Lar-E

Agree, that is how I am hoping to play KSP2.

Yeah, I seriously don't remember exactly when I started playing. I know it was 0.Something; and it was before aerodynamics because there was no point (other than cosmetic) in putting nosecones on your rockets!

Hi, I first started playing KSP back around 0.4 or so. I played and played and never got especially good, but I sure had a lot of fun! My computer was never really beefy enough, and then nursing school got in the way... And now I've got a butch computer and I purchased KSP2, and it's beautiful and I'm really excited to play and do some lithobraking. I have no complaints about the state of the game, or the update schedule, my feeling is that it is what it is, and the devs will produce a high quality finished product when it is ready, not before. That said, I'm not really interested in playing with my shiny new toy until (a) reentry heat; and (b) science tree (I need the structure, I find full-on Sandbox overwhelming) Cheers! L

I downloaded and installed the latest ksp (6.0, 64bit), and the corresponding Making History this morning on my Windows machine. Upon installation, Making History gives me an error message: "You are running a version of Kerbal Space Program that is not compatible with the Making History Expansion. Please go to KSP store and download the 1.6.0 version or above." I have run KSP, and can confirm that I am running version 1.6.0.2395 I also re-downloaded and reinstalled both files this afternoon. Same result. What gives?

Not for nothing, but if SQUAD were to put out a Valentina Kerman t-shirt (in black, maybe, yes?), I would be compelled to purchase such an item...

I haven't been playing KSP at all lately, I'm in the middle of a very intense semester and need all the time and brain power I can get; but last night I was fooling around with my 5-year old, building silly rockets and blasting them off, and we noticed that it was almost impossible to kill our kerbals. Is it just me? We'd forget to put parachutes on, drop the craft from nearly-space, big explosions, but the command module would stay intact, with Jeb grinning like an idiot the whole time. I'm running stock, latest update, with deadly reentry installed, on a fairly crappy old computer.

"Holy @#$%&$@!! I landed on the #$%@&%$ Mun!!" --Jebediah Kerman

http://www.ejectionsite.com/stapp.htm Despite the lack of physical similarity, I'm fairly certain this guy was related to Jebediah Kerman. He's also the reason your car has seat belts.

I designed a small asparagus-style Duna lander that will shed its landing legs and boosters shortly after leaving the surface, leaving only a lander-can and central fuel tank and engine. Problem is, those idiots in the VAB (yes, I'm talking about YOU, Gimley Kerman!), installed the fuel lines backward, so the central tank feeds the four boosters, essentially making the craft as heavy and inefficient as possible. Is there any way to disable fuel flow in the field?

My ships are generally named after food for orbiters (Ham-n-Cheese I, Burrito Grande); or flightless birds for landers (Emu, Ostrich, Kiwi). My space program is called 'Foops'; a contraction of the words 'Fudge'* and 'Oops'. *The word is not actually 'fudge'.

I would like some basic numbers (delta-v, twr, vehicle weight) to be available in the VAB. I don't think that would take much away from the kerbal-ness of the game: as has been pointed out before, you still have to know what to DO with those numbers. And it would save me a lot of scratch paper.

"Hold still Jeb. This delta-vee may sting slightly..."

Replace "took high school physics" with "didn't take high school physics"; "got physics degree" with "got BFA"; and "actual job at NASA" with "accepted to Nursing School" and that graph is about right for me.

Stranding Kerbals

I have one saved game in which I have 4 ships with 2 EVA kerbals each going in highly elliptic orbits out to Jool and inside Moho. While I'm doing something else (i.e. work) I run it in map mode, focused on the sun, at full time warp, and wait for interesting intersects to happen... It's like a screensaver for physics geeks.

Just out of idle curiosity... how close can one fly to the sun without, er, dying?

