Week 6 Foundation English

Excerpt from “Life without Gravity”

by Robert Zimmerman

Being weightless in space seems so exciting. Astronauts bounce about from wall to wall, flying! They float, they weave, they do somersaults and acrobatics without effort. Heavy objects can be lifted like feathers, and no one ever gets tired because nothing weighs anything. In fact, everything is fun, nothing is hard.

2

NOT! Since the first manned space missions in the 1960s, scientists have discovered that being weightless in space isn’t just flying around like Superman. Zero gravity is alien stuff. As space tourist Dennis Tito said when he visited the International Space Station, “Living in space is like having a different life, living in a different world.”

Worse, weightlessness can sometimes be downright unpleasant. Your body gets upset and confused. Your face puffs up, your nose gets stuffy, your back hurts, your stomach gets upset. If astronauts are to survive on the moon or a one-year journey to Mars—the shortest possible trip to the Red Planet—they will have to learn how to deal with this weird environment.

Our bodies are adapted to Earth’s gravity. Our muscles are strong in order to overcome gravity as we walk and run. Our inner ears use gravity to keep us upright. And because gravity wants to pull all our blood down into our legs, our hearts are designed to pump hard to get blood up to our brains.

5

In space, the much weaker gravity makes the human body change in many unexpected ways. In low gravity, your blood is rerouted, flowing from the legs, which become thin and sticklike, to the head, which swells up. The extra liquid in your head also makes you feel like you’re hanging upside down or have a stuffed-up nose.

The lack of gravity causes astronauts to “grow” between one and three inches taller. Their spines straighten out. The bones in the spine and the disks between them spread apart and relax.

But their bones also get thin and spongy. The body decides that if the muscles aren’t going to push and pull on the bones, it doesn’t need to lay down as much bone as it normally does. Astronauts who have been in space for several months can lose 10 percent or more of their bone tissue. If their bones got much weaker, the astronauts would snap once they returned to Earth.

And their muscles get weak and flabby. Floating about in space is too easy. If astronauts don’t force themselves to exercise, their muscles become so feeble that when they return to Earth they can’t even walk.

Worst of all is how their stomachs feel. During the first few days in space, the inner ear—which gives people their sense of balance—gets confused. Many astronauts become nauseous. They lose their appetites.

Weightlessness isn’t all bad, however. After about a week, people usually get used to it. Their stomachs settle down. Appetites return (though astronauts always say that food tastes blander in space). The heart and spine adjust.

Then, flying around like a bird becomes fun! Rooms suddenly seem much bigger. Look around you: The space above your head is pretty useless on Earth. You can’t get up there to work, and anything you attach to the ceiling is simply something to bump your head on. In space, however, that area is useful. In fact, equipment can be installed on every inch of every wall. In weightlessness, you choose to move up or down and left or right simply by pointing your head. If you turn yourself upside down, the ceiling becomes the floor.

12

And you can’t drop anything! As you work, you can let your tools float around you. But you’d better be organized and neat. If you don’t put things back where they belong when you are finished, tying them down securely, they will float away. Air currents will then blow them into nooks and crannies, and it might take you days to find them again.

In low gravity, you have to learn new ways to eat. Don’t try pouring a bowl of cornflakes. Not only will the flakes float all over the place, the milk won’t pour. Instead, big balls of milk will form. You can drink these by taking big bites out of them, but you’d better finish them before they slam into a wall, splattering apart and covering everything with little tiny milk globules.

Some meals on the space station are eaten with forks and knives, but 

scooping food with a spoon doesn’t work. If the food isn’t gooey enough to stick to the spoon, it will float away.

• 

Excerpt from “Life without Gravity”

by Robert Zimmerman

Being weightless in space seems so exciting. Astronauts bounce about from wall to wall, flying! They float, they weave, they do somersaults and acrobatics without effort. Heavy objects can be lifted like feathers, and no one ever gets tired because nothing weighs anything. In fact, everything is fun, nothing is hard.

2

NOT! Since the first manned space missions in the 1960s, scientists have discovered that being weightless in space isn’t just flying around like Superman. Zero gravity is alien stuff. As space tourist Dennis Tito said when he visited the International Space Station, “Living in space is like having a different life, living in a different world.”

Worse, weightlessness can sometimes be downright unpleasant. Your body gets upset and confused. Your face puffs up, your nose gets stuffy, your back hurts, your stomach gets upset. If astronauts are to survive on the moon or a one-year journey to Mars—the shortest possible trip to the Red Planet—they will have to learn how to deal with this weird environment.

Our bodies are adapted to Earth’s gravity. Our muscles are strong in order to overcome gravity as we walk and run. Our inner ears use gravity to keep us upright. And because gravity wants to pull all our blood down into our legs, our hearts are designed to pump hard to get blood up to our brains.

5

In space, the much weaker gravity makes the human body change in many unexpected ways. In low gravity, your blood is rerouted, flowing from the legs, which become thin and sticklike, to the head, which swells up. The extra liquid in your head also makes you feel like you’re hanging upside down or have a stuffed-up nose.

The lack of gravity causes astronauts to “grow” between one and three inches taller. Their spines straighten out. The bones in the spine and the disks between them spread apart and relax.

But their bones also get thin and spongy. The body decides that if the muscles aren’t going to push and pull on the bones, it doesn’t need to lay down as much bone as it normally does. Astronauts who have been in space for several months can lose 10 percent or more of their bone tissue. If their bones got much weaker, the astronauts would snap once they returned to Earth.

And their muscles get weak and flabby. Floating about in space is too easy. If astronauts don’t force themselves to exercise, their muscles become so feeble that when they return to Earth they can’t even walk.

Worst of all is how their stomachs feel. During the first few days in space, the inner ear—which gives people their sense of balance—gets confused. Many astronauts become nauseous. They lose their appetites.

Weightlessness isn’t all bad, however. After about a week, people usually get used to it. Their stomachs settle down. Appetites return (though astronauts always say that food tastes blander in space). The heart and spine adjust.

Then, flying around like a bird becomes fun! Rooms suddenly seem much bigger. Look around you: The space above your head is pretty useless on Earth. You can’t get up there to work, and anything you attach to the ceiling is simply something to bump your head on. In space, however, that area is useful. In fact, equipment can be installed on every inch of every wall. In weightlessness, you choose to move up or down and left or right simply by pointing your head. If you turn yourself upside down, the ceiling becomes the floor.

12

And you can’t drop anything! As you work, you can let your tools float around you. But you’d better be organized and neat. If you don’t put things back where they belong when you are finished, tying them down securely, they will float away. Air currents will then blow them into nooks and crannies, and it might take you days to find them again.

In low gravity, you have to learn new ways to eat. Don’t try pouring a bowl of cornflakes. Not only will the flakes float all over the place, the milk won’t pour. Instead, big balls of milk will form. You can drink these by taking big bites out of them, but you’d better finish them before they slam into a wall, splattering apart and covering everything with little tiny milk globules.

Some meals on the space station are eaten with forks and knives, but 

scooping food with a spoon doesn’t work. If the food isn’t gooey enough to stick to the spoon, it will float away.

• 

Excerpt from “Life without Gravity”

by Robert Zimmerman

Being weightless in space seems so exciting. Astronauts bounce about from wall to wall, flying! They float, they weave, they do somersaults and acrobatics without effort. Heavy objects can be lifted like feathers, and no one ever gets tired because nothing weighs anything. In fact, everything is fun, nothing is hard.

2

NOT! Since the first manned space missions in the 1960s, scientists have discovered that being weightless in space isn’t just flying around like Superman. Zero gravity is alien stuff. As space tourist Dennis Tito said when he visited the International Space Station, “Living in space is like having a different life, living in a different world.”

Worse, weightlessness can sometimes be downright unpleasant. Your body gets upset and confused. Your face puffs up, your nose gets stuffy, your back hurts, your stomach gets upset. If astronauts are to survive on the moon or a one-year journey to Mars—the shortest possible trip to the Red Planet—they will have to learn how to deal with this weird environment.

Our bodies are adapted to Earth’s gravity. Our muscles are strong in order to overcome gravity as we walk and run. Our inner ears use gravity to keep us upright. And because gravity wants to pull all our blood down into our legs, our hearts are designed to pump hard to get blood up to our brains.

