by Zach Powers
“No.” Grandmother walked up the path from her cottage. Hers was the first voice to carry any sense of authority. The murmur of broken conversations silenced.
“They may still be alive,” said Mrs. Yevtushenko.
“You know better than that,” said Grandmother. “Even if they were alive when the twins left, they’re dead now. And if any fool goes to the pass, that fool will be joining them in death.”
“We can’t just leave them.”
“It’s the war all over again,” said Grandmother, “and that’s how a war works. One leaves behind what can’t be carried.”
Grandmother went to the center of the square and led the Leonids away, squeezing their hands so tight that it hurt. The older Leonid wanted to protest, to ask her to loosen her grip, but his lungs felt empty, the rest of him hollow, too.
Behind them, the shock of the news must have worn off. First a few and then many of the villagers began to weep.
* * *
• • •
GRANDMOTHER CLOSED THE DOOR to the cottage, turned, and slapped the younger Leonid hard on the cheek. The older Leonid staggered back as if it was he who had been slapped. The sound reminded him of the gunshots. Every time he managed to breathe in, a sob spasmed through him, squeezing out the air. The younger Leonid stood there, unmoving.
“You shouldn’t have followed those people,” said Grandmother.
“We always follow the villagers when they go to the train,” said the younger Leonid.
“What train! There hasn’t been a train in months.”
“All the more reason to see if one would come.”
She drew her arm back for another slap. The older Leonid winced, backing into the table, clattering it into the wooden chairs. Grandmother started at the sound. She looked up at her hand, still raised beside her. Tears flowed from her eyes as if someone had pulled the handle of a pump inside her.
“What if something were to happen to you?” she said.
“Are we any safer here?” The younger Leonid gestured down at the warped planks that made up the floor. “The last time soldiers came, they murdered Mr. Tarasenko in his own home. Even if the soldiers don’t come, there’s not enough food.”
“I know all this. Of course I know.”
“We don’t know where the danger will come from.” The younger Leonid’s voice was raised, louder than his brother had ever heard it except outside. “It might rise up from the ground. It might fall from the sky. It’s as likely right here”—he stamped his foot—“as anywhere. What’s the point in waiting?”
“As you discovered today, the only option we have left is to wait. Otherwise, we’ll bring ourselves to the danger that much sooner.”
The younger Leonid turned his head and spat. He ripped open the door and left without closing it behind him.
Grandmother closed the door slowly, so slowly that it felt almost painful to the older Leonid, like a bone being bent and bent until it broke. The door clacked shut. Grandmother walked to the table and hugged Leonid and muttered soft apologies and meaningless phrases, and he heard her say the name of his father, so he was not sure to whom she apologized, his father, his brother, or himself. He worried that Grandmother did not completely know the difference.
Baikonur Cosmodrome—1964
The Chief Designer might not have known the rocket was moving at all if not for the sound of grinding steel. The Proton rested on its side atop three flatbed railcars, screeching slowly along the tracks between the assembly building and the launchpad. Sunlight diffused through a haze of dust all across the steppe, the landscape flooded with yellow broth. He walked behind the rocket, just beside the tracks, pacing his steps so he would not catch up and overtake it, looking up into the nozzles of the six engines. The Proton was not one of his rockets, and the configuration felt strange, like trying to read another language. The engines attached to six tubular blocks spaced around the bottom stage, as if they had been added as an afterthought. As if engines had been neglected in the original design. The Chief Designer did not think it impossible that the General Designer might have forgotten engines.
An army officer approached from the other direction, following the tracks from the launchpad back toward the assembly building. Still several meters away, he leaned his head forward and made a visor of his hand. “Chief Designer,” he said. The Chief Designer squinted, recognizing the officer as Marshal Nedelin by the overflowing cluster of medals on his uniform even before he could make out the features of the man’s face. Nedelin had fought, it seemed, in every battle in the war. Once, at a state dinner, the Chief Designer sat near him as he consumed three whole steaks, sawing off huge chunks and shoving them into his mouth with a prideful motion. Nedelin had explained that after Stalingrad, where days went by when he did not taste food, he never ate less than all that was offered to him. Still, he was a fit man, no belly even as he pushed well beyond middle age, his spine like an aluminum rod from the base of his back all the way up to his skull.