RENDEZVOUS WITH KARMA IV “Shouldn’t we get permission from CapCom before we go inside?†asked Trudat. “Just between you and me,†Jeb said confidentially over his space suit radio, “Old Bill’s a bit of a stick in the mud. Kind of a pansy really.†Bob did not disagree. “Let’s do it!†The inside of Karma appeared remarkably similar to the inside of a kerbal space ship, only on a rather larger scale of course, and equipped with much more modern and sleek high-tech gear: there were LCD screens, laptop computers, digital gauges, and heads-up displays all over the place. The most shocking difference was absence of clutter. The alien spaceship was completely lacking in fuzzy dice, empty Cheesy-Poof wrappers and Bubbly Bounce Beverage containers; pine-tree-shaped air fresheners, graffiti, sticky notes, adult magazines, assorted litter, crumpled and mis-folded delta-v maps, underwear, and odd stockings. The unnatural order and cleanliness was disorienting. “According to this,†said Bob, studying the read-out on his portable music player carefully, “the air in here is safe to breath. We can take off our space suits.†“My friend,†said Jeb, “I never take off my space suit.†“Never?†asked Trudat. “Never ever,†confirmed Jeb emphatically. Karma was rotating slowly on her long axis, generating a kind of pseudo-gravity that was definitely not for the feint of stomach (i.e. Bob and Trudat). Jeb remained unfazed by the Coriolis, or any other effect. He wandered happily through the interior of the alien space ship, exploring deeper and deeper inside, touching things he probably shouldn’t, and pilfering the odd office supplies. Toward the back, inside three monstrous high-tech sarcophagi, the aliens lay supine, slumbering deep in cryogenically-induced hibernation. Or possibly just dead. The creatures were hideous; tall and gangly, with unnatural-looking pink and/or brown skin, beady little piggy eyes, and five fingers on each hand. They definitely looked as if they might be willing to try eating kerbal, given the slightest opportunity. In space, no one can hear you scream. Unless, you know, you leave your mic hot, with smart repeaters broadcasting every word you say across half the solar system. In that case, everyone can hear you scream. “ALIENS!! LET’S GET OUT OF HERE!†hollered Jeb, and the other two followed suit, jetting helter-skelter, pell-mell, roly-poly back to the Macho Burrito in a very poor imitation of a calm tactical retreat. The kerbonauts sealed their own airlock and initiated a burn, essentially at random, heading (as Bob said) “Anywhere but here!â€Â. They sped away from the alien spaceship, leaving behind no clue that kerbals had ever visited, except for a few Cheesy-Poof crumbs, a lingering smell of kethane, some greasy fingerprints, a dog-eared skin magazine, and the words “JEBEDIAH KERMAN WUZ HERE†scrawled across the screen of an LCD monitor in indelible green crayon. * As she approached periapsis, Karma began to maneuver. Her great engines, long cold and dormant, silently ignited and, milking the Oberth effect for all it was worth, she accelerated away in a huff, vectoring off on the most direct trajectory she could calculate, straight out of this ridiculous little star system. The three kerbonauts watched as the tiny point of light faded into the distance. “So that was first contact,†said Jeb, idly twiddling his newly-acquired NASA ballpoint pen (which didn’t write in zero-G any better than the KSP ones). “Kind of an anticlimax, really,†said Bob. “Oh well,†said Trudat. “You know what they say about Karma...†The other two looked at him expectantly. “What’s that?†“Nice girl, good kisser, but not real s-a-m-r-t.†Stage Separation Confirmed The End (did you remember to pack parachutes, Lima-bean head?)

In my particular universe, Kerbals spends Bitkoins. Usually much faster than they can earn them.

RENDEZVOUS WITH KARMA III “Call me Ishmael.†“Why the @#$%& should we call you ‘Ishmael’?†Bob snapped. “Your stupid name’s stupid Jeb!†“Sheesh, I just thought it sounded cool, OK?†It had been a long and boring flight (despite Jeb’s seemingly endless supply of ‘knock-knock’ jokes), and tempers were running a little thin. The only excitement had been at the mid-trajectory course correction, where a viscious name-calling argument had broken out over whether the directions meant ‘our left’ or ‘their left’, and what ‘those stupid little yellow wingdings’ on the navball meant. They finally had a visual on their target. It was, in fact, a spaceship. An enormous, bizarre alien spaceship. “It’s enormous!†“It’s bizarre!†“Where are all the boosters?†“Where are the struts?†“What the heck kind of stupid name is ‘Usa’?†“Maybe it’s pronounced ‘oosa’.†Trudat suggested helpfully. “Cool!†exclaimed Jeb. “Let’s all go EVA and check it out!!†“Um, Jeb, don’t regulations require at least one kerbonaut to stay with the ship at all times?†“Ah, what are safety protocols for if not for flouting?†Bob did not disagree. * Karma was long and cylindrical, with what looked like engines at one end, and what was presumably an airlock at the other (“Party at one end, business at the other!†said Jeb. Bob dope-slapped him.) The skin of the craft was smooth and white, with a series of ribs near the equator, presumably for her pleasure. Kerbol flared huge and hot in the middle distance as the kerbonauts slipped like lemming out of the Macho Burrito, their odds of getting cancer tripling, and their health insurance rates simultaneously quintupling, as they were exposed to the harsh, unshielded solar radiation. The three kerbonauts floated, like an exceptionally disorganized herd of cats, toward the front of the alien craft. Jeb rested lightly on a delicate-looking control surface, just under a sign that read “NOT A STEPâ€Â. “Open the pod bay doors, Bob†“I’m sorry Jeb, I’m afraid I can’t do that.†“Right. I thought you might say that. So I came prepared!†said Jeb, pulling from his space-backpack a blowtorch, tinsnips, a come-along, a crowbar, a cold chisel, a lump hammer, a slimjim, and a jaws-of-life. “We could just try the handle,†suggested Trudat. “Killjoy,†responded Jeb sourly. Bob pulled the handle, and the great airlocks swung open, smoothly and silently. Just as if they had been designed for that express purpose or something. “Oh my God, it’s full of stars!†said Jeb, his nose buried deep in the dog-eared copy of ‘Kollywood Unclothed’ that he kept on his person at all times. “Oh come on,†said Bob. “We used that joke in the last story!†“Wait a second,†said Trudat, aghast. “You mean people actually read this tripe?!†Stage Separation Confirmed. End Part Three