5

In space, the much weaker gravity makes the human body change in many unexpected ways. In low gravity, your blood is rerouted, flowing from the legs, which become thin and sticklike, to the head, which swells up. The extra liquid in your head also makes you feel like you’re hanging upside down or have a stuffed-up nose.

The lack of gravity causes astronauts to “grow” between one and three inches taller. Their spines straighten out. The bones in the spine and the disks between them spread apart and relax.

But their bones also get thin and spongy. The body decides that if the muscles aren’t going to push and pull on the bones, it doesn’t need to lay down as much bone as it normally does. Astronauts who have been in space for several months can lose 10 percent or more of their bone tissue. If their bones got much weaker, the astronauts would snap once they returned to Earth.

And their muscles get weak and flabby. Floating about in space is too easy. If astronauts don’t force themselves to exercise, their muscles become so feeble that when they return to Earth they can’t even walk.

Worst of all is how their stomachs feel. During the first few days in space, the inner ear—which gives people their sense of balance—gets confused. Many astronauts become nauseous. They lose their appetites.

Weightlessness isn’t all bad, however. After about a week, people usually get used to it. Their stomachs settle down. Appetites return (though astronauts always say that food tastes blander in space). The heart and spine adjust.

Then, flying around like a bird becomes fun! Rooms suddenly seem much bigger. Look around you: The space above your head is pretty useless on Earth. You can’t get up there to work, and anything you attach to the ceiling is simply something to bump your head on. In space, however, that area is useful. In fact, equipment can be installed on every inch of every wall. In weightlessness, you choose to move up or down and left or right simply by pointing your head. If you turn yourself upside down, the ceiling becomes the floor.

12

And you can’t drop anything! As you work, you can let your tools float around you. But you’d better be organized and neat. If you don’t put things back where they belong when you are finished, tying them down securely, they will float away. Air currents will then blow them into nooks and crannies, and it might take you days to find them again.

In low gravity, you have to learn new ways to eat. Don’t try pouring a bowl of cornflakes. Not only will the flakes float all over the place, the milk won’t pour. Instead, big balls of milk will form. You can drink these by taking big bites out of them, but you’d better finish them before they slam into a wall, splattering apart and covering everything with little tiny milk globules.

Some meals on the space station are eaten with forks and knives, but 

scooping food with a spoon doesn’t work. If the food isn’t gooey enough to stick to the spoon, it will float away.

• 

Excerpt from “Life without Gravity”

by Robert Zimmerman

Being weightless in space seems so exciting. Astronauts bounce about from wall to wall, flying! They float, they weave, they do somersaults and acrobatics without effort. Heavy objects can be lifted like feathers, and no one ever gets tired because nothing weighs anything. In fact, everything is fun, nothing is hard.

2

NOT! Since the first manned space missions in the 1960s, scientists have discovered that being weightless in space isn’t just flying around like Superman. Zero gravity is alien stuff. As space tourist Dennis Tito said when he visited the International Space Station, “Living in space is like having a different life, living in a different world.”

Worse, weightlessness can sometimes be downright unpleasant. Your body gets upset and confused. Your face puffs up, your nose gets stuffy, your back hurts, your stomach gets upset. If astronauts are to survive on the moon or a one-year journey to Mars—the shortest possible trip to the Red Planet—they will have to learn how to deal with this weird environment.

Our bodies are adapted to Earth’s gravity. Our muscles are strong in order to overcome gravity as we walk and run. Our inner ears use gravity to keep us upright. And because gravity wants to pull all our blood down into our legs, our hearts are designed to pump hard to get blood up to our brains.

5

In space, the much weaker gravity makes the human body change in many unexpected ways. In low gravity, your blood is rerouted, flowing from the legs, which become thin and sticklike, to the head, which swells up. The extra liquid in your head also makes you feel like you’re hanging upside down or have a stuffed-up nose.

The lack of gravity causes astronauts to “grow” between one and three inches taller. Their spines straighten out. The bones in the spine and the disks between them spread apart and relax.

But their bones also get thin and spongy. The body decides that if the muscles aren’t going to push and pull on the bones, it doesn’t need to lay down as much bone as it normally does. Astronauts who have been in space for several months can lose 10 percent or more of their bone tissue. If their bones got much weaker, the astronauts would snap once they returned to Earth.

And their muscles get weak and flabby. Floating about in space is too easy. If astronauts don’t force themselves to exercise, their muscles become so feeble that when they return to Earth they can’t even walk.

Worst of all is how their stomachs feel. During the first few days in space, the inner ear—which gives people their sense of balance—gets confused. Many astronauts become nauseous. They lose their appetites.

Weightlessness isn’t all bad, however. After about a week, people usually get used to it. Their stomachs settle down. Appetites return (though astronauts always say that food tastes blander in space). The heart and spine adjust.

Then, flying around like a bird becomes fun! Rooms suddenly seem much bigger. Look around you: The space above your head is pretty useless on Earth. You can’t get up there to work, and anything you attach to the ceiling is simply something to bump your head on. In space, however, that area is useful. In fact, equipment can be installed on every inch of every wall. In weightlessness, you choose to move up or down and left or right simply by pointing your head. If you turn yourself upside down, the ceiling becomes the floor.

12

And you can’t drop anything! As you work, you can let your tools float around you. But you’d better be organized and neat. If you don’t put things back where they belong when you are finished, tying them down securely, they will float away. Air currents will then blow them into nooks and crannies, and it might take you days to find them again.

In low gravity, you have to learn new ways to eat. Don’t try pouring a bowl of cornflakes. Not only will the flakes float all over the place, the milk won’t pour. Instead, big balls of milk will form. You can drink these by taking big bites out of them, but you’d better finish them before they slam into a wall, splattering apart and covering everything with little tiny milk globules.

Some meals on the space station are eaten with forks and knives, but 

scooping food with a spoon doesn’t work. If the food isn’t gooey enough to stick to the spoon, it will float away.

• 

Excerpt from “Life without Gravity”

by Robert Zimmerman

Being weightless in space seems so exciting. Astronauts bounce about from wall to wall, flying! They float, they weave, they do somersaults and acrobatics without effort. Heavy objects can be lifted like feathers, and no one ever gets tired because nothing weighs anything. In fact, everything is fun, nothing is hard.

2

NOT! Since the first manned space missions in the 1960s, scientists have discovered that being weightless in space isn’t just flying around like Superman. Zero gravity is alien stuff. As space tourist Dennis Tito said when he visited the International Space Station, “Living in space is like having a different life, living in a different world.”

Worse, weightlessness can sometimes be downright unpleasant. Your body gets upset and confused. Your face puffs up, your nose gets stuffy, your back hurts, your stomach gets upset. If astronauts are to survive on the moon or a one-year journey to Mars—the shortest possible trip to the Red Planet—they will have to learn how to deal with this weird environment.

Our bodies are adapted to Earth’s gravity. Our muscles are strong in order to overcome gravity as we walk and run. Our inner ears use gravity to keep us upright. And because gravity wants to pull all our blood down into our legs, our hearts are designed to pump hard to get blood up to our brains.

5

In space, the much weaker gravity makes the human body change in many unexpected ways. In low gravity, your blood is rerouted, flowing from the legs, which become thin and sticklike, to the head, which swells up. The extra liquid in your head also makes you feel like you’re hanging upside down or have a stuffed-up nose.

The lack of gravity causes astronauts to “grow” between one and three inches taller. Their spines straighten out. The bones in the spine and the disks between them spread apart and relax.

But their bones also get thin and spongy. The body decides that if the muscles aren’t going to push and pull on the bones, it doesn’t need to lay down as much bone as it normally does. Astronauts who have been in space for several months can lose 10 percent or more of their bone tissue. If their bones got much weaker, the astronauts would snap once they returned to Earth.

And their muscles get weak and flabby. Floating about in space is too easy. If astronauts don’t force themselves to exercise, their muscles become so feeble that when they return to Earth they can’t even walk.

Worst of all is how their stomachs feel. During the first few days in space, the inner ear—which gives people their sense of balance—gets confused. Many astronauts become nauseous. They lose their appetites.

Weightlessness isn’t all bad, however. After about a week, people usually get used to it. Their stomachs settle down. Appetites return (though astronauts always say that food tastes blander in space). The heart and spine adjust.

