The room replied, “To our cosmonauts!”
And just like that the first round of drinks disappeared.
“I hope I’m not too late.” A voice, almost as booming as that of the Chief Designer, came from the hall. Two men in dark suits, fine suits, much nicer than anything worn by any of the engineers, stood on either side of the doorway. The men exuded an air of intimidation, standing out at Star City like tourists. Between them was a smaller man, older, completely bald on top of his head and what hair there was around the edges pure white. It was Premier Khrushchev.
Several of the engineers who were also in the military snapped to attention. Ignatius snaked through the room and emerged on the other side of the crowd with a glass for Khrushchev. He took it, raised it, responded to the Chief Designer’s toast, threw the glass to his face, and gulped down the contents. He handed the empty glass back to Ignatius.
“Where’s our newest hero?”
Leonid raised his empty glass above the sea of heads. “I’m here, Mr. Khrushchev.”
“Come forward, son. Our public appearance didn’t allow me enough time to truly thank you.”
Leonid pushed his way from the back of the room to the front, a slow, elbowed procession during which the silence grew more awkward. Someone coughed, and then someone else, and then it was as if a minor plague swept through the room, afflicting every fifth or sixth person with the irrepressible need to clear their throat. Leonid emerged into the space that had formed around the door. Khrushchev gripped him by the shoulders, like the Chief Designer had before, and looked into his eyes, but unlike the Chief Designer, Khrushchev had none of the sadness in his expression, just pride. Fatherly, ignorant pride.
“You’ve risked yourself,” said Khrushchev, “for the sake of our whole people. There will be statues”—he pointed to Giorgi’s mural across the room—“and paintings. Your likeness will appear all across the world. But the greatest mark you’ve made is in the hearts of our people.”
Ignatius, who Leonid had not seen move from her place beside Khrushchev, produced a full glass of vodka and handed it to the Premier.
“Refill your glasses,” said Khrushchev, “and drink to our newest Soviet hero and all those who’ve come before.”
Khrushchev, with his free hand, took Leonid by the wrist and raised his arm. The engineers, who had silenced even their breaths while Khrushchev spoke, now cheered, clapping or banging the bottoms of their empty glasses on tables. Vodka bottles channeled among a stream of hands, and the soft sound of pouring was soon joined by renewed chatter, the conversations that had been interrupted by Khrushchev’s arrival resumed.
Leonid had a fresh glass of vodka in his hand. He was not sure how it got there or where it came from. Khrushchev touched his glass to Leonid’s.
“Before I leave,” said Khrushchev, leaning in close, “you must tell me all about it.”
His expression had gone from fatherly to childlike. He walked into the crowd and started shaking hands.
KHRUSHCHEV’S UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL ended the party early, at least for the Chief Designer. Instead of sharing drinks with his staff, he stopped after his first and shadowed Khrushchev around the room. Khrushchev engaged each cluster of people he came across, asking everyone what they did for the program. The Chief Designer could not hear all that was said, especially as the noise of the party grew, which it seemed to with every drop of vodka consumed. Whatever Khrushchev was saying, it always seemed to be accompanied by him pointing up at the ceiling, or through it, as if he needed to remind those he was talking to as to the location of space. Space, though, was in every direction, so no matter where one pointed, even straight down, straight through the hellish heat of Earth’s core, there on the other side was near-maybe-infinite space. The hardest part of reaching the cosmos was conquering the animal instinct that still insisted, in spite of rational knowledge, that the Earth was flat.
After half an hour, the Chief Designer retreated to the quiet of the hallway and waited. Giorgi came out shortly after, handed him a glass of vodka, and then returned to the party. Giorgi always seemed to be more aware than everyone else, able to notice a single person leave a crowded room, able to sense that person’s desire for a drink. Still so young, but the Chief Designer already thought of him as a great man, the cosmonaut who would lead them into the future, the first human to walk on Mars…
But no, that was just a distant dream. In his mind, the Chief Designer emphasized the word dream more than he did distant.
The sound of Giorgi’s guitar came from the common area, strumming out a quick beat, and then Giorgi sang, a high, strong tenor. The Chief Designer could not make out the words, but based on the laughter that ensued, he assumed the song was the usual chastushke. Giorgi seemed to know an endless list of short, humorous, often risqué songs. His performances had become a staple of Sunday nights at Star City.
Soon the staff was clapping and singing along, raising a ruckus that was terrible and wonderful at the same time. For a man like the Chief Designer, who had been harnessing explosions most of his life, such controlled chaos was a comfort. He thought about going back in, ignoring Khrushchev and simply enjoying the sight of his staff’s celebration. He did not think he could be an actual part of it. For him, there had been nothing yet to celebrate, only half victories presented as complete to the public, to everyone except those who survived and a few besides. The Chief Designer noticed that his glass was empty. He had finished the vodka.
A single bark came from behind him in the hallway. Nadya walked with Kasha toward the Chief Designer. Kasha’s tail, arced up and forward so that the tip pointed at her back, jostled back and forth. Each of her steps was half bounce. Her tongue dangled out of the side of her mouth, like she was making faces, and her lips, such as a dog has them, curled up in a grin at the base of her long snout. She jumped up and placed her legs on the Chief Designer’s thigh. He leaned down, fighting against the creak in his left knee, and scratched Kasha behind the ears and under the chin.
“And who is this?” Khrushchev spoke from the doorway to the common area. “I didn’t know you kept a pet, Nadya.”
“Not a pet,” said the Chief Designer. “This is one of our dogs. We’ve trained them for spaceflight.”
“A dog in space?” asked Khrushchev. His round face scrunched all across with wrinkles. “What for?”
The Chief Designer stood. “I’m glad you ask!”
He felt his voice change, taking on an artificial cheeriness. It was a tone he had learned from the ware sellers in the less prominent streets of Moscow. The very streets where they had hunted the stray dogs for the program, all of the dogs except Kasha.
“We’ll use the dogs,” said the Chief Designer, “to test our new multi-person spacecraft, Voskhod.”
“A new spacecraft?”
“Yes, Mr. Khrushchev. It will be the next phase of the program, leading directly to the ultimate goal of interplanetary exploration.”
“I’ve heard you talk of other planets before, but I didn’t realize we were so close.”
“There are still obstacles, Mr. Khrushchev, but dogs such as Kasha here will help us overcome them.”
“Little Kasha will be a Soviet hero!”
“Not Kasha herself. We have other dogs trained for the mission.”
“Nonsense. Look at her. She’ll be the perfect symbol of our progress. Pure white like fresh snow, sweet and innocent.”
“I must—”
“When will this mission be launching?”
“We need about six months to prepare the craft.”
Nadya had crouched and drawn Kasha back, holding her close. Khrushchev regarded them, his mouth pursed and eyes narrowed.