RENDEZVOUS WITH KARMA II "Kerbin?! Sheeoot... I'm still only on Kerbin?" Jeb had been planet-side a week now, waiting for a mission, and he was starting to get twitchy. He was doing some mandatory R&R, camping and fishing in the upper reaches of the Kong river. Jebediah Kerman wanted a mission, and on a whim they gave him one. It was a real choice mission, and by the time it was over, he'd already want another. One of the many duties in the job description of 'Unpaid Intern' at the Kerbal Space Program is 'Gofer', so they sent Trudat Kerman up the river to fetch Jeb. Not that he was particularly hard to find: Trudat simply followed a trail of empty Bubbly Bounce Beverage containers, Cheesy Poof wrappers, smoke, and the sound of explosions. "Incredibly dangerous? Half-baked? Under-engineered? Poorly thought out? Practically suicide? Woo-hoo! Count me in!" Jeb whooped and tossed another live grenade into the river. 'Better him than me,' thought Trudat, wisely covering his ears as the grenade burst underwater, adding significantly to the number of dead and stunned fish already floating on the surface of the water. 'Better him than me,' he repeated to himself just for emphasis. * "Blah-de-boring-blah-blah-boring..." Gene Kerman was droning on and on about stupid dull technical stuff: vectors and trajectories and intercepts and all that. Jeb fidgeted and fussed in his chair. Why couldn't he just blast off already? "...so you'll rendezvous with Karma near periapsis, well inside the orbit of Moho. If all goes well with that encounter, and you don't fly too close to the sun and get burned to a crisp, we'll arrange a rescue flight on your outward-bound trajectory." It may have been a trick of the light, but the flight director's nose seemed to be getting longer and longer. "Jebediah Kerman, have you been listening to a single word I said?" Jeb blinked two or three times and grinned idiotically. "Rendezvous means 'Around Yous'", he declared wisely. "OK, now lets talk crewing," said Gene. "Bob is my co-pilot," Jeb announced happily. "I can be CapCom for this one," Bill said hurriedly, wincing as Bob kicked him viciously in the shin. "Hmm," mused Gene, "We still need a command module pilot. What about that geeky little Lima bean over there?" "ME??" asked Trudat, aghast. "I don't know the first thing about flying a space ship." "Never stopped Jeb," Bill commented. * The Macho Burrito towered above the kerbonauts in the Vehicle Assembly Building. As usual, the immense rocket looked as though it had been assembled out of parts scavenged from a scrap yard by an overly-ambitious but underly-talented troop of Boy Sprouts. You know, the special troop. “So?†Wernher Von Kerman asked, preening like a big green peacock, “Vhat do you think?†“It looks an awful lot like the old Chimichanga.†said Bob. Von Kerman was crestfallen. “Ja, vell, ve did give it a fresh coat of paint...†He perked up. “Hey, here comes Gilrim Kerman mit his fuel truck! Can I interest anyvone in an asbestos suit?†“Oh my, look at the time!†said Bob. “We're late for our pre-flight briefing in the ready room...†* All puffed up with self-importance, Bill Kerman stood at the front of the ready room, looking healthy and green. “Alright fellows, you all know the drill: sit down, fasten your harness, and Don't Touch Anything!†Bill looked pointedly at Jeb, who was fidgeting and staring vacantly up at the ceiling. “Now lets all have a nice safe mission. I'd be going with you if I could, but my lumbago's been acting up a lot lately... Any questions?†Trudat Kerman waved his hand urgently in the air. “Your space suit comes with built-in plumbing,†Bill said. “Good luck up there guys.†* Bob, Jeb, and Trudat rode the elevator up the launch tower, and walked across the gantry to the waiting command module. The three kerbonauts looked glum and resigned; manically excited, and terrified beyond belief. In that order. The countdown proceeded remorselessly, the seconds falling away like leaves off a shoddily manufactured K-Mart [no relation] wall calendar. Trudat Kerman tested the integrity and capacity of his space suit plumbing. Jebediah Kerman was in his element: strapped into a flimsy seat atop a hundred tons of spot-welded aluminum, containing the most volatile explosive mixture Wernher Von Kerman could siphon off from other, better-funded agencies. He grinned like an idiot, his finger reaching out inexorably toward the shiny red LAUNCH button. “I'm s-scared,†Trudat said to Bob. “I'm not sure this is a good idea at all.†“It's not,†Bob replied. “I advise you do what I do.†“What's that?†“Panic.†And that is exactly what they did. Jebediah Kerman finally succumbed to temptation and pressed the LAUNCH button a full two minutes ahead of schedule, and the Macho Burrito leapt into the skies of Kerbin, riding a pillar of flame high, high, high into the air, failing (rather to the disappointment of the crowd of onlookers) to explode into a million tiny pieces. “Yahoo!†bellowed Jeb, “We’ve got a date with Dharma!†“Er, that’s ‘Karma’, Jeb.†“Whatever.†Stage Separation Confirmed End Part Two.