Then, flying around like a bird becomes fun! Rooms suddenly seem much bigger. Look around you: The space above your head is pretty useless on Earth. You can’t get up there to work, and anything you attach to the ceiling is simply something to bump your head on. In space, however, that area is useful. In fact, equipment can be installed on every inch of every wall. In weightlessness, you choose to move up or down and left or right simply by pointing your head. If you turn yourself upside down, the ceiling becomes the floor.

12

And you can’t drop anything! As you work, you can let your tools float around you. But you’d better be organized and neat. If you don’t put things back where they belong when you are finished, tying them down securely, they will float away. Air currents will then blow them into nooks and crannies, and it might take you days to find them again.

In low gravity, you have to learn new ways to eat. Don’t try pouring a bowl of cornflakes. Not only will the flakes float all over the place, the milk won’t pour. Instead, big balls of milk will form. You can drink these by taking big bites out of them, but you’d better finish them before they slam into a wall, splattering apart and covering everything with little tiny milk globules.

Some meals on the space station are eaten with forks and knives, but 

scooping food with a spoon doesn’t work. If the food isn’t gooey enough to stick to the spoon, it will float away.

• 

Excerpt from “Life without Gravity”

by Robert Zimmerman

Being weightless in space seems so exciting. Astronauts bounce about from wall to wall, flying! They float, they weave, they do somersaults and acrobatics without effort. Heavy objects can be lifted like feathers, and no one ever gets tired because nothing weighs anything. In fact, everything is fun, nothing is hard.

2

NOT! Since the first manned space missions in the 1960s, scientists have discovered that being weightless in space isn’t just flying around like Superman. Zero gravity is alien stuff. As space tourist Dennis Tito said when he visited the International Space Station, “Living in space is like having a different life, living in a different world.”

Worse, weightlessness can sometimes be downright unpleasant. Your body gets upset and confused. Your face puffs up, your nose gets stuffy, your back hurts, your stomach gets upset. If astronauts are to survive on the moon or a one-year journey to Mars—the shortest possible trip to the Red Planet—they will have to learn how to deal with this weird environment.

Our bodies are adapted to Earth’s gravity. Our muscles are strong in order to overcome gravity as we walk and run. Our inner ears use gravity to keep us upright. And because gravity wants to pull all our blood down into our legs, our hearts are designed to pump hard to get blood up to our brains.

5

In space, the much weaker gravity makes the human body change in many unexpected ways. In low gravity, your blood is rerouted, flowing from the legs, which become thin and sticklike, to the head, which swells up. The extra liquid in your head also makes you feel like you’re hanging upside down or have a stuffed-up nose.

The lack of gravity causes astronauts to “grow” between one and three inches taller. Their spines straighten out. The bones in the spine and the disks between them spread apart and relax.

But their bones also get thin and spongy. The body decides that if the muscles aren’t going to push and pull on the bones, it doesn’t need to lay down as much bone as it normally does. Astronauts who have been in space for several months can lose 10 percent or more of their bone tissue. If their bones got much weaker, the astronauts would snap once they returned to Earth.

And their muscles get weak and flabby. Floating about in space is too easy. If astronauts don’t force themselves to exercise, their muscles become so feeble that when they return to Earth they can’t even walk.

Worst of all is how their stomachs feel. During the first few days in space, the inner ear—which gives people their sense of balance—gets confused. Many astronauts become nauseous. They lose their appetites.

Weightlessness isn’t all bad, however. After about a week, people usually get used to it. Their stomachs settle down. Appetites return (though astronauts always say that food tastes blander in space). The heart and spine adjust.

Then, flying around like a bird becomes fun! Rooms suddenly seem much bigger. Look around you: The space above your head is pretty useless on Earth. You can’t get up there to work, and anything you attach to the ceiling is simply something to bump your head on. In space, however, that area is useful. In fact, equipment can be installed on every inch of every wall. In weightlessness, you choose to move up or down and left or right simply by pointing your head. If you turn yourself upside down, the ceiling becomes the floor.

12

And you can’t drop anything! As you work, you can let your tools float around you. But you’d better be organized and neat. If you don’t put things back where they belong when you are finished, tying them down securely, they will float away. Air currents will then blow them into nooks and crannies, and it might take you days to find them again.

In low gravity, you have to learn new ways to eat. Don’t try pouring a bowl of cornflakes. Not only will the flakes float all over the place, the milk won’t pour. Instead, big balls of milk will form. You can drink these by taking big bites out of them, but you’d better finish them before they slam into a wall, splattering apart and covering everything with little tiny milk globules.

Some meals on the space station are eaten with forks and knives, but 

scooping food with a spoon doesn’t work. If the food isn’t gooey enough to stick to the spoon, it will float away.

• 

Excerpt from “Life without Gravity”

by Robert Zimmerman

Being weightless in space seems so exciting. Astronauts bounce about from wall to wall, flying! They float, they weave, they do somersaults and acrobatics without effort. Heavy objects can be lifted like feathers, and no one ever gets tired because nothing weighs anything. In fact, everything is fun, nothing is hard.

2

NOT! Since the first manned space missions in the 1960s, scientists have discovered that being weightless in space isn’t just flying around like Superman. Zero gravity is alien stuff. As space tourist Dennis Tito said when he visited the International Space Station, “Living in space is like having a different life, living in a different world.”

Worse, weightlessness can sometimes be downright unpleasant. Your body gets upset and confused. Your face puffs up, your nose gets stuffy, your back hurts, your stomach gets upset. If astronauts are to survive on the moon or a one-year journey to Mars—the shortest possible trip to the Red Planet—they will have to learn how to deal with this weird environment.

Our bodies are adapted to Earth’s gravity. Our muscles are strong in order to overcome gravity as we walk and run. Our inner ears use gravity to keep us upright. And because gravity wants to pull all our blood down into our legs, our hearts are designed to pump hard to get blood up to our brains.

5

In space, the much weaker gravity makes the human body change in many unexpected ways. In low gravity, your blood is rerouted, flowing from the legs, which become thin and sticklike, to the head, which swells up. The extra liquid in your head also makes you feel like you’re hanging upside down or have a stuffed-up nose.

The lack of gravity causes astronauts to “grow” between one and three inches taller. Their spines straighten out. The bones in the spine and the disks between them spread apart and relax.

But their bones also get thin and spongy. The body decides that if the muscles aren’t going to push and pull on the bones, it doesn’t need to lay down as much bone as it normally does. Astronauts who have been in space for several months can lose 10 percent or more of their bone tissue. If their bones got much weaker, the astronauts would snap once they returned to Earth.

And their muscles get weak and flabby. Floating about in space is too easy. If astronauts don’t force themselves to exercise, their muscles become so feeble that when they return to Earth they can’t even walk.

Worst of all is how their stomachs feel. During the first few days in space, the inner ear—which gives people their sense of balance—gets confused. Many astronauts become nauseous. They lose their appetites.

Weightlessness isn’t all bad, however. After about a week, people usually get used to it. Their stomachs settle down. Appetites return (though astronauts always say that food tastes blander in space). The heart and spine adjust.

Then, flying around like a bird becomes fun! Rooms suddenly seem much bigger. Look around you: The space above your head is pretty useless on Earth. You can’t get up there to work, and anything you attach to the ceiling is simply something to bump your head on. In space, however, that area is useful. In fact, equipment can be installed on every inch of every wall. In weightlessness, you choose to move up or down and left or right simply by pointing your head. If you turn yourself upside down, the ceiling becomes the floor.

12

And you can’t drop anything! As you work, you can let your tools float around you. But you’d better be organized and neat. If you don’t put things back where they belong when you are finished, tying them down securely, they will float away. Air currents will then blow them into nooks and crannies, and it might take you days to find them again.

In low gravity, you have to learn new ways to eat. Don’t try pouring a bowl of cornflakes. Not only will the flakes float all over the place, the milk won’t pour. Instead, big balls of milk will form. You can drink these by taking big bites out of them, but you’d better finish them before they slam into a wall, splattering apart and covering everything with little tiny milk globules.

Some meals on the space station are eaten with forks and knives, but 

scooping food with a spoon doesn’t work. If the food isn’t gooey enough to stick to the spoon, it will float away.

• 

Excerpt from “Life without Gravity”

by Robert Zimmerman

Being weightless in space seems so exciting. Astronauts bounce about from wall to wall, flying! They float, they weave, they do somersaults and acrobatics without effort. Heavy objects can be lifted like feathers, and no one ever gets tired because nothing weighs anything. In fact, everything is fun, nothing is hard.

