“You have Scotch?” said Giorgi. “I couldn’t find it.”
“And you never will.”
“Have you been sleeping?” asked Giorgi.
“No. Does it show?”
“You’re either fatigued or dead but walking.”
“I’m not sure I could tell the difference at this point.”
Mars took a tiny sip of vodka, like a bird dipping its beak into a puddle.
“What’s the party for this time?” he asked.
“Nadya and Leonid will return anytime now.”
“Has it already been four weeks?”
“It has!”
“But that’s impossible. I talked to Leonid just…” Mars stopped mid-sentence and brought the vodka to his lips. Instead of his usual sip, he sucked up a whole mouthful. He swallowed and said, “I have to go.”
“The celebration starts in an hour. Make sure you get here on time or everyone else will finish your vodka before you get a chance to refill.”
Mars replied with a quiet da, but he did not seem to hear what Giorgi had said. He left the common area, taking a sip of vodka for each step.
THE CHIEF DESIGNER thumbed through a new report on the ablative heat shield, probably the fiftieth such report he had read, all of them saying one of two things: either the shield burned away too quickly or it burned away too slow. Whichever the defect, the result was the same. Vostok could not reenter the atmosphere. Any capsule that made the attempt would flare, then fizzle to a spark, leaving no trace of the cosmonaut trapped inside. Leaving no trace of Nadya…
A frantic series of knocks startled the Chief Designer out of a daze. He realized his eyes had been closed. The knocks came again, faster and louder.
“Enter,” said the Chief Designer.
The door kicked open, and Mars practically fell through. He looked ill, skin sagging, dark marks like bruises beneath bloodshot eyes. He held a tall glass half-full with what was either water or vodka.
“It’s been four weeks already,” he said. “Four weeks! Is that really true?”
“Since the launch? Yes, Mars, it’s been four weeks.” The Chief Designer pointed at the glass in Mars’s hand. “Have you been drinking the whole time?”
Mars did not seem to notice the jab. “No, I was in the radio room. I’ve been talking to Leonid.”
“Shut the door,” snapped the Chief Designer.
Mars turned and found the door still open wide behind him. He fumbled for the knob and then pushed it shut.
The Chief Designer said, “Show some discretion, man. I’m happy to put up with your drinking. I know that I’ve put you in a terrible position, but if anyone outside the inner circle ever found out, there—”
“You’re not hearing me,” said Mars. “I’ve been talking to Leonid this whole time. I always lose track of the days in the radio room. There are no windows, no clocks. I thought less than a week had gone by, but it’s already been four, and Leonid’s still there. I spoke to him not an hour ago, before he passed out of range of the transmitter.”
“Come, Mars, that’s impossible. There’s only air enough for five or six days.”
“I know, I know. I know all this, but either Leonid is still alive or his ghost can operate Zarya.”
The Chief Designer tried to process what Mars was telling him. It had to be a mistake, or some sort of cruel joke. Mars had been drinking, as was often the case. Maybe he was trying to be funny, to trick the old man. Maybe he was too drunk to realize just how terrible a joke it would be.
“This is no time for jokes,” said the Chief Designer.
“When have I ever joked?”
The Chief Designer knew it was true. If Mars had a flaw, it was over-seriousness. The only time his personality ever warmed was in the radio room. He had been affected much more than the others by the death of his twin, even though the two Marses had been chosen at a younger age and separated for their unique training regimens earlier than the rest. They met maybe twice a year, in secret late at night, so that this Mars would know all that the other one did. They did not speak before the launch. They were supposed to be the same person, after all. What use would it be to speak to oneself?
At first, the Chief Designer considered the deception a necessary caution, the next logical step in Tsiolkovski’s original plan. But no, he could not blame Tsiolkovski. The Chief Designer alone bore the blame. Looking at Mars now, the Chief Designer knew he had mistaken cruelty for caution. He recalled a time when Mars would flash moments of great humor, but that was years ago, a memory of a different version of this person. No, this Mars never joked.
“I’m sorry,” said the Chief Designer, “but you must understand this is hard to believe.”
“Come talk to him yourself.”
“When will he be in range?”
“A half hour, maybe.”
“Nadya and Leonid will be back by then, and Giorgi’s party will have started. Come find me.”
“Yes, Chief Designer.” Mars turned to leave.
“And, Mars…”
“Yes, Chief Designer?”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
The Chief Designer only lowered his head in response. Mars walked out. Could he possibly be right? Could he have been talking to Leonid this whole time? And if so, what did Leonid’s survival mean?
On his desk, the Chief Designer found the heat shield report still open, chart after chart printed on page after page. A decade and they still seemed no closer to a solution. It was so easy to make something burn, so much harder to make it burn how one wanted.
THE MOMENT NADYA and Leonid walked in the front door of the dormitory, Giorgi was there handing them glasses filled with vodka. Leonid looked back to Ignatius, who had entered behind him, and she nodded that it was okay to drink. Engineers and technicians lined the halls, clapping and backslapping as the cosmonauts passed by, following Giorgi to the common area. The sounds of the party erupted from the propped-open doors, the bright din of a dozen overlapping conversations, laughter, a bellowed song, clattering glasses. The facility was usually so quiet, it felt to Leonid now as if he were someplace he had never been before.
A great cheer rose up when he and Nadya entered the room. Leonid did not recognize many of the people, those who had trained his brother and who all thought that he and his brother were the same person. His first week back would be spent learning new names and shared histories. Learning how to pretend to be someone else. He made his way through the room one awkward hug at a time. It was fortunately too noisy to have to talk to anyone. His hand broke into an unconscious wave.
The Chief Designer waited at the back of the room. Mishin and Bushuyev were nearby, but otherwise he was given wide berth, a semicircle around him the only free space at the party. He smiled when he saw Nadya, and hugged her. She did not hug him back, but Leonid saw her lean against the Chief Designer, letting him support some of her weight. Then the Chief Designer was in front of Leonid, gripping him by the shoulders. He looked into Leonid’s eyes, held the gaze for too long to be comfortable, and then nodded once. The hug that followed was firm but brief. Mishin and Bushuyev came over and shook Leonid’s hand.
The Chief Designer took a glass from Mishin or Bushuyev—they stood so close Leonid could not tell whose hand had been holding the glass—and raised it.
“A toast,” said the Chief Designer.
His deep baritone overpowered the din of the party. The gathered engineers, technicians, even custodians and the people who served the meals in the cafeteria, stopped talking and turned to find him. All raised their glasses toward his.
“To all our cosmonauts, past, present, and those yet to come. They are our people’s greatest heroes. Let us drink to their success, and to ours as well. To our cosmonauts!”