WHEN WE WERE LEMMINGS Afterward: There’s No Fool Like and Old Fool “Are you sure this thing is safe, Grandpa?†Young Timmytim Kerman eyed the contraption skeptically. To the untrained observer, it might look like a shoddily-built homemade kid’s wagon, pieced together out of off-cuts and scrap lumber, with a couple of ill-conceived and borderline-illegal solid rocket boosters strapped onto it with bailing wire. But to Jebediah Kerman, it looked like a work of art. “Of course it’s safe!†Jeb said, patting his grandson fondly on the head. Jebediah’s hair was white, his bulging eyes riddled with cataracts, and his green skin was drab and wrinkled, but he still wore that same old idiotic grin. “When I was your age we did this all the time! Now get in!†The two were perched atop Suicide Hill, the tallest and steepest elevation in the neighborhood. Timmytim could see his house, small and fragile-looking, away in the distance. “I don’t know…†Timmytim climbed dubiously into the rickety little wagon as Grandpa Jeb lit a sputtering, smelly match. With one spry movement, Jeb lit the fuses of the home-brewed boosters, and gave the wagon a vicious shove. “Yaaaaaah!†yelled Timmytim as the contraption carooned down the steep slope, bouncing and shimmying, and threatening to capsize. The wagon hit an especially violent bump, and was catapulted into the air, spinning wildly on three axes. Just then, the solid rocket boosters (cobbled together out of left over Kerbal-Day fireworks) kicked in. The little wagon rode a trail of fire and white smoke several hundred meters into the sky, before exploding in red, white, and green stars. Jeb watched, an approving smile on his wizened old face. Finally, a small parachute (made of several of Timmytim’s mom’s best bed sheets hastily stitched together) popped open, and young Timmytim floated gently back to terra firma, slightly scorched, but otherwise unharmed. Timmytim ran all the way home. “This is the greatest day of my life! Mom! Dad! When I grow up, I want to be a kerbonaut, just like Grandpa!!†Jebediah stayed atop the hill for a while, beaming idiotically. “That’s my boy,†he said aloud to the gunpowder-infused breeze, “That’s my real son! Not like that… accountant and his music teacher wife down there.†Jeb lingered a little longer on the top of Suicide Hill. The Mun was on the rise just above the horizon, fat and full and pale. If you listened carefully, once in a while you could just make out the sound of explosions from the Kerbal Space Center away in Kouston. END (for real)

WHEN WE WERE LEMMINGS Part X: The Trouble with Kerbals/Beyond the Green Event Horizon Thingamabob There was a tap at the door. Gene Kerman guiltily tucked his 1/6th complete Kubik’s Rube ™ behind his desk. “Enter,†he said. It had been quiet around Kouston of late. Suspiciously quiet. Things had never been better at the Kerbal Space Center. Jeb was certifiably dead; and Bill and Bob were stuck on a highly elliptical interplanetary orbit. Productivity was up, explosions were down, funding was nominal. Gene should have been happy. Instead, though he hated to admit it… he was bored. The knocking at his door continued. “Come in already!†he yelled. Wernher Von Kerman poked his green head around the door. “I’m sorry,†he said. “I thought I heard you say ‘Enter’…†“Von Kerman, what a pleasure! I was just thinking of you,†Gene Kerman said. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about some of the line items on your latest spacecraft budget.†“Exactly!†Von Kerman beamed. “Which is vy I want to show you my latest creation. Shall ve take a stroll?†Outside the space center administration building, the Taco Supreme leaned heavily against its Clamp-O-Tron ™ moorings, silver duct tape glistening in the morning sun. In front of the launch pad was parked a brand-new shiny red convertible. “This is exactly the budget item I wanted to speak to you about,†said Gene Kerman. “Ah yes,†said Von Kerman happily. “The critical component of my latest project. Simply take one late-model, high performance sports car, a Kamborghini ™ , say…†“And you strap a bunch of boosters to it? Turn it into a time machine?†“No…†said Wernher Von Kerman, getting into the convertible next to a busty, blonde-haired, green-skinned female kerbal. “Well, I’m glad ve had this little discussion. See you on ze flip side, ja?†He started the car and peeled out with a roar, leaving Gene Kerman coughing and sputtering in a cloud of high-test unleaded exhaust. “Excuse me, sir?†Gene Kerman wheeled around. There, healthy as lemmings, were the three stooges: Jeb, Bill, and Bob Kerman. Bill Kerman pointed at the Taco Grande, sagging dangerously against its moorings. “I’m concerned about the thrust-to-weight ratio on that thing.†Bob Kerman said “And I’d like to talk about the return-stage delta vees.†Jebediah Kerman said “Green crayons are technically non-toxic.†Oh boy, just like old times. “Where the heck did you guys come from?†Gene was going to have to plug in his wah-wah pedal again. “Well,†said Jeb. “You see,†added Bob. “It’s a long story…†concluded Bill. “Can it,†snapped Gene. “Alright you pimento-stuffed olives, into that command module this instant! I want all three of you strapped in and ready to go. Blast-off is in two minutes. Don’t be late!†“But sir,†protested Bill, “Where are we going?†“What’s our destination?†asked Bob. “Can I have another green crayon?†asked Jeb. Gene Kerman regarded the three kerbonauts with loathing. It seemed he’d chosen the wrong week to stop snorting keth. “Anywhere,†he growled, “but here.†“I hear Eeloo is very nice this time of year,†said Bill, thumbing the SAS to the ‘on’ position. “What’s an eeloo?†asked Jeb, eyeing the big friendly red ‘launch’ button with twitchy fingers and lust in his heart. “Here we go again,†said Bob with a sigh, clipping the buckle on his harness and adjusting the straps. Plot Collided with Storyline and was Destroyed. All Ashore What’s Going Ashore Stage Separation Confirmed. The End

