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Date: May 22, 2013 2:04:58 PM GMT-06:00
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Subject: FW: The World's First Space Station

 

 

AmericaSpace

For a nation that explores
April 20th, 2013

'The Main Road': The World's First Space Station (Part 1)

By Ben Evans

 

Artist's concept of Soyuz 10 approaching the Salyut 1/DOS space station in April 1971. Image Credit: Roscosmos

When Neil Armstrong first set foot on the Moon in July 1969, the people of the Soviet Union did not see the live coverage of his historic steps. It was a decision later condemned by cosmonaut Alexei Leonov. It was "a most stupid and short-sighted political decision," he wrote in his memoir, Two Sides of the Moon, "stemming from both pride and envy." Back then, it was suspected in the West, but never admitted by Russia, that ambitious plans to land a Soviet citizen on the Moon were advanced, but never realized. And in the wake of Apollo 11, the question for the Soviet Union was how to possibly respond to such an enormous U.S. success. The response, cleverly cloaked in rhetoric, was to build and launch the world's first space station.

Behind closed doors, there were three options: a manned Mars mission, "advanced" lunar landings, and an Earth-orbiting space station. The reality that the Soviets could not successfully bring to operational status a rocket with only 70 percent of the Saturn V's payload capacity rendered the first two options largely moot, and these were never openly discussed with the world. In fact, wrote historian Asif Siddiqi in his seminal work, Challenge to Apollo, the fact that plans for a Mars mission existed at all "is testament to the often unrealistic ambitions of both space industry officials and the chief designers." The concept of a space station, on the other hand, and the steadily growing maturity of Russia's Soyuz manned spacecraft and its ability to rendezvous and dock with other vehicles in orbit, offered a more practical alternative.

In the face of a humiliating public relations disaster in the summer of 1969, the Soviets turned their own weakness to their advantage: now America could be presented as the imperialist superpower in search of the glory and the spectaculars. The more beautiful socialist state, on the other hand, could now depict itself as pursuing peaceful, scientific goals closer to Earth. It was a cynical and ironic depiction, considering the shameful Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia the previous year and the reality that three of their early space stations would be exclusively military in nature.

Neil Armstrong's historic achievement of becoming the first man to set foot on the Moon inspired the Soviets to accelerate their space station plans in response. Photo Credit: NASA

In August 1969, a few weeks after the Apollo 11 lunar landing, a group of designers proposed that the propellant tank of a Soyuz rocket could be converted into a makeshift space station. At this stage, of course, something was needed to respond to the American success, and plans for a military space station called "Almaz" ("Diamond") were some way from becoming a reality. By mid-October, the effort was set in motion to equip the "core" of an Almaz station with Soyuz solar panels, guidance, and controls, and launch it into orbit before America's Skylab, possibly in early 1971.

This created the illusion that the Soviets were following a gradual "grand plan" for mastering near-Earth space, and it was reinforced by Leonid Brezhnev's speech at the Kremlin Palace of Congresses on 22 October 1969. "Our country has an extensive space programme," he began, "drawn up for many years. We are going our own way: we are moving consistently and purposefully. Soviet cosmonautics is solving problems of increasing complexity. Our way to the conquest of space is the way of solving vital, fundamental tasks—basic problems of science and technology. Our science has approached the creation of long-term orbital stations and laboratories as the decisive means to an extensive conquest of space. Soviet science regards the creation of orbital stations with changeable crews as the main road for man into space."

It was clear from this address, wrote Asif Siddiqi, that Brezhnev was implying that the Americans were chasing "an empty, politically motivated enterprise, [whereas] Soviet cosmonauts were doing their all for the advancement of science and ultimately for the benefit of humankind." Sending men to the Moon was expensive in comparison to the automated orbiters and landers being regularly dispatched by the Soviets. It almost seemed that a sort of Five-Year Plan was being formalized and, far from being a politically inspired enterprise, it would be seen as being ordered, organized, properly financed, and executed with precision; the perfect cover, if ever it were needed, for the hastily-cobbled-together reality. In a major sense, this dramatic turnaround from the humiliation of two failed N-1 launches and the crushing disappointment of America's landing on the Moon was a masterstroke.

