The fate of these men appeared to be the fate of their nation, to scrabble around in the dust. The mission Yefgenii craved grew no closer.
Gevorkian arrived to address the lunar training group on the subject of the N-1 program. He was one of them now, while still serving as a principal engineer in the project. In the lecture room the blinds hung down. Sunlight daggered through in hot sharp beams that projected a grid on the floor and walls. The windows were open but the air was still, stifling; Gevorkian had to raise his voice to be heard over the whirring fans.
“We’ve diagnosed the problem with the N-1. As you know, its engines are arranged in two concentric circles. When they thrust, a hypobaric zone is created between the two circles which causes instability in flight.”
“Can it be fixed?” Leonov asked.
“We’re going to realign the engines. The vehicle will then require another unmanned test.”
The cosmonauts knew this would be the procedure, but they shifted in their chairs. Their faces shone with sweat. Their shirts were moist. They sat like schoolchildren in a classroom, their days evaporating like the days of childhood.
“And the LK?” Leonov asked him.
“Once the launch vehicle has been flight-tested, I’m hopeful we will be able to conduct an Earth-orbit test of the LK before the end of the year.”
“But is it ready?” Yefgenii asked.
“The computer systems are proving problematic. You must understand, to recognize and interpret the datum marks required for a landing on another planet demands an exceptional piece of kit.”
“We’ve got the kit,” Yefgenii said. “There’s six of them looking right back at you.”
YEFGENII WAITED for his friend on a patch of ground near the engineering outbuildings. The Sun was slipping down behind the launchpad scaffolds that ran in a line west of the enormous rocket-processing plants, but the heat remained, cradled by the desert.
Gevorkian appeared from the building and strode across the sand to him. “You were disrespectful to me as your project manager, as your comrade cosmonaut, and as your friend.”
“I’d prefer that you were interested in hearing the idea behind by my comment.”
“I understood your remark. The human brain is the most sophisticated computer at our disposal. Men can be trained to navigate by the stars, we can be trained to calculate orbital mechanics—”
“So let’s train a crew, and launch them.”
“The rocket isn’t ready, the lander isn’t ready.”
“That’s not what you said. You said they were.”
“We can’t kill a crew finding out. The equipment must be tested.”
“Then let the Americans win.” Yefgenii turned to walk away.
“That’s what we’re already saying,” Gevorkian said.
Yefgenii halted.
“Officially the authorities are claiming there never was a race. Already Mishin is talking about Salyut. He says a landing on the Moon is a scientific and military non sequitur. Why go there without a plan to establish a Moon base? The next logical step is to establish a space station — to explore the Moon and planets only after that.”
“There’s a race,” Yefgenii said. “I still want us to win it.”
“So do I, my friend. I know the cosmonauts are ready, but Mishin doesn’t dare lose another man in space after Komarov—”
“That’s why they chose us, isn’t it? To fly, or die trying?”
Gevorkian sighed. “Every man thinks the same. We all want to lobby the authorities for a circumlunar flight.”
“No. The Americans have already done it. Now only the landing matters.”
“The N-1, the L-3, the LK — each would have to work perfectly on its maiden flight.”
“They have to work sometime.”
“Without fully automated systems.”
“The crew will fly manually.”
Gevorkian measured a pause. “There’s something else.”
“What?”
“Realigning the engines of the N-1 will affect its thrust. We have to lose weight from the payload.”
“How much weight?”
“A lot. Maybe seventy kilos.”
Yefgenii said it. “A man,” he said.
Gevorkian studied him. His eyes narrowed. “The workload’s too intense for one man. He’d have to carry out the lunar-orbit rendezvous alone. He might never make it back.”
Yefgenii eyed him but declared nothing.
Gevorkian said, “The objective is to land a man on the Moon and return him safely to the Earth. It wouldn’t count.”
“It did for Gagarin.”
Gevorkian looked around to ensure they couldn’t be overhead. One of the most sensitive of state secrets was that Gagarin hadn’t landed his capsule. He’d ejected during reentry at around 7,000 metres and parachuted down. By the rules of international aviation records, ejection made the attempt void. Gagarin’s flight shouldn’t have counted: Shepard was first. But to all the world Yuri Gagarin was the first man in space because he’d been first to get there, and how he’d returned, probably even if he hadn’t returned at all, didn’t matter.
“And the same went for Laika,” Yefgenii said. His eyes were blue fire. “I’m not even here in my own name. If any man’s death could be hidden, I’m that man.”
IN THE MORNING, he travelled to Star City on three days’ leave. By the time he arrived home the children had returned from school. The widow was serving them their tea. She made a sound of joy as she heard the door open; she ran across the apartment to greet him. He held her in his arms and kissed her. The children came down from the table and he hugged them both.
That night in bed the widow said, “You’re not flying.”
“Why do you say that?” he said.
“They gave you leave. They don’t give leave to the men who are going into space.”
He said nothing. She held him tighter. She was relieved that he hadn’t been selected for the next mission. He was a cosmonaut now. His career was made. The years of exile for him were over, the cold and misery for her and the children, now she was a cosmonaut’s wife. Their life would always be good, whether he risked his life in space or not, in the system-built city, in the system.
“It’s my job,” he said.
Next morning he slipped out for his run. The Sun was up, the air was mild. As he began his circuit of the city it occurred to him to run faster, to run faster and faster, till at the perimeter fence where the sentries saluted him he was in a headlong sprint, his blood rushing, great lungfuls of breath rasping through his throat. It had come to him to run faster because he’d decided not to run home, but to give everything to the outbound leg, and walk or crawl back, whatever his state was. How much faster he flew, not having to save anything for the run home.
When he returned, the children were still dozing. The widow, in her dressing gown, beamed. She cooked breakfast for him. “You will eat, won’t you?” she said, but they were interrupted by the older child, the girl, calling for her father.
Yefgenii crept into the children’s room. The girl’s hair lay across her face. She was curled in a ball, blankets heaped on top of her. He parted the hair from her eyes and kissed her forehead. She gave him a hug and he opened her curtain onto a bright clear summer day. The boy stirred. Yefgenii swept him over his shoulder and carried him, the girl holding his free hand, to the kitchen.
After breakfast Yefgenii vomited in secret and then the family went to the playground built for the children of the cosmonauts and technicians. The girl rode her bicycle, the boy clambered across a climbing frame. Yefgenii watched the boy use his long limbs to swing from rail to rail.