2

NOT! Since the first manned space missions in the 1960s, scientists have discovered that being weightless in space isn’t just flying around like Superman. Zero gravity is alien stuff. As space tourist Dennis Tito said when he visited the International Space Station, “Living in space is like having a different life, living in a different world.”

Worse, weightlessness can sometimes be downright unpleasant. Your body gets upset and confused. Your face puffs up, your nose gets stuffy, your back hurts, your stomach gets upset. If astronauts are to survive on the moon or a one-year journey to Mars—the shortest possible trip to the Red Planet—they will have to learn how to deal with this weird environment.

Our bodies are adapted to Earth’s gravity. Our muscles are strong in order to overcome gravity as we walk and run. Our inner ears use gravity to keep us upright. And because gravity wants to pull all our blood down into our legs, our hearts are designed to pump hard to get blood up to our brains.

5

In space, the much weaker gravity makes the human body change in many unexpected ways. In low gravity, your blood is rerouted, flowing from the legs, which become thin and sticklike, to the head, which swells up. The extra liquid in your head also makes you feel like you’re hanging upside down or have a stuffed-up nose.

The lack of gravity causes astronauts to “grow” between one and three inches taller. Their spines straighten out. The bones in the spine and the disks between them spread apart and relax.

But their bones also get thin and spongy. The body decides that if the muscles aren’t going to push and pull on the bones, it doesn’t need to lay down as much bone as it normally does. Astronauts who have been in space for several months can lose 10 percent or more of their bone tissue. If their bones got much weaker, the astronauts would snap once they returned to Earth.

And their muscles get weak and flabby. Floating about in space is too easy. If astronauts don’t force themselves to exercise, their muscles become so feeble that when they return to Earth they can’t even walk.

Worst of all is how their stomachs feel. During the first few days in space, the inner ear—which gives people their sense of balance—gets confused. Many astronauts become nauseous. They lose their appetites.

Weightlessness isn’t all bad, however. After about a week, people usually get used to it. Their stomachs settle down. Appetites return (though astronauts always say that food tastes blander in space). The heart and spine adjust.

Then, flying around like a bird becomes fun! Rooms suddenly seem much bigger. Look around you: The space above your head is pretty useless on Earth. You can’t get up there to work, and anything you attach to the ceiling is simply something to bump your head on. In space, however, that area is useful. In fact, equipment can be installed on every inch of every wall. In weightlessness, you choose to move up or down and left or right simply by pointing your head. If you turn yourself upside down, the ceiling becomes the floor.

12

And you can’t drop anything! As you work, you can let your tools float around you. But you’d better be organized and neat. If you don’t put things back where they belong when you are finished, tying them down securely, they will float away. Air currents will then blow them into nooks and crannies, and it might take you days to find them again.

In low gravity, you have to learn new ways to eat. Don’t try pouring a bowl of cornflakes. Not only will the flakes float all over the place, the milk won’t pour. Instead, big balls of milk will form. You can drink these by taking big bites out of them, but you’d better finish them before they slam into a wall, splattering apart and covering everything with little tiny milk globules.

Some meals on the space station are eaten with forks and knives, but 

scooping food with a spoon doesn’t work. If the food isn’t gooey enough to stick to the spoon, it will float away.

• 

Annabel Lee, P.I.

by Judy Cox

It’s eight-twenty in the morning. Another school day. Dad’s in the kitchen grinding coffee beans. Mom’s in the bedroom drying her hair. John’s in the laundry room looking for clean socks. In the living room, the television is on, screaming a song about hunky-chunky cat food.

And me? I’m working the day shift out of headquarters. Annabel Lee. Private Investigator.

Call me Al. It’s my initials, get it? A.L. Annabel Lee. But only my parents call me that. My friends call me Al.

“Mom!” A piercing yell from the laundry room. My superbrain identifies it at once as belonging to my older brother, John. “Mom, where’s my gray sock?” Mom comes to the top of the stairs.

“Look in the dryer!” she calls.

“I did already. It’s gone,” John wails. “I need that sock!”

“Did you try under your bed?”

“It’s not there,” John complains.

“Well, if you’d only remember to put your dirty clothes in the hamper in the first place . . .” Dad pokes his head around the kitchen door. Mornings always make him grouchy.

I hear John banging around the laundry room. “This is the third pair of socks I’ve lost this month! We need a new dryer. I think this dryer eats socks!” he says.

Sounds like a case for Annabel Lee, P.I. I pull on my battered old slouch hat and grab my notebook. Flip it open to a clean page. Pull my new fine-point marker from over my ear. Leap downstairs, taking the steps two by two, to the laundry room. I’ll interview possible witnesses.

12

John first. “Just the facts, sir,” I tell him. “When was the last time you saw the alleged gray sock?” I lick the tip of my pen, like they do on cop shows. It tastes real funny.

13

John gives me a dirty look. “Last time I wore it, birdbrain.” He thinks for a minute, then says, “Let’s see. I wore my gray shirt to the game on Friday. Must have been then.”

14

“Can you describe the AMS?”

15

“The what?”

16

“Alleged Missing Sock. It’s what we call them,” I explain patiently.

17

Another look from John. He dangles a long, gray, woolly object in front of me. “It’s a sock, see. What do you think it looks like? An elephant?”

18

Honestly, big brothers are a pain. I take the object from him. “Just the facts, sir. The missing sock matches this one?”

19

He nods. I take the sock and write “Exhibit A” in my notebook. Next I head up the stairs to interview Mom, following the roar of the blow dryer. I show her Exhibit A. “Excuse me, ma’am. Can you identify this sock?”

“Oh, you found it? John was looking for it. Get dressed for school, dear, or you’ll miss the bus.”

“This isn’t the missing sock, ma’am. This is its mate.” I lay the sock neatly on the bed to show her. “Have you seen this sock before?”

Mom sighs. “Listen. I do laundry ten billion times a week, and if you expect me to be able to tell you where one little sock is . . .” She switches the hair dryer off. “If you and your brother would offer to help once in a while . . .” She looks in the mirror and fluffs her hair, then catches sight of me. Her eyes narrow in The Mom Look. “Annabel, I thought I told you to go get dressed.”

I head downstairs to interview the head of the household. I find him at the kitchen table, reading the paper and sipping coffee.

“Sir, have you seen a sock like this? Inquiring minds want to know.” I hold out the gray sock.

Dad takes it, absentmindedly. “Isn’t this the sock I lost last week? Where did you find it?”

I take Exhibit A back. “Sorry sir, this is John’s sock. I’m looking into the alleged disappearance of its mate.”

He goes back to his paper. “While you’re at it, look into the disappearance of mine. We’ve only got ten minutes.”

“What’s that?” Mom comes downstairs—every hair in place—and pours herself a cup of coffee.

“Nothing, dear,” says Dad. They both look at me. “Annabel! Go get dressed!”

If I were a sock, where would I hide? I pace through the living room, looking for clues. What kind of clue could a sock leave? Footprints? A bit of unraveled wool? A sticker that says “Inspected by No. 13”?

In the corner, the television howls about sugar-coated cereal. The sound makes it hard to concentrate. I head over to switch it off. Suddenly, there on the screen is a clue! Some man is walking down the hall, his pants all twisted up, a sock stuck to his back. The screen switches to a lady with her dress sticking to her slip and then shows a can of spray gunk for your dryer. I’ve got it! I click off the TV and race to the laundry room.

32

The gray sock is there, inside the dryer with the last load, clinging to Mom’s new silk blouse. “I found it!” I yell. John comes pounding down the stairs. Mom and Dad poke their noses in from the kitchen. “Look here!” I wave the sock triumphantly.

“Solid detective work, Sis,” admits John, taking the sock. He puts it on. “Now, let’s have it.”

34

“Have what?”

“My other sock. The one I gave you. Exhibit A.” He holds out his hand, balancing on one foot, one sock on, one sock off. “Give it here. I need it.”

I look at my hands. Notebook, check. Pen, check. No sock. “Now let’s see. I had it just a minute ago . . .”

• 

Annabel Lee, P.I.

by Judy Cox

It’s eight-twenty in the morning. Another school day. Dad’s in the kitchen grinding coffee beans. Mom’s in the bedroom drying her hair. John’s in the laundry room looking for clean socks. In the living room, the television is on, screaming a song about hunky-chunky cat food.

