to the young man by the window.
“He’s delirious, Comrade Lieutenant-General,” said the young man.
The Flight Leader picked up his file from the table.
“Let’s go, Omon.”
We went out into the corridor, and he put his arm round my shoulders. Landratov passed us with a rag in his hand, and as he closed the door of room 329 he winked at me.
“Landratov’s still young,” the Flight Leader said thoughtfully. “He’s a bit wild. But he’s a fine flier. Born to it.”
We walked on a few metres in silence.
“Well now, Omon,” said the Flight Leader, “you’re for Baikonur the day after tomorrow. This is it.”
I’d been expecting the words for months, but still it felt as if I’d been hit in the solar plexus by a snowball with a heavy metal bolt inside it.
“Your call sign, as you requested, is ‘Ra’. It was hard”—the Flight Leader gestured upward significantly with his finger—“but we won out in the end. Only don’t you say anything yet down there.” He jabbed his finger downwards.
•
During the final test run on the model rocket I was simply a spectator—the other guys did the test while I sat on a bench by the wall and watched. I had passed my test a week earlier, up in the yard, when I rode the fullyequipped moonwalker round a figure eight a hundred metres long in six minutes. The team’s timing was spot on, and afterwards we were lined up in front of the rocket for a farewell photograph. I never saw it, but I can easily imagine what it looks like: at the front is Sema Anikin in his padded jacket, with streaks of engine oil on his hands and face; behind him, leaning on an aluminium cane, is Ivan Grechko in his long sheepskin coat, with an oxygen mask dangling on his chest; behind him, in a silver spacesuit padded with warm patches of flannelette blanket decorated with yellow ducklings, is Otto Plucis—his helmet was pushed up and back, making it look like a hood frozen solid in the cosmic frost. Next is Dima Matiushevich, in a spacesuit that’s exactly the same, except the blanket has plain green stripes instead of ducklings; the last member of the team is me, in my cadet uniform. Behind me, in his electric-powered chair, sits Colonel Urchagin, with the Flight Leader standing to his left.
“And now, following established tradition for these occasions,” the Flight Leader said when the photo had been taken, “we’ll go up and spend a few minutes on Red Square.”
We walked across the hall and lingered for a moment by the small iron door—lingered for a final look at the rocket that was an exact replica of the one on which we would soon go soaring up into the sky. The Flight Leader took a key from the bunch he carried and opened a small iron door in the wall, and we set off along a corridor which led in a direction that was new to me.
We wove this way and that for quite a while betweenstone walls festooned with wires of various colours: the corridor made several turns, and at times the ceiling was so low that we had to stoop. In one place I noticed faded flowers lying in a shallow niche, and on the wall beside it was a small memorial plaque with the words: “On this spot in 1932 Comrade Serob Nalbandian was villainously slain with a spade.” Then a red carpet runner appeared under our feet; the corridor began to widen out and finally ended at a staircase.
The staircase was very long, and it was flanked by a smooth incline a metre wide with narrow steps at its centre. I realised why it was built that way when I saw the Flight Leader pushing Colonel Urchagin’s wheelchair up it. When he tired, Urchagin put on the hand brake and they stood still for a while, so the others didn’t walk too fast, especially since long flights of steps were difficult for Ivan to cope with. Eventually we arrived at a pair of heavy oak doors covered with carved emblems; the Flight Leader unlocked the doors with another of his keys, but the doors were swollen from dampness and opened only when I
“He’s delirious, Comrade Lieutenant-General,” said the young man.
The Flight Leader picked up his file from the table.
“Let’s go, Omon.”
We went out into the corridor, and he put his arm round my shoulders. Landratov passed us with a rag in his hand, and as he closed the door of room 329 he winked at me.
“Landratov’s still young,” the Flight Leader said thoughtfully. “He’s a bit wild. But he’s a fine flier. Born to it.”
We walked on a few metres in silence.
“Well now, Omon,” said the Flight Leader, “you’re for Baikonur the day after tomorrow. This is it.”
I’d been expecting the words for months, but still it felt as if I’d been hit in the solar plexus by a snowball with a heavy metal bolt inside it.
“Your call sign, as you requested, is ‘Ra’. It was hard”—the Flight Leader gestured upward significantly with his finger—“but we won out in the end. Only don’t you say anything yet down there.” He jabbed his finger downwards.
•
During the final test run on the model rocket I was simply a spectator—the other guys did the test while I sat on a bench by the wall and watched. I had passed my test a week earlier, up in the yard, when I rode the fullyequipped moonwalker round a figure eight a hundred metres long in six minutes. The team’s timing was spot on, and afterwards we were lined up in front of the rocket for a farewell photograph. I never saw it, but I can easily imagine what it looks like: at the front is Sema Anikin in his padded jacket, with streaks of engine oil on his hands and face; behind him, leaning on an aluminium cane, is Ivan Grechko in his long sheepskin coat, with an oxygen mask dangling on his chest; behind him, in a silver spacesuit padded with warm patches of flannelette blanket decorated with yellow ducklings, is Otto Plucis—his helmet was pushed up and back, making it look like a hood frozen solid in the cosmic frost. Next is Dima Matiushevich, in a spacesuit that’s exactly the same, except the blanket has plain green stripes instead of ducklings; the last member of the team is me, in my cadet uniform. Behind me, in his electric-powered chair, sits Colonel Urchagin, with the Flight Leader standing to his left.
“And now, following established tradition for these occasions,” the Flight Leader said when the photo had been taken, “we’ll go up and spend a few minutes on Red Square.”
We walked across the hall and lingered for a moment by the small iron door—lingered for a final look at the rocket that was an exact replica of the one on which we would soon go soaring up into the sky. The Flight Leader took a key from the bunch he carried and opened a small iron door in the wall, and we set off along a corridor which led in a direction that was new to me.
We wove this way and that for quite a while betweenstone walls festooned with wires of various colours: the corridor made several turns, and at times the ceiling was so low that we had to stoop. In one place I noticed faded flowers lying in a shallow niche, and on the wall beside it was a small memorial plaque with the words: “On this spot in 1932 Comrade Serob Nalbandian was villainously slain with a spade.” Then a red carpet runner appeared under our feet; the corridor began to widen out and finally ended at a staircase.
The staircase was very long, and it was flanked by a smooth incline a metre wide with narrow steps at its centre. I realised why it was built that way when I saw the Flight Leader pushing Colonel Urchagin’s wheelchair up it. When he tired, Urchagin put on the hand brake and they stood still for a while, so the others didn’t walk too fast, especially since long flights of steps were difficult for Ivan to cope with. Eventually we arrived at a pair of heavy oak doors covered with carved emblems; the Flight Leader unlocked the doors with another of his keys, but the doors were swollen from dampness and opened only when I
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