Other high-profile personalities in the Soviet space effort now came to the fore to reinforce Brezhnev's pronouncement. Mstislav Keldysh, head of the Soviet Academy of Sciences, told Swedish journalists on 24 October that "we no longer have any scheduled plans for manned lunar flights." Many observers in the West fell for it. However, in the Soviet Union, feelings were quite different. One Moscow journalist noted with sarcasm in 1990 that Brezhnev's speech was little more than a desperate bid to "come up with an alternative space project to save face, as well as the badly tarnished myth of Soviet superiority in space … Designers, cosmonauts, and thousands of other people probably laughed up their sleeves, knowing full well that the General Secretary was lying."

Additionally, the CIA suspected that the "sudden" advancement of the space station concept into Soviet strategic thinking was a direct consequence of their loss of the Moon race to Apollo. "The implication," read an intelligence report issued in January 1970 and declassified in 1998, "in light of public statements like those of Brezhnev and Keldysh … is that the Soviets have downgraded their manned lunar landing program and have placed new emphasis on space stations … One reason for the public stress on space stations and de-emphasis of manned lunar landings may be the success of the U.S. Apollo program … " In conclusion, the report suggested that the failings of the N-1 rocket, whose disastrous July 1969 launch had been clearly photographed by a Corona spy satellite, profoundly shifted the Soviet direction in space towards an orbital station, which offered "potential short-run economic benefits … in contrast to the longer-run potential gains from exploration of the Moon … "

Grainy image from the departing Soyuz 11 mission in June 1971, showing Salyut 1. This was one of the last close-up views of the world's first space station. Photo Credit: Roscosmos

On 9 February 1970, Decree No. 105-41 was issued by the Central Committee and the Council of Ministers. Among its directives: all pertinent documentation and all existing hardware, including manufactured Almaz station cores, should be transferred to the new Long-Duration Orbital Station (DOS) program. The station would be 46 feet long and 15 feet wide, with a mass of around 40,000 pounds. With ten times as much living space as Soyuz, DOS-1 could support up to three cosmonauts for several weeks.

In physical appearance, DOS-1 comprised three main segments: a transfer compartment, a working area, and an aggregate section. The first was located at the forward end of the station and was fitted with a passive docking "node" for receiving Soyuz. It contained life-support and thermoregulation equipment, together with the Orion ultraviolet telescope, cameras, and biological instruments. It also included a small side-hatch, through which cosmonauts could perform spacewalks (although no space suits were assigned to the first station). A pair of large solar panels were mounted onto the transfer compartment's exterior. Next came the work area, which consisted of two cylinders, and featured a control panel and facilities for working and eating, heating food, and recreation. Finally, at the rear of DOS-1 was the aggregate section, which was not accessible to the crew. It contained a main engine and another pair of solar panels. According to Asif Siddiqi, the overall impression was "bird-like."

Shortly after the release of Decree No. 105-41, the first mutterings of exactly who might fly the early DOS-1 missions were made. One of the first names was veteran cosmonaut Alexei Yeliseyev, who had flown twice the previous year and had actual experience of rendezvous, docking, and spacewalking. Another was a rookie engineer named Nikolai Rukavishnikov. The situation now moved quickly. The first crew consisted of Yeliseyev, Rukavishnikov, and commander Vladimir Shatalov, who would undertake a record-breaking 30-day mission in DOS-1. (The Americans were not expected to be able to achieve such a feat on Skylab until at least 1972.) The second crew to occupy DOS-1 would comprise veteran cosmonauts Georgi Shonin and Valeri Kubasov, together with rookie Pyotr Kolodin, and they would push the envelope further by attempting 45 days in orbit. The third and fourth crews—consisting of Boris Volynov, Konstantin Feoktistov, and Viktor Patsayev, then Yevgeni Khrunov, Vladislav Volkov, and Vitali Sevastyanov—would serve in a backup capacity for the Shatalov and Shonin crews, then fly to the second-generation DOS-2 station.

By May 1970, revised crews had been announced, with Shonin, Yeliseyev, and Rukavishnikov reshuffled to fly first, followed by Alexei Leonov, Valeri Kubasov, and Pyotr Kolodin. Backups to these two crews, and candidates for the DOS-2 station, would then be Vladimir Shatalov, Vladislav Volkov, and Viktor Patsayev, and a new and relatively inexperienced line-up of Georgi Dobrovolski, Vitali Sevastyanov, and Anatoli Voronov. It was expected that Shonin's Crew One would launch aboard Soyuz 10 about eight to ten days after DOS-1 had reached orbit, arrive at the station 24 hours later, and spend a month aboard. Twenty-five days after the return of Shonin's crew, the Leonov team would blast off aboard Soyuz 11 and attempt a stay of 45 days.