Marshal Nedelin smiled as he covered the last of the distance to the Chief Designer. The men shook hands, firm, but not like with some military men where it seemed a contest of grips. The Chief Designer would have liked the Marshal very much if it were not for the fact he reported directly to Khrushchev on matters concerning the space program. When Nedelin was around, it was always an evaluation.
“Marshal,” said the Chief Designer. “We’ve not seen each other since the last test of the N1.” He winced to himself at the mention of that test, which had been far from a success. Not the worst test ever, not the largest explosion. It was a strange business where success was measured by the relative sizes of explosions.
“Indeed!” said Nedelin. “I apologize for not being able to make the last launch. All my time is spent thinking about the moon, and the General Designer had an engine test that required my attention.”
“You know how I feel about his engines. We may have had our problems, but a similar malfunction from the General Designer would prove catastrophic.”
“Your concerns have been noted, but I won’t lie—that engine of his is a sight to behold. I’ve seen many, many explosions. Hell, I’ve created more than a few myself, but I never once thought to control one.”
“It’s his ability to control it that concerns me.”
“And yet you’re here for the test.”
“I have a small piece of business with the General Designer.”
“Would that require you to actually speak with him? Both Khrushchev and I wish that you two would get over whatever led to this feud in the first place.”
“Feud? Can’t I consider the man to be an ass without it being labeled as a feud?”
Nedelin laughed, a sound that rang in his chest as much as it came from his mouth. Yes, the Chief Designer liked Nedelin. If only more officers were like him.
“If you promise not to fall to blows with him,” said Nedelin, “will you join the General Designer and me for dinner this evening? The test isn’t until tomorrow, and this place hardly has any diversions except for the company of others.”
“Even if that company is a man who hates me?”
“I’ll be entertained by it, at least.”
It was the Chief Designer’s turn to laugh.
“I’ll see you this evening, then,” he said.
Nedelin pointed backward with his thumb. “Last I saw the General Designer, he was at the south fuel pump. If you hurry, you can catch him.”
“There’s no need to rush. He won’t leave before the rocket arrives.”
Nedelin walked on, chuckling to himself. The Proton had pulled several meters away during the conversation. The carrier’s wheels squealed against the tracks and a shudder passed up through the rocket. The Chief Designer had made this same walk with rockets of his own. Then, every vibration worried him, every pop and click of the rocket’s structure. N
ow, he appreciated the music of it, how something so rickety could loft to the stars.
A technician came from the other direction, but stopped when she saw the Chief Designer. She turned and jogged back along the tracks. The Chief Designer recognized her. She used to work at OKB-1 in the ’50s, poached by the General Designer when he opened OKB-52. She was hardly the only one. Several dozen engineers had gone with her. Whenever the Chief Designer came across any of them at meetings or conferences, they seemed terrified, as if they thought he carried a violent grudge against them. Yes, he did not like the General Designer, and he could think of a million people for whom he would rather work, but he did not fault anyone for advancing their career. In his youth, he had done the same thing, leaving Tsiolkovski to set out on his own. Unlike Tsiolkovski, the Chief Designer was one who could forgive.
The only noise across the whole steppe seemed to be the wheels of the train. When they quieted, even for a moment, it was like a light had been shut off, the silence as black as how the cosmonauts in orbit described empty space. The Chief Designer found himself closing his eyes until another squeal escaped the wheels. He focused on his steps. The launch tower loomed nearer and nearer, but so large it was difficult to tell exactly how far away it was. Long after he expected to have arrived, it still stood some ways in the distance.
A figure approached him along the tracks, at first just a black tick against the dry earth, moving toward the Chief Designer much more quickly than he moved toward it. The tall, thin man, wearing a full suit despite the heat, could be none other than the General Designer. He hurried to a stop directly in front of the Chief Designer.
“I’m flattered,” said the Chief Designer, “that you came to greet me personally.”
“I’m quite busy, as you well know.”
“Not so busy that you couldn’t spare the time to walk half a kilometer to meet someone who was already on his way to meet you.”
“What are you doing here?” The General Designer’s face, pinched as if he smelled something unpleasant, looked even more ratlike than usual.
“You’re forever talking about your engines,” said the Chief Designer. “I figured I should see them at work.”