And me? I’m working the day shift out of headquarters. Annabel Lee. Private Investigator.

Call me Al. It’s my initials, get it? A.L. Annabel Lee. But only my parents call me that. My friends call me Al.

“Mom!” A piercing yell from the laundry room. My superbrain identifies it at once as belonging to my older brother, John. “Mom, where’s my gray sock?” Mom comes to the top of the stairs.

“Look in the dryer!” she calls.

“I did already. It’s gone,” John wails. “I need that sock!”

“Did you try under your bed?”

“It’s not there,” John complains.

“Well, if you’d only remember to put your dirty clothes in the hamper in the first place . . .” Dad pokes his head around the kitchen door. Mornings always make him grouchy.

I hear John banging around the laundry room. “This is the third pair of socks I’ve lost this month! We need a new dryer. I think this dryer eats socks!” he says.

Sounds like a case for Annabel Lee, P.I. I pull on my battered old slouch hat and grab my notebook. Flip it open to a clean page. Pull my new fine-point marker from over my ear. Leap downstairs, taking the steps two by two, to the laundry room. I’ll interview possible witnesses.

12

John first. “Just the facts, sir,” I tell him. “When was the last time you saw the alleged gray sock?” I lick the tip of my pen, like they do on cop shows. It tastes real funny.

13

John gives me a dirty look. “Last time I wore it, birdbrain.” He thinks for a minute, then says, “Let’s see. I wore my gray shirt to the game on Friday. Must have been then.”

14

“Can you describe the AMS?”

15

“The what?”

16

“Alleged Missing Sock. It’s what we call them,” I explain patiently.

17

Another look from John. He dangles a long, gray, woolly object in front of me. “It’s a sock, see. What do you think it looks like? An elephant?”

18

Honestly, big brothers are a pain. I take the object from him. “Just the facts, sir. The missing sock matches this one?”

19

He nods. I take the sock and write “Exhibit A” in my notebook. Next I head up the stairs to interview Mom, following the roar of the blow dryer. I show her Exhibit A. “Excuse me, ma’am. Can you identify this sock?”

“Oh, you found it? John was looking for it. Get dressed for school, dear, or you’ll miss the bus.”

“This isn’t the missing sock, ma’am. This is its mate.” I lay the sock neatly on the bed to show her. “Have you seen this sock before?”

Mom sighs. “Listen. I do laundry ten billion times a week, and if you expect me to be able to tell you where one little sock is . . .” She switches the hair dryer off. “If you and your brother would offer to help once in a while . . .” She looks in the mirror and fluffs her hair, then catches sight of me. Her eyes narrow in The Mom Look. “Annabel, I thought I told you to go get dressed.”

I head downstairs to interview the head of the household. I find him at the kitchen table, reading the paper and sipping coffee.

“Sir, have you seen a sock like this? Inquiring minds want to know.” I hold out the gray sock.

Dad takes it, absentmindedly. “Isn’t this the sock I lost last week? Where did you find it?”

I take Exhibit A back. “Sorry sir, this is John’s sock. I’m looking into the alleged disappearance of its mate.”

He goes back to his paper. “While you’re at it, look into the disappearance of mine. We’ve only got ten minutes.”

“What’s that?” Mom comes downstairs—every hair in place—and pours herself a cup of coffee.

“Nothing, dear,” says Dad. They both look at me. “Annabel! Go get dressed!”

If I were a sock, where would I hide? I pace through the living room, looking for clues. What kind of clue could a sock leave? Footprints? A bit of unraveled wool? A sticker that says “Inspected by No. 13”?

In the corner, the television howls about sugar-coated cereal. The sound makes it hard to concentrate. I head over to switch it off. Suddenly, there on the screen is a clue! Some man is walking down the hall, his pants all twisted up, a sock stuck to his back. The screen switches to a lady with her dress sticking to her slip and then shows a can of spray gunk for your dryer. I’ve got it! I click off the TV and race to the laundry room.

32

The gray sock is there, inside the dryer with the last load, clinging to Mom’s new silk blouse. “I found it!” I yell. John comes pounding down the stairs. Mom and Dad poke their noses in from the kitchen. “Look here!” I wave the sock triumphantly.

“Solid detective work, Sis,” admits John, taking the sock. He puts it on. “Now, let’s have it.”

34

“Have what?”

“My other sock. The one I gave you. Exhibit A.” He holds out his hand, balancing on one foot, one sock on, one sock off. “Give it here. I need it.”

I look at my hands. Notebook, check. Pen, check. No sock. “Now let’s see. I had it just a minute ago . . .”

• 

  

Annabel Lee, P.I.

by Judy Cox

It’s eight-twenty in the morning. Another school day. Dad’s in the kitchen grinding coffee beans. Mom’s in the bedroom drying her hair. John’s in the laundry room looking for clean socks. In the living room, the television is on, screaming a song about hunky-chunky cat food.

And me? I’m working the day shift out of headquarters. Annabel Lee. Private Investigator.

Call me Al. It’s my initials, get it? A.L. Annabel Lee. But only my parents call me that. My friends call me Al.

“Mom!” A piercing yell from the laundry room. My superbrain identifies it at once as belonging to my older brother, John. “Mom, where’s my gray sock?” Mom comes to the top of the stairs.

“Look in the dryer!” she calls.

“I did already. It’s gone,” John wails. “I need that sock!”

“Did you try under your bed?”

“It’s not there,” John complains.

“Well, if you’d only remember to put your dirty clothes in the hamper in the first place . . .” Dad pokes his head around the kitchen door. Mornings always make him grouchy.

I hear John banging around the laundry room. “This is the third pair of socks I’ve lost this month! We need a new dryer. I think this dryer eats socks!” he says.

Sounds like a case for Annabel Lee, P.I. I pull on my battered old slouch hat and grab my notebook. Flip it open to a clean page. Pull my new fine-point marker from over my ear. Leap downstairs, taking the steps two by two, to the laundry room. I’ll interview possible witnesses.

12

John first. “Just the facts, sir,” I tell him. “When was the last time you saw the alleged gray sock?” I lick the tip of my pen, like they do on cop shows. It tastes real funny.

13

John gives me a dirty look. “Last time I wore it, birdbrain.” He thinks for a minute, then says, “Let’s see. I wore my gray shirt to the game on Friday. Must have been then.”

14

“Can you describe the AMS?”

15

“The what?”

16

“Alleged Missing Sock. It’s what we call them,” I explain patiently.

17

Another look from John. He dangles a long, gray, woolly object in front of me. “It’s a sock, see. What do you think it looks like? An elephant?”

18

Honestly, big brothers are a pain. I take the object from him. “Just the facts, sir. The missing sock matches this one?”

19

He nods. I take the sock and write “Exhibit A” in my notebook. Next I head up the stairs to interview Mom, following the roar of the blow dryer. I show her Exhibit A. “Excuse me, ma’am. Can you identify this sock?”

“Oh, you found it? John was looking for it. Get dressed for school, dear, or you’ll miss the bus.”

“This isn’t the missing sock, ma’am. This is its mate.” I lay the sock neatly on the bed to show her. “Have you seen this sock before?”

Mom sighs. “Listen. I do laundry ten billion times a week, and if you expect me to be able to tell you where one little sock is . . .” She switches the hair dryer off. “If you and your brother would offer to help once in a while . . .” She looks in the mirror and fluffs her hair, then catches sight of me. Her eyes narrow in The Mom Look. “Annabel, I thought I told you to go get dressed.”

I head downstairs to interview the head of the household. I find him at the kitchen table, reading the paper and sipping coffee.

“Sir, have you seen a sock like this? Inquiring minds want to know.” I hold out the gray sock.

Dad takes it, absentmindedly. “Isn’t this the sock I lost last week? Where did you find it?”

I take Exhibit A back. “Sorry sir, this is John’s sock. I’m looking into the alleged disappearance of its mate.”

He goes back to his paper. “While you’re at it, look into the disappearance of mine. We’ve only got ten minutes.”

“What’s that?” Mom comes downstairs—every hair in place—and pours herself a cup of coffee.

“Nothing, dear,” says Dad. They both look at me. “Annabel! Go get dressed!”

If I were a sock, where would I hide? I pace through the living room, looking for clues. What kind of clue could a sock leave? Footprints? A bit of unraveled wool? A sticker that says “Inspected by No. 13”?

