discussed openly. When he’d first gone to hospital, there’d been whispers that his doctors had tried an experimental therapy because his life was so valuable. When he didn’t return to work as the doctors had predicted, it was assumed the treatment had failed. The Institute struggled on in an uneasy state of suspension, its progress mutating into inaction. Radin’scontinued absence and the accompanying silence about his condition unnerved those who worked for him. On the surface little changed. The sign on the door of his empty office still read ‘Chief Designer’ – he was referred to by name only behind his back and out of hearing, and then always as Viktor – the door between his office and that of his secretary remained open as if he was ready to call for dictation. On the few occasions that Valery had asked about Radin, she had reassured him that the Chief Designer would be returning tomorrow, the day after, soon. She had spoken to him on the telephone only a short time ago; he sounded cheerful, he was looking forward to coming back to work, he had asked for his papers to be brought to him. But he never appeared. Each day she bore her disappointment with a stoicism born of careful instruction.
Decisions waited for Radin’s return, budgets for his approval, schedules for his authorisation, changes to the design of an engine or a space capsule for his agreement. At the Institute in Moscow or at the Cosmodrome in Baikonur no one dared to step into the vacuum created by his absence and assume responsibility for his programme. The inactivity continued, unquestioned, unchallenged, its poison spreading a slow paralysis throughout the organisation. Without his galvanising presence, the machine that Radin had set up was beginning to run down. With Radin’s death, the Soviet space programme was leaderless.
What would happen now? Whispered speculation was rife. Who would they appoint in his place? What changes would be made? There were no obvious successors – certainly not Grinko, now Acting Director in Radin’s ‘continued absence’. He had made too many enemies: that was the problem. The Politburo had relied on one man for too long. They had never allowed themselves to assume that he was mortal. They had never insisted that he train successors, and now so much of what Radin had achieved was likely to be lost because of the government’s short-sightedness. Valery’s frustration and angertook another turn. Did no one ever think ahead?
The official denial of what everyone knew to be true followed a familiar pattern – truth disguised as rumour, followed by a denial couched in some transparently false explanation because the truth was politically unacceptable. Did those who manufactured these statements no longer have any regard for the people they governed? Did they truly imagine that their fabrications were believed? A quick survey of his colleagues would show (if you could overcome the impossible task of getting them to reveal their thoughts) that they knew these statements had no foundation at all. But what could be done about it? The system might make a fool of itself, verifiable truth might be officially denied, but there’d be no complaint, no protest, no shared sense of outrage – hardly even a sly comment on its absurdity. A passive, mute acceptance would be the only reaction to events, characterised by an instinctive retreat from any possible conflict, in the interest of one’s own survival. Always keep your head down. Never show yourself above the parapet.
We are no longer a society, Valery thought. We are a collection of individuals looking out for ourselves. How great our rulers’ contempt must be for the people they have emasculated so successfully. How low we have sunk.
‘When he heard that Viktor had died,’ a colleague whispered to Valery as they went downstairs for lunch, ‘the First Secretary was so angry he ordered the Politburo to bring him back to life, which they did. Another
Decisions waited for Radin’s return, budgets for his approval, schedules for his authorisation, changes to the design of an engine or a space capsule for his agreement. At the Institute in Moscow or at the Cosmodrome in Baikonur no one dared to step into the vacuum created by his absence and assume responsibility for his programme. The inactivity continued, unquestioned, unchallenged, its poison spreading a slow paralysis throughout the organisation. Without his galvanising presence, the machine that Radin had set up was beginning to run down. With Radin’s death, the Soviet space programme was leaderless.
What would happen now? Whispered speculation was rife. Who would they appoint in his place? What changes would be made? There were no obvious successors – certainly not Grinko, now Acting Director in Radin’s ‘continued absence’. He had made too many enemies: that was the problem. The Politburo had relied on one man for too long. They had never allowed themselves to assume that he was mortal. They had never insisted that he train successors, and now so much of what Radin had achieved was likely to be lost because of the government’s short-sightedness. Valery’s frustration and angertook another turn. Did no one ever think ahead?
The official denial of what everyone knew to be true followed a familiar pattern – truth disguised as rumour, followed by a denial couched in some transparently false explanation because the truth was politically unacceptable. Did those who manufactured these statements no longer have any regard for the people they governed? Did they truly imagine that their fabrications were believed? A quick survey of his colleagues would show (if you could overcome the impossible task of getting them to reveal their thoughts) that they knew these statements had no foundation at all. But what could be done about it? The system might make a fool of itself, verifiable truth might be officially denied, but there’d be no complaint, no protest, no shared sense of outrage – hardly even a sly comment on its absurdity. A passive, mute acceptance would be the only reaction to events, characterised by an instinctive retreat from any possible conflict, in the interest of one’s own survival. Always keep your head down. Never show yourself above the parapet.
We are no longer a society, Valery thought. We are a collection of individuals looking out for ourselves. How great our rulers’ contempt must be for the people they have emasculated so successfully. How low we have sunk.
‘When he heard that Viktor had died,’ a colleague whispered to Valery as they went downstairs for lunch, ‘the First Secretary was so angry he ordered the Politburo to bring him back to life, which they did. Another
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