WHEN WE WERE LEMMINGS Part IX: The Duna Chronicles “Space is big. Really, really big. Really, really, really big. Really, really incredibly, mind-blowingly…†“Oh come off it!†Jeb snapped impatiently, “It can’t be all that big. Look, we’ve already got an intercept thingamabob.†Bill and Bob looked at the navigation computer. It was true. Their random plunge inward toward the sun had resulted in an intercept and a decent periapsis to boot. “Duna,†mused Bob. “I wonder… we should have enough fuel…†“It’d be a real feather in our caps…†said Bill. “A star on our paper…†“A notch in our belt…†“A fly in our ointment…†“Oh Goody!†gushed Jeb, “I can’t wait to land on… wait, what was the planet’s name again?†* Bill and Bob passed the time on the inward-bound journey playing chess; Jeb whittled small animal figurines out of bars of soap, devastated the remaining stores of Cheesy Poofs, and amused the boys with charades. The encounter with Duna went about as well as could be expected: blind panic, a close-shave with Ike (which Jeb mistook for the Mun: “Aww, I’ve been there already…â€Â, more panic and course corrections, a shallow dive into the thin atmosphere, recriminations about forgetting to deploy the parachutes, a squabble about who’s job it was to remember to deploy parachutes, a brief and bumpy ride as the parachutes finally kicked in, and then Jeb piloted the Chili Con Carne to a surprisingly soft and shockingly uneventful landing on the red plains of Duna. “Well,†said Bill, “That went better than I expected.†They extended the ladder, and descended onto the surface of the alien planet, Jeb pushing and shoving to be first. Jeb planted his flag, and stood for a moment, posing photogenically in front of the banner flapping in the thin Dunar breeze. “Wait a second,†objected Bill. “That’s not the official KSP flag… that’s just the centerfold from an old copy of Kenthouse magazine!†“Eh, close enough,†said Bob, admiring the view. “Hey, I didn’t know we had a ROVER!†exclaimed Jeb, his eyes popping with excitement. “Cooool!†all three kerbals mouthed in unison. [it is a strange and little-known philological fact that in both Kerbal and English the word ‘cool’ has the same sound, spelling, and meaning.] Bob pushed a conveniently located little red button, a radial decoupler went *pop*, and the rover fell to the ground. All four tires deflated the moment it landed. “We’ll have this fixed in a jiffy!†Bill and Bob scurried around the rover, repairing the burst tires, while Jeb attempted to remove a foreign object from inside his nostril, and was once again foiled by the visor of his space suit. As soon as three of the four burst tires were fixed, the rover took off on its own, wending its way across the Dunar landscape like a besotted kerbal trying to walk home after a long night of drinking. The three kerbonauts chased it a short distance, but it was clear they were out-paced. “Oops, forgot to set the parking brake,†said Bill, blushing green inside his space suit. “Let us never speak of this incident again,†said Bob. The rover was doing donuts in the middle distance, kicking up little plumes of red dust. “Agreed,†said Jeb. “What were we talking about again?†“Lets get out of here,†said Bill. “Yeah, we come in peace, we hold these truths to be self-evident, there but for the grace of Gosh go I, yadda yadda yadda,†said Bob. “Whatever you guys say,†said Jeb, grinning like a maniac. The three kerbonauts blasted off, leaving the sands of Duna undisturbed but for a few footprints, an R-rated little flag, a scattering of graffiti, a couple dozen empty Bubbly Bounce Beverage containers and Cheesy Poof wrappers, and a runaway rover. “And now home,†Jeb said, pointing the nose of the Chili Con Carne at Kerbin and pulling down on the throttle and holding it there while Bill and Bob protested. “Jeb!†said Bill, “We were supposed to wait in a parking orbit for six months before doing our burn… What part of ‘Launch Window’ don’t you get?!†“Well duh,†said Jeb. “Obviously, the whole concept. Let’s play charades! See if you can guess who I am now:†He crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. “Duhhh, I’m Bill Kerman…†Bill was studying the navigation computer. “It looks to me like if we did a small course correction, we might get an encounter with Moho, and be able to slingshot effect ourselves back into the Kerbin sphere of influence. Maybe Kouston would send up a rescue bird,†he speculated optimistically. “But we’re out of RCS monopropellant,†Bob said. “We can’t maneuver anywhere unless *someone* goes EVA and gives us a nudge.†Both kerbonauts looked pointedly at Jeb. “I’ll go,†said Jeb. “I want to go.†Thirty seconds later, Jebediah Kerman was out the airlock, idiotic grin plastered across his cheerful green face. He let go of the ladder, thumbed the maneuver controls, and instantly jetted off at a random tangent to the Chili Con Carne. “Wheeeee!†crackled over the radio as he quickly disappeared from sight. “Huh,†said Bill. “Looks like old Jeb is on a sub-orbital trajectory with the sun.†“Well, whoop-de-do for him,†said Bob. “What about us? Without that course correction, we don’t get any kind of intercept at all for the next… eight hundred years.†“Yes,†said Bill, “But that’s eight hundred Jebediah Kerman-free years!†“True,†said Bob. “How about a good game of chess?†Jebediah Kerman crashed into the sun and was killed. Stage Separation Confirmed. End Part Nine