In the corner, the television howls about sugar-coated cereal. The sound makes it hard to concentrate. I head over to switch it off. Suddenly, there on the screen is a clue! Some man is walking down the hall, his pants all twisted up, a sock stuck to his back. The screen switches to a lady with her dress sticking to her slip and then shows a can of spray gunk for your dryer. I’ve got it! I click off the TV and race to the laundry room.

32

The gray sock is there, inside the dryer with the last load, clinging to Mom’s new silk blouse. “I found it!” I yell. John comes pounding down the stairs. Mom and Dad poke their noses in from the kitchen. “Look here!” I wave the sock triumphantly.

“Solid detective work, Sis,” admits John, taking the sock. He puts it on. “Now, let’s have it.”

34

“Have what?”

“My other sock. The one I gave you. Exhibit A.” He holds out his hand, balancing on one foot, one sock on, one sock off. “Give it here. I need it.”

I look at my hands. Notebook, check. Pen, check. No sock. “Now let’s see. I had it just a minute ago . . .”

• 

Annabel Lee, P.I.

by Judy Cox

It’s eight-twenty in the morning. Another school day. Dad’s in the kitchen grinding coffee beans. Mom’s in the bedroom drying her hair. John’s in the laundry room looking for clean socks. In the living room, the television is on, screaming a song about hunky-chunky cat food.

And me? I’m working the day shift out of headquarters. Annabel Lee. Private Investigator.

Call me Al. It’s my initials, get it? A.L. Annabel Lee. But only my parents call me that. My friends call me Al.

“Mom!” A piercing yell from the laundry room. My superbrain identifies it at once as belonging to my older brother, John. “Mom, where’s my gray sock?” Mom comes to the top of the stairs.

“Look in the dryer!” she calls.

“I did already. It’s gone,” John wails. “I need that sock!”

“Did you try under your bed?”

“It’s not there,” John complains.

“Well, if you’d only remember to put your dirty clothes in the hamper in the first place . . .” Dad pokes his head around the kitchen door. Mornings always make him grouchy.

I hear John banging around the laundry room. “This is the third pair of socks I’ve lost this month! We need a new dryer. I think this dryer eats socks!” he says.

Sounds like a case for Annabel Lee, P.I. I pull on my battered old slouch hat and grab my notebook. Flip it open to a clean page. Pull my new fine-point marker from over my ear. Leap downstairs, taking the steps two by two, to the laundry room. I’ll interview possible witnesses.

12

John first. “Just the facts, sir,” I tell him. “When was the last time you saw the alleged gray sock?” I lick the tip of my pen, like they do on cop shows. It tastes real funny.

13

John gives me a dirty look. “Last time I wore it, birdbrain.” He thinks for a minute, then says, “Let’s see. I wore my gray shirt to the game on Friday. Must have been then.”

14

“Can you describe the AMS?”

15

“The what?”

16

“Alleged Missing Sock. It’s what we call them,” I explain patiently.

17

Another look from John. He dangles a long, gray, woolly object in front of me. “It’s a sock, see. What do you think it looks like? An elephant?”

18

Honestly, big brothers are a pain. I take the object from him. “Just the facts, sir. The missing sock matches this one?”

19

He nods. I take the sock and write “Exhibit A” in my notebook. Next I head up the stairs to interview Mom, following the roar of the blow dryer. I show her Exhibit A. “Excuse me, ma’am. Can you identify this sock?”

“Oh, you found it? John was looking for it. Get dressed for school, dear, or you’ll miss the bus.”

“This isn’t the missing sock, ma’am. This is its mate.” I lay the sock neatly on the bed to show her. “Have you seen this sock before?”

Mom sighs. “Listen. I do laundry ten billion times a week, and if you expect me to be able to tell you where one little sock is . . .” She switches the hair dryer off. “If you and your brother would offer to help once in a while . . .” She looks in the mirror and fluffs her hair, then catches sight of me. Her eyes narrow in The Mom Look. “Annabel, I thought I told you to go get dressed.”

I head downstairs to interview the head of the household. I find him at the kitchen table, reading the paper and sipping coffee.

“Sir, have you seen a sock like this? Inquiring minds want to know.” I hold out the gray sock.

Dad takes it, absentmindedly. “Isn’t this the sock I lost last week? Where did you find it?”

I take Exhibit A back. “Sorry sir, this is John’s sock. I’m looking into the alleged disappearance of its mate.”

He goes back to his paper. “While you’re at it, look into the disappearance of mine. We’ve only got ten minutes.”

“What’s that?” Mom comes downstairs—every hair in place—and pours herself a cup of coffee.

“Nothing, dear,” says Dad. They both look at me. “Annabel! Go get dressed!”

If I were a sock, where would I hide? I pace through the living room, looking for clues. What kind of clue could a sock leave? Footprints? A bit of unraveled wool? A sticker that says “Inspected by No. 13”?

In the corner, the television howls about sugar-coated cereal. The sound makes it hard to concentrate. I head over to switch it off. Suddenly, there on the screen is a clue! Some man is walking down the hall, his pants all twisted up, a sock stuck to his back. The screen switches to a lady with her dress sticking to her slip and then shows a can of spray gunk for your dryer. I’ve got it! I click off the TV and race to the laundry room.

32

The gray sock is there, inside the dryer with the last load, clinging to Mom’s new silk blouse. “I found it!” I yell. John comes pounding down the stairs. Mom and Dad poke their noses in from the kitchen. “Look here!” I wave the sock triumphantly.

“Solid detective work, Sis,” admits John, taking the sock. He puts it on. “Now, let’s have it.”

34

“Have what?”

“My other sock. The one I gave you. Exhibit A.” He holds out his hand, balancing on one foot, one sock on, one sock off. “Give it here. I need it.”

I look at my hands. Notebook, check. Pen, check. No sock. “Now let’s see. I had it just a minute ago . . .”

• 

Annabel Lee, P.I.

by Judy Cox

It’s eight-twenty in the morning. Another school day. Dad’s in the kitchen grinding coffee beans. Mom’s in the bedroom drying her hair. John’s in the laundry room looking for clean socks. In the living room, the television is on, screaming a song about hunky-chunky cat food.

And me? I’m working the day shift out of headquarters. Annabel Lee. Private Investigator.

Call me Al. It’s my initials, get it? A.L. Annabel Lee. But only my parents call me that. My friends call me Al.

“Mom!” A piercing yell from the laundry room. My superbrain identifies it at once as belonging to my older brother, John. “Mom, where’s my gray sock?” Mom comes to the top of the stairs.

“Look in the dryer!” she calls.

“I did already. It’s gone,” John wails. “I need that sock!”

“Did you try under your bed?”

“It’s not there,” John complains.

“Well, if you’d only remember to put your dirty clothes in the hamper in the first place . . .” Dad pokes his head around the kitchen door. Mornings always make him grouchy.

I hear John banging around the laundry room. “This is the third pair of socks I’ve lost this month! We need a new dryer. I think this dryer eats socks!” he says.

Sounds like a case for Annabel Lee, P.I. I pull on my battered old slouch hat and grab my notebook. Flip it open to a clean page. Pull my new fine-point marker from over my ear. Leap downstairs, taking the steps two by two, to the laundry room. I’ll interview possible witnesses.

12

John first. “Just the facts, sir,” I tell him. “When was the last time you saw the alleged gray sock?” I lick the tip of my pen, like they do on cop shows. It tastes real funny.

13

John gives me a dirty look. “Last time I wore it, birdbrain.” He thinks for a minute, then says, “Let’s see. I wore my gray shirt to the game on Friday. Must have been then.”

14

“Can you describe the AMS?”

15

“The what?”

16

“Alleged Missing Sock. It’s what we call them,” I explain patiently.

17

Another look from John. He dangles a long, gray, woolly object in front of me. “It’s a sock, see. What do you think it looks like? An elephant?”

18

Honestly, big brothers are a pain. I take the object from him. “Just the facts, sir. The missing sock matches this one?”

19

He nods. I take the sock and write “Exhibit A” in my notebook. Next I head up the stairs to interview Mom, following the roar of the blow dryer. I show her Exhibit A. “Excuse me, ma’am. Can you identify this sock?”

“Oh, you found it? John was looking for it. Get dressed for school, dear, or you’ll miss the bus.”

“This isn’t the missing sock, ma’am. This is its mate.” I lay the sock neatly on the bed to show her. “Have you seen this sock before?”

