 am, the action picked up at a furious rate. First off, I relieved Sergei in Hall 101, which is one of the processing areas at the полтинник, a cavernous room equipped with bridge cranes, railroad tracks, and huge rollaway doors, and large enough to lay out a football field inside and probably high enough for only the most ambitiously kicked balls to touch the ceiling.
The container with the space craft spent most of the night traveling by rail from the airport to the facility, where it was rolled into Hall 101 and removed from its railcar. When I got there, the satellite manufacturer was just getting ready to crack open the container, a box the size of a small house that opens like a clamshell to reveal a boxy payload somewhat larger than an old-style Volkswagen microbus swathed in a special foil that gives it the appearance of a giant cinder block made of gold.
The first order of business was for representatives of the various participants to get inside the container and make sure the satellite had suffered no visible damage and that - heaven forbid - nothing had somehow come into contact with the payload and left some kind of mark. At about that time, I was standing at the edge of the container, trying to interpret for the folks inside, and I was scuttling back and forth around the hall helping out with a sentence here and a paragraph there. Dwight M., the safety guy, observed that I might do well to acquire a set of roller skates, the way I was moving about.
A morning meeting is held on a daily basis, and normally, it occurs at 9:30 am. Today, it was delayed for half an hour, and Sergei figured that, since I was Johnny-on-the-spot at the airport yesterday, I should interpret the meeting. As it turns out, the events that transpired yesterday were mentioned only in the context of arranging for a so-called "lessons learned" meeting sometime in the next couple of days.
One notable event at the meeting occurred during the discussion of a trip planned for the French team to Baikonur on Saturday night, to the "Luna" club, a place where they play loud music to a crowd of locals and serve passable liquor. In response to my saying something about the group's "going to Baikonur," there was a titter from the Russians present, and the lead on the Russian side observed that such a trip would take some time. I looked about with some confusion and asked, in Russian, "what did I say?"
"You said Barnaul!" came the response.
Hmmm. Yes. It would take a while to go there, as a casual look at the map will confirm that Barnaul is located quite a distance away, across Kazakhstan and further, near Novosibirsk.
When I explained what had happened in English, it apparently was good for a laugh. I would venture to note, however, that this was undoubtedly a Freudian slip of some kind, as Galina originally comes from Barnaul, and I must've been unconsciously thinking of her while working.
There was a lot of running around in the afternoon, helping with various individual tasks. At one point, I had three requests to get in contact with various parties on the Russian side, and only a few minutes to address them before having to go support yet another meeting.
Then the lights went out, which is a story in itself. It turned out to be a problem with the commercial grid, which was soon corrected. In the meantime, the facility's diesels provided us with power.
Tomorrow, I am slated to support loading the empty container on the Antonov in the morning, and then providing support downstairs during the evening. Should an interpreter be required to go with the French group to the Luna, it will not be me.
Plans are even now being drawn up for the French (and others who are interested) to watch the World Cup final on Monday at midnight. There is a small contingent of Italy fans here and there (notably the head of the Russian security office and our own spacecraft integration manager), so there'll be cheering for both sides, albeit at different volumes.
Time to get up and about, and then later check email from my room before hitting the hay.
Cheers...