WHEN WE WERE LEMMINGS Part VIII: Somewhere Over Gravity's Rainbow The life raft floated real good; once it had been inflated, all the holes located and patched, turned right-side-up, and then re-inflated. Bill and Bob spent most of their time in the command module, playing endless games of chess that invariably ended in a stalemate. Jeb hung out in the life raft, sunning himself (such as he could with the pale orb of Kerbol 65 million kilometers away),or swimming laps around the little flotilla. Anything to keep up his chiseled green physique. “Say boys,†Jeb said as he lounged atop the life raft in his painfully skimpy Karmani™ swim shorts and his stylish Ray-Kan™ aviator glasses. He looked pretty sharp; or to be more precise, kind of obscene. “Say boys,†Jeb said again, and Bill and Bob glanced up from their game, annoyed. Bill's minotaur was being threatened by Bob's leprechaun. Or was it? Could leprechauns move diagonally? Nobody could remember. “'scuse me fellas,†Jeb went on, trying a slightly different tack. “How long do you suppose it'll be before we can expect a rescue?†He looked slightly embarrassed. “'cause, um, you see... I'm all out of Sunblock. And a guy does like his skin to look its greenest...†“You know Jeb, between the inverse square law, and the high atmospheric albedo, you hardly need to worry about sunburn…†said Bill, not looking up from the board. “We're not getting rescued,†Bob said, also not looking up from the board. “Without the high-gain antenna, we can't communicate with Mission Control,†Bill explained. “They don't even know we're missing.†It took a while for this information to penetrate Jebediah's thick cranium, and even longer for it to be processed by his small, rodent-like brain. Meanwhile, Bob's joker slid over three, skipped back two, and jogged over another three, capturing Bill's minotaur. “I've got an idea...†said Jeb slowly. “Huh?†said Bill. “You've got a what now?†said Bob. “I've got an idea,†Jeb mused. “Back when I was a kid, in the Boy Sprouts, we used to practice signaling with mirrors. I wonder... could we use the umbrella and the aluminum foil from the survival kit to make a makeshift signal mirror to call back to Mission Control for more sunblock?†Bill's jaw dropped. Bob's joker captured Bill's leprechaun, threatening his attorney and resulting in yet another stalemate. Soon enough, photons were flashing out from the surface of the moon, spelling out O-S-O to anyone who happened to be looking in their direction and who could read Korse code. A very small population indeed. * The Kerbal Space Center was nice and quiet, just the way Gene Kerman liked it. With Bill, Bob, and Jeb absent, the whining, squabbling, boasting, nagging, and complaining had generally ceased; and there had been a 70% reduction in explosions. Gene looked with satisfaction at his radio transmitter, which had been silent for weeks. Buying a wah-wah pedal for the thing had been the best purchase he had ever made. Gilbro, Gilbald, and Macdorf Kerman, grey-suits all, cowered before his desk. Gene let them suffer for a long moment before he spoke. “Boys,†he said importantly, “We're going to plant a Kerbal flag on the surface of Nuda, or my name's not Scottmanley Kerman.†“Um, Gene Kerman sir.†said Macdorf. “Shut up,†continued Gene Kerman. “Now I need you fellows suited up and ready for blast-off by 0800 tomorrow...†“And it's Duna sir.†put in Macdorf unfazed. “What did you say?†Gene aimed his paralyzing icy-cold stare at Macdorf Kerman. “The planet's name is Duna sir, not Nuda,†an unfazed Macdorf said. “I saw it on the back of a cereal box or something.†“Get the hell out of my office,†the launch director said genially. “0800 tomorrow. And DON'T be late!†* “Thirty seconds to blast-off,†crackled over the radio. The Chili Con Carne I was poised atop the launch pad, three unwilling and clue-free grey-suited kerbonauts wedged inside the command module like sardines. Green sardines, well past their expiration date. “I have to go pee-pee!†whined Gilbro. “I have to go poo-poo!†moaned Gilbald. “My tummy hurts!†complained Macdorf. “...all systems nominal... ignition solid rocket boosters...†The Chili Con Carne shivered and shook, belching smoke and fire. “My space suit's wet†complained Gilbro. “My space suit's dirty†whined Gilbald. “I'm going to throw up.†moaned Macdorf. Back in mission control, Gene Kerman sighed and rubbed his ear. This was not at all how he'd imagined the post-Jeb space program. “And blast-off,†he said into the microphone, taking a big swallow of heavily whiskey-laced coffee and pushed the big red launch button. “WAAAAAH!†wailed three terrified Kerbals. “WE WANNA GO HOME!!!†“All systems green. Beginning roll program now.†“AAAAARGH!! STOP THE RIDE! WE WISH WE WERE DEAD!!†“You may just get your wish, my little avocados,†Gene Kerman thought out loud. His wah-wah pedal was going to be getting a workout on this mission. “Gilbald's on my side of the capsule,†complained Gilbro. “He's looking at me,†whined Gilbald. “I think I'm gonna be space-sick,†moaned Macdorf. Gene sighed heavily and rubbed his temples. He had a headache. These jokers made Bill, Bob, and even Jebediah look downright professional. “Stand by for orbital circulization burn.