Mom sighs. “Listen. I do laundry ten billion times a week, and if you expect me to be able to tell you where one little sock is . . .” She switches the hair dryer off. “If you and your brother would offer to help once in a while . . .” She looks in the mirror and fluffs her hair, then catches sight of me. Her eyes narrow in The Mom Look. “Annabel, I thought I told you to go get dressed.”

I head downstairs to interview the head of the household. I find him at the kitchen table, reading the paper and sipping coffee.

“Sir, have you seen a sock like this? Inquiring minds want to know.” I hold out the gray sock.

Dad takes it, absentmindedly. “Isn’t this the sock I lost last week? Where did you find it?”

I take Exhibit A back. “Sorry sir, this is John’s sock. I’m looking into the alleged disappearance of its mate.”

He goes back to his paper. “While you’re at it, look into the disappearance of mine. We’ve only got ten minutes.”

“What’s that?” Mom comes downstairs—every hair in place—and pours herself a cup of coffee.

“Nothing, dear,” says Dad. They both look at me. “Annabel! Go get dressed!”

If I were a sock, where would I hide? I pace through the living room, looking for clues. What kind of clue could a sock leave? Footprints? A bit of unraveled wool? A sticker that says “Inspected by No. 13”?

In the corner, the television howls about sugar-coated cereal. The sound makes it hard to concentrate. I head over to switch it off. Suddenly, there on the screen is a clue! Some man is walking down the hall, his pants all twisted up, a sock stuck to his back. The screen switches to a lady with her dress sticking to her slip and then shows a can of spray gunk for your dryer. I’ve got it! I click off the TV and race to the laundry room.

32

The gray sock is there, inside the dryer with the last load, clinging to Mom’s new silk blouse. “I found it!” I yell. John comes pounding down the stairs. Mom and Dad poke their noses in from the kitchen. “Look here!” I wave the sock triumphantly.

“Solid detective work, Sis,” admits John, taking the sock. He puts it on. “Now, let’s have it.”

34

“Have what?”

“My other sock. The one I gave you. Exhibit A.” He holds out his hand, balancing on one foot, one sock on, one sock off. “Give it here. I need it.”

I look at my hands. Notebook, check. Pen, check. No sock. “Now let’s see. I had it just a minute ago . . .”

• 

Annabel Lee, P.I.

by Judy Cox

It’s eight-twenty in the morning. Another school day. Dad’s in the kitchen grinding coffee beans. Mom’s in the bedroom drying her hair. John’s in the laundry room looking for clean socks. In the living room, the television is on, screaming a song about hunky-chunky cat food.

And me? I’m working the day shift out of headquarters. Annabel Lee. Private Investigator.

Call me Al. It’s my initials, get it? A.L. Annabel Lee. But only my parents call me that. My friends call me Al.

“Mom!” A piercing yell from the laundry room. My superbrain identifies it at once as belonging to my older brother, John. “Mom, where’s my gray sock?” Mom comes to the top of the stairs.

“Look in the dryer!” she calls.

“I did already. It’s gone,” John wails. “I need that sock!”

“Did you try under your bed?”

“It’s not there,” John complains.

“Well, if you’d only remember to put your dirty clothes in the hamper in the first place . . .” Dad pokes his head around the kitchen door. Mornings always make him grouchy.

I hear John banging around the laundry room. “This is the third pair of socks I’ve lost this month! We need a new dryer. I think this dryer eats socks!” he says.

Sounds like a case for Annabel Lee, P.I. I pull on my battered old slouch hat and grab my notebook. Flip it open to a clean page. Pull my new fine-point marker from over my ear. Leap downstairs, taking the steps two by two, to the laundry room. I’ll interview possible witnesses.

12

John first. “Just the facts, sir,” I tell him. “When was the last time you saw the alleged gray sock?” I lick the tip of my pen, like they do on cop shows. It tastes real funny.

13

John gives me a dirty look. “Last time I wore it, birdbrain.” He thinks for a minute, then says, “Let’s see. I wore my gray shirt to the game on Friday. Must have been then.”

14

“Can you describe the AMS?”

15

“The what?”

16

“Alleged Missing Sock. It’s what we call them,” I explain patiently.

17

Another look from John. He dangles a long, gray, woolly object in front of me. “It’s a sock, see. What do you think it looks like? An elephant?”

18

Honestly, big brothers are a pain. I take the object from him. “Just the facts, sir. The missing sock matches this one?”

19

He nods. I take the sock and write “Exhibit A” in my notebook. Next I head up the stairs to interview Mom, following the roar of the blow dryer. I show her Exhibit A. “Excuse me, ma’am. Can you identify this sock?”

“Oh, you found it? John was looking for it. Get dressed for school, dear, or you’ll miss the bus.”

“This isn’t the missing sock, ma’am. This is its mate.” I lay the sock neatly on the bed to show her. “Have you seen this sock before?”

Mom sighs. “Listen. I do laundry ten billion times a week, and if you expect me to be able to tell you where one little sock is . . .” She switches the hair dryer off. “If you and your brother would offer to help once in a while . . .” She looks in the mirror and fluffs her hair, then catches sight of me. Her eyes narrow in The Mom Look. “Annabel, I thought I told you to go get dressed.”

I head downstairs to interview the head of the household. I find him at the kitchen table, reading the paper and sipping coffee.

“Sir, have you seen a sock like this? Inquiring minds want to know.” I hold out the gray sock.

Dad takes it, absentmindedly. “Isn’t this the sock I lost last week? Where did you find it?”

I take Exhibit A back. “Sorry sir, this is John’s sock. I’m looking into the alleged disappearance of its mate.”

He goes back to his paper. “While you’re at it, look into the disappearance of mine. We’ve only got ten minutes.”

“What’s that?” Mom comes downstairs—every hair in place—and pours herself a cup of coffee.

“Nothing, dear,” says Dad. They both look at me. “Annabel! Go get dressed!”

If I were a sock, where would I hide? I pace through the living room, looking for clues. What kind of clue could a sock leave? Footprints? A bit of unraveled wool? A sticker that says “Inspected by No. 13”?

In the corner, the television howls about sugar-coated cereal. The sound makes it hard to concentrate. I head over to switch it off. Suddenly, there on the screen is a clue! Some man is walking down the hall, his pants all twisted up, a sock stuck to his back. The screen switches to a lady with her dress sticking to her slip and then shows a can of spray gunk for your dryer. I’ve got it! I click off the TV and race to the laundry room.

32

The gray sock is there, inside the dryer with the last load, clinging to Mom’s new silk blouse. “I found it!” I yell. John comes pounding down the stairs. Mom and Dad poke their noses in from the kitchen. “Look here!” I wave the sock triumphantly.

“Solid detective work, Sis,” admits John, taking the sock. He puts it on. “Now, let’s have it.”

34

“Have what?”

“My other sock. The one I gave you. Exhibit A.” He holds out his hand, balancing on one foot, one sock on, one sock off. “Give it here. I need it.”

I look at my hands. Notebook, check. Pen, check. No sock. “Now let’s see. I had it just a minute ago . . .”

• 

Annabel Lee, P.I.

by Judy Cox

It’s eight-twenty in the morning. Another school day. Dad’s in the kitchen grinding coffee beans. Mom’s in the bedroom drying her hair. John’s in the laundry room looking for clean socks. In the living room, the television is on, screaming a song about hunky-chunky cat food.

And me? I’m working the day shift out of headquarters. Annabel Lee. Private Investigator.

Call me Al. It’s my initials, get it? A.L. Annabel Lee. But only my parents call me that. My friends call me Al.

“Mom!” A piercing yell from the laundry room. My superbrain identifies it at once as belonging to my older brother, John. “Mom, where’s my gray sock?” Mom comes to the top of the stairs.

“Look in the dryer!” she calls.

“I did already. It’s gone,” John wails. “I need that sock!”

“Did you try under your bed?”

“It’s not there,” John complains.

“Well, if you’d only remember to put your dirty clothes in the hamper in the first place . . .” Dad pokes his head around the kitchen door. Mornings always make him grouchy.

I hear John banging around the laundry room. “This is the third pair of socks I’ve lost this month! We need a new dryer. I think this dryer eats socks!” he says.

Sounds like a case for Annabel Lee, P.I. I pull on my battered old slouch hat and grab my notebook. Flip it open to a clean page. Pull my new fine-point marker from over my ear. Leap downstairs, taking the steps two by two, to the laundry room. I’ll interview possible witnesses.