However, the adverse reactions of the Soyuz 9 crew—which had flown for 18 days in June 1970, from which its cosmonauts returned in poor physical condition—prompted managers to recommend flights of no more than three weeks until a clearer perspective could be gained on how weightlessness affected the human body. Nevertheless, and further highlighting the Politburo's real motivation for endorsing the station project, it was directed that DOS-1 had to be launched in time for the 24th Congress of the Soviet Communist Party in March 1971. Privately, Nikolai Kamanin, the commander of the cosmonaut corps, doubted that any such mission would be ready to launch before April or May.

By the autumn of 1970, all of the cosmonauts with the exception of Dobrovolski's Crew Four were training intensely for their missions; the latter trio began formal classes in January of the following year. Much of what happened in the spring of 1971 to change the crew set-up for the first DOS missions surrounded Georgi Shonin. In the months after his first flight, Soyuz 6, in October 1969, Shonin became increasingly dependent on alcohol. In early February 1971, his drunkenness had caused him to miss an important training session. Vasili Mishin was furious and told Kamanin that Shonin would "never fly again in my spaceships!" Shonin was apologetic and implored Kamanin to retain command of Soyuz 10, but to no avail. So it was that Vladimir Shatalov, the most experienced military cosmonaut in terms of rendezvous and docking and the man pointed at the first DOS-1 mission right from the start, now re-entered the game in pole position. He would command Soyuz 10 in Shonin's place.

Soyuz 10 crewmen (front to rear) Rukavishnikov, Shatalov, and Yeliseyev were destined to become the first men to board an Earth-orbital space station. As tomorrow's article will reveal, their mission brought intense disappointment. Photo Credit: Joachim Becker/SpaceFacts.de

Training, particularly in those final weeks in the spring of 1971, was feverish. In his autobiography, Alexei Leonov, whose own crew was untouched by the Shonin episode, related the enormous pressure of learning the intricacies of DOS-1. "Besides the intensive physical training," he wrote, "I had to take technical drawings and detailed plans for the programme home to study at night. The strain was so great that my hands sometimes used to shake."

Early medical opinion in the Soviet Union had been that weightlessness might actually prove beneficial, since it imposed less stress on the heart and other bodily organs, but this was drastically reassessed in the run up to the launch of DOS-1. It was now clear that the strange environment actually posed tremendous risks and had the potential to cause weakening of muscles, bones, and even the immune system over a prolonged period of time. With this in mind, continued Leonov, steps were taken to ensure that exercise equipment aboard DOS-1 was utilised frequently to maintain the strength of the cosmonauts' muscles and bones. Increased emphasis was placed on biological and medical training, and all four crews received intensive instruction in how to perform anything from first aid to the extraction of teeth and how to administer and interpret electrocardiograms and encephalograms to taking blood samples from fingers and veins. This physically and mentally taxing work was on top of preparing for launch and re-entry, rendezvous and docking, and a range of other scientific experiments, including solar and astronomical observations. "We co-operated at astrophysical observatories with leading academics in the field," wrote Leonov of their gruelling schedule. "After completing each course, we had to pass a series of exams."

As the training entered its final stages, the launch of DOS-1 seemed to move further and further to the right. The original plan to launch the station on 5 February 1971 and despatch the Soyuz 10 crew on 15 February was quickly seen to be hopelessly optimistic; in fact, Kamanin had doubted this schedule for several months. The station's environmental control system would not be ready in time, the spacecraft simulators were inadequate for the cosmonauts' needs, and indecision even existed over which to launch first: DOS-1 or Soyuz 10! This proved an organizational nightmare, Kamanin wrote in his diary, when training the crews.

