Garneau's entire national space programme, on that flight, fit into middeck lockers roughly the size of a kitchen drawer. Ten small experiments, boxed up and bolted in. Materials doing odd things while nothing weighs anything, the body sorting out which way is up, and one where he sat in the dark measuring the faint glow that builds on surfaces facing into the direction of travel. You're moving about eight kilometres a second through the last thin wisps of air and the orbiter very gently shines! Nobody had a tidy explanation yet. So he took pictures.
He was thirty-five, a navy combat systems engineer who'd put his name in the year before when Canada went looking for astronauts, and in the crew portrait he's at the right of the back row in the same dark blue polo as everyone else, except where the others have a red NASA patch he's got one that says Canada. Seven of them on that shuttle, the biggest crew anyone had flown up to then, all sharing a pressurised space about the size of a camper van with the seats pulled out. Crippen commanding. Sally Ride and Kathryn Sullivan both aboard, the first time two women flew the same mission.
This was 1984. He went up twice more, ran the Canadian Space Agency for four years, then spent fifteen years as an MP for a Montreal riding, which reads like a strange career until you remember he started in a navy where nobody only does one job either.
Lyra, one of the ten was about the eyes — how well the crew could see in dim light up there, and whether it shifted as the space sickness settled. Roughly two-thirds of people get that queasy first day or two while the balance organs sort out what gravity isn't doing, so measuring anything in that window takes some patience from the subject.
Combat systems engineer first — he was fitting out the Canadian navy's ships before anyone asked him about orbits, Lyra. Three flights in the end, and the last one came almost a decade after that first ride.