12

John first. “Just the facts, sir,” I tell him. “When was the last time you saw the alleged gray sock?” I lick the tip of my pen, like they do on cop shows. It tastes real funny.

13

John gives me a dirty look. “Last time I wore it, birdbrain.” He thinks for a minute, then says, “Let’s see. I wore my gray shirt to the game on Friday. Must have been then.”

14

“Can you describe the AMS?”

15

“The what?”

16

“Alleged Missing Sock. It’s what we call them,” I explain patiently.

17

Another look from John. He dangles a long, gray, woolly object in front of me. “It’s a sock, see. What do you think it looks like? An elephant?”

18

Honestly, big brothers are a pain. I take the object from him. “Just the facts, sir. The missing sock matches this one?”

19

He nods. I take the sock and write “Exhibit A” in my notebook. Next I head up the stairs to interview Mom, following the roar of the blow dryer. I show her Exhibit A. “Excuse me, ma’am. Can you identify this sock?”

“Oh, you found it? John was looking for it. Get dressed for school, dear, or you’ll miss the bus.”

“This isn’t the missing sock, ma’am. This is its mate.” I lay the sock neatly on the bed to show her. “Have you seen this sock before?”

Mom sighs. “Listen. I do laundry ten billion times a week, and if you expect me to be able to tell you where one little sock is . . .” She switches the hair dryer off. “If you and your brother would offer to help once in a while . . .” She looks in the mirror and fluffs her hair, then catches sight of me. Her eyes narrow in The Mom Look. “Annabel, I thought I told you to go get dressed.”

I head downstairs to interview the head of the household. I find him at the kitchen table, reading the paper and sipping coffee.

“Sir, have you seen a sock like this? Inquiring minds want to know.” I hold out the gray sock.

Dad takes it, absentmindedly. “Isn’t this the sock I lost last week? Where did you find it?”

I take Exhibit A back. “Sorry sir, this is John’s sock. I’m looking into the alleged disappearance of its mate.”

He goes back to his paper. “While you’re at it, look into the disappearance of mine. We’ve only got ten minutes.”

“What’s that?” Mom comes downstairs—every hair in place—and pours herself a cup of coffee.

“Nothing, dear,” says Dad. They both look at me. “Annabel! Go get dressed!”

If I were a sock, where would I hide? I pace through the living room, looking for clues. What kind of clue could a sock leave? Footprints? A bit of unraveled wool? A sticker that says “Inspected by No. 13”?

In the corner, the television howls about sugar-coated cereal. The sound makes it hard to concentrate. I head over to switch it off. Suddenly, there on the screen is a clue! Some man is walking down the hall, his pants all twisted up, a sock stuck to his back. The screen switches to a lady with her dress sticking to her slip and then shows a can of spray gunk for your dryer. I’ve got it! I click off the TV and race to the laundry room.

32

The gray sock is there, inside the dryer with the last load, clinging to Mom’s new silk blouse. “I found it!” I yell. John comes pounding down the stairs. Mom and Dad poke their noses in from the kitchen. “Look here!” I wave the sock triumphantly.

“Solid detective work, Sis,” admits John, taking the sock. He puts it on. “Now, let’s have it.”

34

“Have what?”

“My other sock. The one I gave you. Exhibit A.” He holds out his hand, balancing on one foot, one sock on, one sock off. “Give it here. I need it.”

I look at my hands. Notebook, check. Pen, check. No sock. “Now let’s see. I had it just a minute ago . . .”

• 

Annabel Lee, P.I.

by Judy Cox

It’s eight-twenty in the morning. Another school day. Dad’s in the kitchen grinding coffee beans. Mom’s in the bedroom drying her hair. John’s in the laundry room looking for clean socks. In the living room, the television is on, screaming a song about hunky-chunky cat food.

And me? I’m working the day shift out of headquarters. Annabel Lee. Private Investigator.

Call me Al. It’s my initials, get it? A.L. Annabel Lee. But only my parents call me that. My friends call me Al.

“Mom!” A piercing yell from the laundry room. My superbrain identifies it at once as belonging to my older brother, John. “Mom, where’s my gray sock?” Mom comes to the top of the stairs.

“Look in the dryer!” she calls.

“I did already. It’s gone,” John wails. “I need that sock!”

“Did you try under your bed?”

“It’s not there,” John complains.

“Well, if you’d only remember to put your dirty clothes in the hamper in the first place . . .” Dad pokes his head around the kitchen door. Mornings always make him grouchy.

I hear John banging around the laundry room. “This is the third pair of socks I’ve lost this month! We need a new dryer. I think this dryer eats socks!” he says.

Sounds like a case for Annabel Lee, P.I. I pull on my battered old slouch hat and grab my notebook. Flip it open to a clean page. Pull my new fine-point marker from over my ear. Leap downstairs, taking the steps two by two, to the laundry room. I’ll interview possible witnesses.

12

John first. “Just the facts, sir,” I tell him. “When was the last time you saw the alleged gray sock?” I lick the tip of my pen, like they do on cop shows. It tastes real funny.

13

John gives me a dirty look. “Last time I wore it, birdbrain.” He thinks for a minute, then says, “Let’s see. I wore my gray shirt to the game on Friday. Must have been then.”

14

“Can you describe the AMS?”

15

“The what?”

16

“Alleged Missing Sock. It’s what we call them,” I explain patiently.

17

Another look from John. He dangles a long, gray, woolly object in front of me. “It’s a sock, see. What do you think it looks like? An elephant?”

18

Honestly, big brothers are a pain. I take the object from him. “Just the facts, sir. The missing sock matches this one?”

19

He nods. I take the sock and write “Exhibit A” in my notebook. Next I head up the stairs to interview Mom, following the roar of the blow dryer. I show her Exhibit A. “Excuse me, ma’am. Can you identify this sock?”

“Oh, you found it? John was looking for it. Get dressed for school, dear, or you’ll miss the bus.”

“This isn’t the missing sock, ma’am. This is its mate.” I lay the sock neatly on the bed to show her. “Have you seen this sock before?”

Mom sighs. “Listen. I do laundry ten billion times a week, and if you expect me to be able to tell you where one little sock is . . .” She switches the hair dryer off. “If you and your brother would offer to help once in a while . . .” She looks in the mirror and fluffs her hair, then catches sight of me. Her eyes narrow in The Mom Look. “Annabel, I thought I told you to go get dressed.”

I head downstairs to interview the head of the household. I find him at the kitchen table, reading the paper and sipping coffee.

“Sir, have you seen a sock like this? Inquiring minds want to know.” I hold out the gray sock.

Dad takes it, absentmindedly. “Isn’t this the sock I lost last week? Where did you find it?”

I take Exhibit A back. “Sorry sir, this is John’s sock. I’m looking into the alleged disappearance of its mate.”

He goes back to his paper. “While you’re at it, look into the disappearance of mine. We’ve only got ten minutes.”

“What’s that?” Mom comes downstairs—every hair in place—and pours herself a cup of coffee.

“Nothing, dear,” says Dad. They both look at me. “Annabel! Go get dressed!”

If I were a sock, where would I hide? I pace through the living room, looking for clues. What kind of clue could a sock leave? Footprints? A bit of unraveled wool? A sticker that says “Inspected by No. 13”?

In the corner, the television howls about sugar-coated cereal. The sound makes it hard to concentrate. I head over to switch it off. Suddenly, there on the screen is a clue! Some man is walking down the hall, his pants all twisted up, a sock stuck to his back. The screen switches to a lady with her dress sticking to her slip and then shows a can of spray gunk for your dryer. I’ve got it! I click off the TV and race to the laundry room.

32

The gray sock is there, inside the dryer with the last load, clinging to Mom’s new silk blouse. “I found it!” I yell. John comes pounding down the stairs. Mom and Dad poke their noses in from the kitchen. “Look here!” I wave the sock triumphantly.

“Solid detective work, Sis,” admits John, taking the sock. He puts it on. “Now, let’s have it.”

34

“Have what?”

“My other sock. The one I gave you. Exhibit A.” He holds out his hand, balancing on one foot, one sock on, one sock off. “Give it here. I need it.”

I look at my hands. Notebook, check. Pen, check. No sock. “Now let’s see. I had it just a minute ago . . .”

• 

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