Delays in the production of the station hardware and the validation of its systems were simply unacceptable to the Soviet leadership. Against this backdrop, DOS-1 arrived at the Baikonur launch site in Kazakhstan on 1 February 1971 and completed its checkout a month later, with launch expected no earlier than 15 April. Vladimir Shatalov, Alexei Yeliseyev, and Nikolai Rukavishnikov would blast off in Soyuz 10 four days later and dock with the station. Many physicians and managers felt that spending a month aboard posed a grave health risk. In his diary, Kamanin noted that the Soyuz 9 cosmonauts had landed virtually in the laps of the doctors, but if they had been called on to make an emergency landing in the ocean or in the wild Siberian taiga they would have been in real trouble. For Kamanin, every extension past 20 days was a risk not only to the health of the crew, but also to their very lives.

And the hazardous and life-threatening reality of space exploration would become abundantly clear with the unlucky voyage of Soyuz 10 and, hard on its heels, the tragic tale of Soyuz 11.

 

Copyright © 2013 AmericaSpace - All Rights Reserved

 

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AmericaSpace

For a nation that explores
April 21st, 2013

'Tense and Magnificent': The World's First Space Station (Part 2)

By Ben Evans

 

Artist's concept of Soyuz 10 approaching the Salyut 1/DOS space station in April 1971. Image Credit: Roscosmos

Two years after the United States landed the first men on the Moon, the Soviet Union was ready to stage its own spectacular—the launch of the world's first Earth-orbiting space station—in response. As described in yesterday's history article, the road to build it was fraught with difficulty, but in April 1971 it was expected that the Long-Duration Orbital Station (DOS-1) would support three Soyuz 10 cosmonauts for three weeks, longer than any previous crew. For such a historic venture, "DOS-1″ was a hardly appropriate title; a name was acutely needed, although Chief Designer Vasili Mishin's desire to call the new station "Zarya" ("Dawn") was foiled by the fact that China had already claimed this for one of their secret programs. Aware of the fact that the station's launch would almost coincide with the tenth anniversary of Yuri Gagarin's pioneering flight, it was decided instead to call it "Salyut 1″ as a "salute" to the world's first man in space.

The name of Zarya did not die; for it had already been emblazoned on the station itself and on the Proton rocket's nose fairing … and it was too late to change it. None of the pictures of the booster bearing this nomenclature would be released to the West for almost three decades. On 15 April 1971, atop a three-stage Proton, the world's first space station was duly rolled to its Baikonur launch pad. Four days later, at 4:40 a.m. Moscow Time, Salyut 1 headed into orbit. Not everything went to plan, however. By the end of its first orbit, ground controllers discovered that the cover for its large on-board telescope had not jettisoned properly, significantly jeopardising the scientific mission. Moreover, six of Salyut 1's eight environmental control fans failed.

One story, told by cosmonaut Alexei Leonov, actually led him to be blamed by Mishin for the problems with the fans … and not lightly, either. Leonov was slated to command the second flight to Salyut 1. "All my possessions—my underwear, pyjamas, sketch pad, and coloured pencils—had already been stored aboard Salyut 1," he wrote in Two Sides of the Moon. "For some time people thought my belongings had caused the [environmental control] system to malfunction; that the crayons and the thread that held them together had become entangled with some operational part of the spacecraft." At one point, Mishin phoned Leonov and, in all seriousness, it seems, blamed him outright for damaging the environmental control system with his crayons. …

Soyuz 10 crewmen (front to rear) Rukavishnikov, Shatalov, and Yeliseyev were destined to become the first men to board an Earth-orbital space station.  Photo Credit: Joachim Becker/SpaceFacts.de

Nevertheless, preparations continued for the launch of Soyuz 10 cosmonauts Vladimir Shatalov, Alexei Yeliseyev, and Nikolai Rukavishnikov in the early hours of 22 April. The cosmonauts were inserted into Soyuz 10 early that morning and all seemed to be proceeding normally until a minute before the scheduled blast off, when it was discovered that one of the masts on the service tower refused to retract as planned. The mast in question supplied electrical power to the rocket's third stage and had failed to detach because rainwater had accumulated in the connector and frozen in place. It was feared that the launch escape system might be spuriously activated, maybe causing an explosion, and with reluctance Vasili Mishin agreed to postpone until the following day.

