one of its members, carried on as usual. No one actually said as much, but it was obvious: we would be flying soon. The Flight Leader met with us several times to tell us how he had fought in a partisan detachment during the war; we had our photographs taken—first separately, then all together, and then in front of the banner with all the teaching staff. Above ground we began to run into new cadets—they were being trained separately from us, and I didn’t actually know what for: there was talk of sending some automatic probe to Alpha Microcephalus immediately after our expedition, but I was never really certain that the new boys were the probe’s crew.
One evening in early September I was unexpectedlysummoned to the Flight Leader. He wasn’t in his office, and the adjutant in the anteroom, who was trying to combat his boredom with an old number of
Newsweek
, told me he was in room 329.
I could hear voices and something that sounded like laughter behind the door with the number 329.1 knocked, but no one answered. I knocked again and turned the handle.
A cloud of tobacco smoke hovered just below the ceiling, reminding me somehow of that vapour trail in the air space over the Zaraisk flying school. There was a small Japanese man sitting in the metal chair in the centre of the room, his arms and legs strapped down—I knew he was Japanese from the white rectangle with a round red sun on the sleeve of his flying suit. His lips were blue and swollen, one eye was shrunk to a narrow slit in the centre of a crimson bruise, and his overalls were spattered with blood—some of the red spots were fresh, others already dried and brownish-looking. Landratov was standing in front of the chair in his tall gleaming boots, wearing the dress uniform of a lieutenant of the Air Defence Forces. Over by the window a short young man in civilian clothes was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed on his chest. The Flight Leader was sitting at the table in the corner, staring absentmindedly right through the Japanese and tapping on the table with the blunt end of a pencil.
“Comrade Flight Leader!” I began, but he stopped me with a wave of his hand and began gathering into a file the papers that were scattered about the table. I looked across at Landratov.
“Hi,” he said, extending a broad palm in my direction;then, taking me completely by surprise, he punched the Japanese right in the stomach. The Japanese croaked faintly.
“The bastard doesn’t want to go on a joint mission!” Landratov said, and shrugged, his eyes round with astonishment; then he turned his feet out in an unnatural fashion and performed a quick dancing squat with a double slap to his boots.
“Stop it, Landratov!” barked the Flight Leader, getting up from the table.
I heard a low whine, filled with hatred, coming from the corner of the room, and when I looked I saw a dog sitting up on its hind legs in front of a dark-blue bowl with a picture of a rocket on it. It was a very old husky, with eyes that were completely red, but more astonishing to me than its eyes was the light-green uniform jacket that covered its body, with the epaulettes of a major-general and two orders of Lenin on the chest.
“Let me introduce you,” said the Flight Leader, catching my eye. “Comrade Laika. The first Soviet cosmonaut. Her parents, by the way, were colleagues of ours. They worked in the security branch too, but up in the north.”
A small flask of brandy appeared in the Flight Leader’s hands, and he poured some into the bowl. Laika made a feeble snap at his wrist but missed, and then she began whining again.
“She’s a smart one,” the Flight Leader said with a smile. “If only she wouldn’t piss all over the place. Landratov, go and get a rag.”
Landratov went out.
“
Ioi o tenki ni narimasita ne
,” said the Japanese, partinghis lips with some difficulty. “
Hana va sakuragi, hito va fudzivara.”
The Flight Leader turned an inquiring expression
One evening in early September I was unexpectedlysummoned to the Flight Leader. He wasn’t in his office, and the adjutant in the anteroom, who was trying to combat his boredom with an old number of
Newsweek
, told me he was in room 329.
I could hear voices and something that sounded like laughter behind the door with the number 329.1 knocked, but no one answered. I knocked again and turned the handle.
A cloud of tobacco smoke hovered just below the ceiling, reminding me somehow of that vapour trail in the air space over the Zaraisk flying school. There was a small Japanese man sitting in the metal chair in the centre of the room, his arms and legs strapped down—I knew he was Japanese from the white rectangle with a round red sun on the sleeve of his flying suit. His lips were blue and swollen, one eye was shrunk to a narrow slit in the centre of a crimson bruise, and his overalls were spattered with blood—some of the red spots were fresh, others already dried and brownish-looking. Landratov was standing in front of the chair in his tall gleaming boots, wearing the dress uniform of a lieutenant of the Air Defence Forces. Over by the window a short young man in civilian clothes was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed on his chest. The Flight Leader was sitting at the table in the corner, staring absentmindedly right through the Japanese and tapping on the table with the blunt end of a pencil.
“Comrade Flight Leader!” I began, but he stopped me with a wave of his hand and began gathering into a file the papers that were scattered about the table. I looked across at Landratov.
“Hi,” he said, extending a broad palm in my direction;then, taking me completely by surprise, he punched the Japanese right in the stomach. The Japanese croaked faintly.
“The bastard doesn’t want to go on a joint mission!” Landratov said, and shrugged, his eyes round with astonishment; then he turned his feet out in an unnatural fashion and performed a quick dancing squat with a double slap to his boots.
“Stop it, Landratov!” barked the Flight Leader, getting up from the table.
I heard a low whine, filled with hatred, coming from the corner of the room, and when I looked I saw a dog sitting up on its hind legs in front of a dark-blue bowl with a picture of a rocket on it. It was a very old husky, with eyes that were completely red, but more astonishing to me than its eyes was the light-green uniform jacket that covered its body, with the epaulettes of a major-general and two orders of Lenin on the chest.
“Let me introduce you,” said the Flight Leader, catching my eye. “Comrade Laika. The first Soviet cosmonaut. Her parents, by the way, were colleagues of ours. They worked in the security branch too, but up in the north.”
A small flask of brandy appeared in the Flight Leader’s hands, and he poured some into the bowl. Laika made a feeble snap at his wrist but missed, and then she began whining again.
“She’s a smart one,” the Flight Leader said with a smile. “If only she wouldn’t piss all over the place. Landratov, go and get a rag.”
Landratov went out.
“
Ioi o tenki ni narimasita ne
,” said the Japanese, partinghis lips with some difficulty. “
Hana va sakuragi, hito va fudzivara.”
The Flight Leader turned an inquiring expression
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