†“Weeee!†hollered Macdorf Kerman, pulling the throttle to 100% and leaving it there. “We're going to Duna!†“You idiots,†snarled Gene Kerman over the radio. “You were supposed to wait six weeks in a stable orbit for the proper launch window!†“What's a launch window?†asked Gilbald Kerman, looking around the capsule for a mysterious port hole he might not have previously noticed. “Are we there yet?†asked Gilbro Kerman. “I threw up in my space suit!†announced Macdorf Kerman. Unintelligible static was the only response from mission control. The three kerbonauts were on their own. * Space is big. Really, really big. Really, really, really big. Really, really, really, really, really big. And boring too. Did we mention boring? Space is made of nothingness: it is chock-full of nothingness, millions of square kilometers of inky-black nothingness; and all that nothing looks pretty much the same. Every surface on the inside of the Chili Con Carne's command module was covered in tic-tac-toe grids. Macdorf (by dint of his marginal intellectual superiority) was the reigning champ. The three Kerbals had been in space for weeks and they hadn't heard one (intelligible) word from mission control. They passed by a number of brighter-than-average stars that may or may not have been planets; and they ate an awful lot of the ship's supplies that may or may not have been food. They say a UFO immediately after flushing the toilet (correlation does not imply causation!) They saw strange and wonderful things. Things you people wouldn't believe... Asparagus ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. They watched K-beams glitter in the dark near the Kannhauser gate. All those moments lost in time... like tears in rain... and they wondered, wondered... “Are we there yet?†“Are we there yet?†“Are we there yet?†“Are we there yet?†“Are we there yet?†“Are we there yet?†“Are we there yet?†“Are we there yet?†“Are we there yet?†“...†“Are we almost there yet?†* Slowly, inexorably, they were sucked into the great gravity well of Jool, like green specks of toe-jam getting sucked down the bathtub drain of the solar system. The three Kerbals watched in awe as the great green planet spiraled closer and closer. “Why do they call Duna the red planet? It looks green to me.†“It's Nuda, not Duna, dummy.†“I know you are but what am I?†“I know you are but what am I?†“I know you are but what am I?†“I know you are but what am I?†“I know you are but what am I?†It was Macdorf who first noticed the flashing light. He interrupted his colleague's witty repartee. “Hey, what's that bright flashing light down there on the surface of that small moon?†“That's no moon!†“Yes it is!†“No it isn't†“Yes it is!†“No it isn't†“Yes it is!†“No it isn't†“I think it's a landing beacon,†said Macdorf. He had been to flight school. Granted, he'd been the janitor there, but something must have rubbed off. “I bet it's a MacKermans,†said Gilbald. “I bet it's a K-Mart,†said Gilbro. [A Kerbal discount store and fast-food franchise; no relation to the terrestrial chain.] “I hope they have customer bathrooms!†Gilbald and Gilbro said. “It must be the Duna space port,†said Macdorf Kerman, who was wise in the ways of outer space. “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious. I'll pilot the ship down to it.†“You know how to fly this thing??†“It's called 'Cruise Control', my good friends.†Macdorf pushed a large, friendly red button, and the ship's navigation computer did the rest, homing in on the beacon and guiding the Chili Con Carne gently and precisely toward the flashing beacon of light, softly landing with a bone-jarring crash on a rocky archipelago some six hundred miles to the east. The Kerbals were surprised to find themselves on a barren outcropping of rock with not a convenience store or a public restroom to be found. They were even more surprised when, three weeks later, a trio of disheveled kerbonauts showed up paddling a heavily patched rubber raft. * Once Cheesy-Poofs and Bubbly Bounce Beverages were exchanged and consumed in the traditional way of the Kerbals, Jeb feigned astonishment, pointing up at the sky with a gasp. “Hey, would you look at that! A flying monkey!†“What? Where? I don't see anything!†said Gilbald, Gilbro, and Macdorf. While the three grey-suits craned their necks, goggling their eyes at the sky, searching for a glimpse of an avian primate, Jeb, Bill, and Bob quietly boarded their ship and blasted off. “Great,†said Bill from orbit. “Now we're in space again, but how do we get home? How do we know when the next launch window back to Kerbin is?†“Well duh,†said Jeb, grinning idiotically. “We just turn the ship around and go back the way we came.†Neither Bill nor Bob could fault the logic with that. Stage Separation Confirmed. Step Right Up, Every One’s a Winner End Part Eight.