Temperatures at the launch site dropped precipitously to -25°C during the night, and when the cosmonauts arrived at the pad shortly after midnight on the 23rd they wore thick black leather coats over their flight suits to keep out the intense cold. After again being strapped into Soyuz 10's cabin, they were astonished by a repeat of exactly the same problem. On this occasion, however, Mishin opted to push ahead regardless, and at 2:54 a.m. Moscow Time, Soyuz 10 lifted off and entered orbit a few minutes later. Despite the successful launch, the prognosis for a good mission remained low: the cover on Salyut 1's scientific compartment still refused to budge, threatening the loss of at least 90 percent of the crew's scientific objectives, and the failed ventilation fans raised the prospect of a station atmosphere filled with carbon dioxide and other "harmful materials."

The Western media had already put two and two together and judged that the large Salyut 1 was almost certainly a Soviet orbital station and that Soyuz 10 was carrying its first long-duration crew. "Observers saw the two ships," Time told its readers on 3 May, "shining as brightly as first-magnitude stars, crossing the night skies of northern Europe." Yet the position of Soyuz 10 "ahead" of its target was presumed in the West to be an error and Vladimir Shatalov's space-to-ground comments—"Looks like you threw us up a bit too high. Well, it doesn't matter, we'll fix it"—only served to reinforce such notions.

At length, Soyuz 10's "Igla" ("Needle") rendezvous device brought the spacecraft within 600 feet of Salyut 1, whereupon Shatalov again took manual control. "All the dynamic operations of the ship were conducted without any problems," he noted later. "The only issue appeared at the time that the Igla took control of the approach: the ship would oscillate from side to side periodically, requiring the firing of the correction engines. At a distance of 150 m, I took manual control. It was simpler than on the Soyuz 4 mission. The station grew bigger and bigger—in space it appeared to be much larger than it had on the ground! When we were very close, Alexei and Nikolai carefully inspected its docking mechanism, antennas, and solar panels." Docking came at 4:47 a.m. Moscow Time. The first men ever to visit a space station were about to open it up for business, or so they thought. What should have been a moment of euphoria succumbed to the ugly reality that the docking was not, in fact, a secure one.

Soyuz 10 begins its journey on 23 April 1971. Photo Credit: Joachim Becker/SpaceFacts.de

The three cosmonauts heard and felt vehicle motions and a slight scraping as Soyuz 10's probe slid into the cone-like receptacle of Salyut 1, and then began to retract in an action designed to draw the two vehicles together in a metallic embrace. However, all was not well. Shortly before five in the morning, and nine minutes after the initial contact, Shatalov radioed to Yevpatoria that the docking indicator on his instrument panel was unlit, suggesting a problem with the coupling mechanism. Telemetry indicated there was a tiny "gap" between the vehicles. Nothing Shatalov tried had any effect—not even firing Soyuz 10's engines in a brute-force attempt to bring them firmly together. The spacecraft was connected to the station only by small latches at the head of its probe.

"As the probe penetrated the drogue,"explained Grujica Ivanovich in his book Salyut: The World's First Space Station, "the spacecraft had been deflected and the control system had tried to eliminate the angular deflections. However, the ship was no longer free to manoeuvre and instead of rotating about its centre of mass, as the control system expected, it swung on the end of the probe and this broke part of the mechanism." The cause was twofold: firstly, Soyuz 10's control system was configured to remain "active" after the initial capture and secondly, the docking sequence was automated. "Yeliseyev, who had participated in the development of the control system, had realised that the control system was jeopardising the docking process," continued Ivanovich, "but had no way to intervene. He was a frustrated spectator." Any attempt to retry docking was now futile and the only option was to separate from Salyut 1. The lack of space suits aboard Soyuz 10 also meant that none of the crew could transfer to the station by EVA means.

As his crewmates glumly monitored their instruments, Rukavishnikov moved into the orbital module in order to verify the electrical contacts of the docking mechanism and ensure that the retraction had not been halted by something as simple as an erroneous signal. Unfortunately, all of the connectors were as they should be. After four frustrating orbits in this "soft docked" state, the cosmonauts were instructed to separate from Salyut—a process which proved incredibly difficult because the designers of the docking apparatus had assumed that a spacecraft wishing to undock would be successfully docked with the station in the first place. Since Soyuz 10's docking mechanism had not fully engaged with Salyut 1's drogue, it was quite possible that the spacecraft might fail to separate. Indeed, on Shatalov's first attempt he fired the thrusters … and the spacecraft simply swung around on its damaged probe. Back in the Yevpatoria control room in the Crimea, General Andrei Karas reputedly shouted sarcastically: "Well, congratulations! You've developed a docking system in which Mum doesn't release Dad!"

There were two emergency options to release Soyuz 10 from the station, and neither of them held much promise for the future of Salyut 1. The first was to cut loose the docking mechanism at the front of the spacecraft, and the second was to shut the descent module hatch and separate from Soyuz 10's orbital module, leaving that hanging uselessly on the front of the station. In either case, access to the station, which had only one docking port, would be blocked. Fortunately, Vsevolod Zhivoglotov, a member of the docking mechanism team, suggested an alternative and instructions were radioed to Rukavishnikov. The cosmonaut entered the orbital module and reconnected a number of cables to "deceive" the mechanism into assuming that a release command had been issued by the station itself. That command was issued at 10:17 a.m., less than six hours after the initial docking … and it worked. Soyuz 10 was finally free and pulled slowly away from Salyut 1.

Shatalov maintained close formation with the station while ground controllers—not yet appreciating that the probe mechanism had been damaged—debated whether to attempt a second docking. An analysis of the state of Soyuz 10's gyroscopes, propellant levels, and oxygen supplies made this impossible, and Shatalov was ordered to prepare for an emergency return to Earth early on 25 April 1971. That night, Shatalov and Yeliseyev snoozed fitfully, but Rukavishnikov floated, wide awake, his eyes glued to the window, snapping photographs. It was not just that he was awestruck by the beauty of his home planet; he was also cold. "At a temperature of 20 degrees," he grumbled later, "it is impossible to sleep in the flight suits. During the first night, we slept only two or three hours. Instead of sleeping, we sat and shivered. It is necessary to carry sleeping bags." The nocturnal re-entry, which began at 1:59 a.m., was spectacular; the descent module was enveloped in glowing plasma, and the three men likened their ride home to being inside a neon tube, with colours constantly changing.

Salyut 1, the world's first Earth-orbiting space station, in orbit. This would represent the start of a Soviet and Russian journey in long-duration spaceflight which continues to this day. Photo Credit: Roscosmos

Touchdown at 2:40 a.m. was 120 km northwest of Karaganda, close to a lake, after a flight lasting a few minutes shy of two full days. Naturally, the problem for the Soviet leadership was how to report the mission to the outside world. The solution: that Soyuz 10 was simply testing the rendezvous and docking hardware and that the cosmonauts had absolutely no intention of entering or occupying Salyut 1. Speaking on Radio Moscow a few days later, Shatalov said that the mission was "not extensive in duration, but tense and magnificent in its tasks."

Some observers in the West were not entirely fooled. Tom Stafford, who was at the time NASA's chief astronaut, related in his autobiography, We Have Capture, that "we knew that was bull: you wouldn't send a crew to make that kind of test, then bring them home after 48 hours." Others in the Western media were reaching similar conclusions. On 10 May 1971, Time told its readers that the "delay in the launch of Soyuz 10 … stirred more suspicions" about difficulties with Salyut 1, and that "officials were apparently deciding if it was worthwhile trying to rendezvous and dock with a craft that would not long remain in orbit."

The reality would not be known for many years. Even in the early 1990s, it was still widely suspected that some difficulty in equalizing pressure between the Soyuz and Salyut was to blame. This possibility was also aired by Soviet space analyst Phillip Clark in his 1988 book, The Soviet Manned Space Programme. There was also speculation that Rukavishnikov suffered debilitating space sickness and that this contributed to the premature return to Earth. Former cosmonaut Boris Yegorov, the first doctor to fly in space, was quoted as saying Rukavishnikov experienced "unusual and rather unpleasant feelings" as a result of the increased blood flow to his head—a normal consequence of entering the weightless environment—and even that he had suffered severe vertigo and been unable to move into the large interior of Salyut. In truth, Rukavishnikov's biomedical data confirmed that he coped well and he actually felt better than either Shatalov or Yeliseyev, but in the absence of any other explanations, such stories persisted for more than two decades.

The misfortune which befell Soyuz 10 did not mark the end of the road for Salyut 1, for as many as three new crews were scheduled to inhabit the space station during the course of 1971. All three of those crews would fall victim to similar misfortune, and, in the case of the cosmonauts of Soyuz 11—who triumphantly occupied Salyut for three weeks in June—their mission and their lives would be tragically cut short in their prime.

 

Copyright © 2013 AmericaSpace - All Rights Reserved

 

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