WHEN WE WERE LEMMINGS Part VII: Heretics of Duna The planet loomed large in the window, a giant spherical watermelon, so close you could almost reach out and touch it. Jeb had in fact tried to do just that. The plexiglass once again stopped his hand short. The three Kerbals gazed through the forward port holes of the Enchilada VII (The first six Enchiladas had blown up on the launch pad, much to the consternation of the ground crew and launch technicians), momentarily silent, stunned with awe, space sickness, and/or constipation. “Wow,†said Jeb. “I didn't expect Duna to look so... green,†said Bob Kerman. “Or so... big,†said Bill Kerman. “Wow,†said Jebediah Kerman. “Or to have so many moons...†said Bob. “Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear,†quoted Jeb sagely. “Listen,†said Bob, “I've been doing some calculations...†Jeb nodded his head wisely. He knew what calculations were: creepy-crawly things with shells instead of bones, like crabs and lobsters. Delicious. “...we definitely don't have enough thrust to generate the delta-v to get back to Kerbin. I'm not sure we even have enough delta-v to achieve orbit. We may end up being sling-shotted out to who knows where. We could end up in the Oort cloud or the Co-Prosperity Sphere or something.†Bob and Bill both looked worried. “What does 'delta-v' mean?†asked Jeb. “Delta-v is a scalar which takes units of speed. It is a measure of the amount of effort that is needed to change from one trajectory to another by making an orbital maneuver.†“Uh-huh,†mused Jeb. “And what does 'trajectory' mean?†“A trajectory is the path that a moving object follows through space as a function of time.†“I see,†said Jeb, forehead wrinkled with non-comprehension. “And what does...†“Shut up Jeb,†Bill advised. He keyed the radio transmitter. “Kouston, we've got a problem.†In response, CapCom crackled and hissed unintelligibly. The high-gain antenna was on the fritz again; they'd wrapped the moorings in duct tape and whacked at it with a wrench several times to no avail. “We could try aero-braking,†Bob said. “It'd be dangerous, but it might be our only option.†“You can't fool me,†Jeb laughed. “Everyone knows Nuda doesn't have an atmosphere.†His fellow kerbonauts ignored him as they maneuvered the Enchilda VII into position for a retrograde burn. Graceful, it wasn't. “Let's check the survival kit,†suggested Bob. “$100 in BitKoins. One flare gun with flares (expired). One umbrella. One sheet aluminum foil. One novelty KSP spaceship-shaped pen. Three lipsticks. Three pair nylon stockings. One prophylactic (also expired). One note: 'IOU one case of Cheesy-Poofs, signed Jebediah Kerman.' One six-pack Bubbly Bounce Beverage.†“Shoot, a fella could have a pretty good weekend in Kouston with all that stuff!†said Bill. Jeb nodded in agreement. From experience, both bitter and sublime, he knew it to be true. The Enchilda VII fell toward the great green planet, faster and faster, deeper and deeper into the gravity well. The kerbonauts facial expressions were (from left to right): worry, mindless jubilation, and abject terror.. The ship plunged into the upper atmosphere of Jool like a high-velocity rifle bullet piercing a key lime pie (“Mmm, pie...†mused Jeb). The Enchilda VII was sheathed in flame as the great engines roared to life, grumbled, belched, hiccupped, and expired. The kerbonauts were crushed into their gravity couches, squashed flat by the immense g-forces. “What does 'g-force' mean again?†asked Jeb. Bill and Bob, with other questions (and their own craniums) pressing on their minds, declined to answer. The Enchilada VII emerged from the cloudy Joolean atmosphere, rather well-done, but largely undamaged. “Well,†said Bill, consulting the navigation computer, “The good news is we've got an orbit, and we're not dead. The bad news is our main engines are out of fuel, and we've lost our high-gain antenna, our wizard, and our way.†(“We had a wizard?†asked Bob. “Figure of speech.†explained Bill.) “Well,†said Bill. “We could try and land on that small moon over there.†“That's no moon!†said Jeb. The Exasperatron™ meter, which measures units of exasperation on a logarithmic scale, had long-since maxed out, and was starting to smoke. “YES IT IS!†yelled Bob and Bill in perfect harmony. The Enchilada jettisoned its transfer stage, shedding the excess mass faster than obese dieter on a late-night infomercial. Bill Kerman carefully maneuvered the remainder of the ship, the command module and lander, into the sphere of influence of the small, blue moon. The greedy, sticky little fingers of the upper atmosphere grabbed hold of the Enchilda VII, dragging her relentlessly into a sub-orbital trajectory. “Um Bill,†said Bob, “Weren't we supposed to transfer into the lander and separate while we were still in orbit?†“Well, I know that NOW!†said Bill. Their ungainly craft was already starting to tumble. “I'll take it from here,†cried Jeb with an idiotic grin. Bill yielded the controls. He might be a knee-biter, a pervert, an imbecile, an insatiable glutton, and a manic plagiarist, but Jeb was still an ace pilot. With a combination of parachutes, thrusters, RCS, SAS, sleight-of-hand, harsh language, strength of will, and blind luck, Jebediah wrestled the Enchilada VII back into control. Soon, she was hanging upright beneath a bouquet of parachutes, landing legs fully extended, falling toward the surface at an extremely survivable rate of descent. The outstretched legs touched the surface of the water and promptly exploded. “I don't know why they always do that,†Bob said. “There isn't anything even remotely flammable in them.†The Enchilada VII tipped over, belly-flopped into the water, and snapped in half. The lander segment immediately sank like bag full of metaphors; the command module bobbed in the waves like a fat trout stunned by a hand grenade. “I didn't even know Nuda had oceans,†mused Jeb. “I don't even know where to start with that,†said Bill. “First of all it's not Nuda, it's Duna. And secondly, it's not Duna!†“Huh?†said Jeb and Bob together. “Well, we might as well stick our heads out the hatch and have a look around,†said Bill. “See where we are.†“Outta my way!†yelled Jeb. “I'm going to be the first Kerbal on Nuda!†He shoved past Bob and Bill and flung himself through the open hatch, landing face-first with a splash. “Come on in boys,†hollered Jeb. “The water's fine!†RT-10 Solid Fuel Booster ™ Splashed Down Hard and was Destroyed. No Deposit, No Return Stage Separation Confirmed. End Part Seven