“We don’t allow tourists at the launchpad.” He shifted one foot as if to turn and leave but stayed facing forward.
Another technician passed them, heading to the pad. She wore a rubberized suit and had a breathing mask dangling from her neck. The goggles on top of her head made her look amphibian.
The Chief Designer cupped his hand over his nose and mouth. “Anyway, I don’t have a breather.”
“I can’t hear you through your hand.”
“I was simply observing that we don’t require breathing masks to work on our rockets.”
“That again?” The General Designer spun and started to walk away.
“Wait, General Designer. I apologize, I apologize. It was a poor attempt at humor.”
“I expect nothing but poor attempts from you.”
“Was that a joke?”
“I’m not a humorous man.”
“Then let me take care of my business before you return to yours.”
The General Designer twisted his head to look back over his shoulder.
“I have a favor to ask,” said the Chief Designer.
For the first time that the Chief Designer could remember, the General Designer showed an expression other than spite. The tight pinch of his mouth softened, falling into a small O. His eyes, usually squeezed to slits like the tail edge of a wing, opened enough to reveal the color of his irises, a gentle blue. The eyes of a baby, the Chief Designer thought.
“Why would I help you?” asked the General Designer.
“You’re not even going to hear the request before you deny it?”
“What do you want?”
“Your heat shield.”
“You have a heat shield.”
“You have a better one.”
The General Designer shifted, rotating more toward the Chief Designer without turning all the way around.
“Yes,” said the Chief Designer, “I admit it. Our ablation rate has never been satisfactory. But I’ve seen the reports on yours.”
“Those reports are brand new. Most of my staff have yet to see them.”
“I’ve been at this game longer than you. I have my sources.”
The General Designer’s face returned to its normal glowering state.
“Don’t be angry, comrade,” said the Chief Designer, choking out the last word.
“What would I get in return?”
The Chief Designer walked around him so that the two men stood face-to-face.
“My gratitude,” said the Chief Designer, “expressed to everyone who matters.”
“Khrushchev?” asked the General Designer.
The Chief Designer turned and headed back along the tracks. The squeal of the rocket carrier seemed far away now, but it was still just over his shoulder.
“There’s no need to decide right away,” said the Chief Designer. “Marshal Nedelin invited me to join you both for dinner.”
The General Designer offered a reply, but the Chief Designer was already too distant to hear it.
* * *
• • •
THE BUNKER NEAR the old R-7 test site had been converted into Baikonur’s formal dining room, in that it now had a great round table in the middle set in a simulation of formality, other metals substituted for silver, glass for crystal, dull ceramic plates produced in a dank factory. Red drapery hung from brass rods screwed into the concrete walls. Scarlet curtains, unmatched to the drapes, decorated the slit of the old observation window. A painting of outer space, deep purple with shining stars and swirls of ethereal gases, covered the whole ceiling, giving the impression that the table was falling top-first into the void. The Chief Designer noted with pleasure how much better Giorgi’s paintings at Star City were.
Several of the General Designer’s top aides also sat at the table, people the Chief Designer had seen before but to whom he had never spoken. After a few greetings when he arrived, the table fell back into silence. That had been about ten minutes ago. Nedelin and the General Designer were late.
A young man, bespectacled and with hair slicked into a neat part, cleared his throat.
“The General Designer always makes us wait,” he said, his tone half apologetic, half joking.
“Not to worry. Where else would I have to be?” The Chief Designer gestured around him. “Nothing but dry, cracked land in every direction.”
A murmur of amusement passed around the table. Several of the aides visibly relaxed.
“I promise,” said the Chief Designer, “the stories the General Designer has told you about me are mostly untrue.”
A round of laughter, but it was cut short by the click of the door, a wood-paneled slab that had been installed in place of the bunker’s old steel one. The aides at the table stood, and the Chief Designer followed suit. He faced away from the door, and saw only the questioning looks on the aides’ faces. He turned.
Ignatius shut the door behind her and smiled. She moved to the seat beside the Chief Designer, shucked her large leather jacket, and hung it over the back. She smiled again, taking time to make eye contact with each person at the table.
“Greetings,” she said. “I’m from Glavlit, here to report on the test.”
The young man with the glasses responded, “This test is secret.”
“Then I guess I’m only here to eat your food.”
She pulled out her chair and sat. The others retook their seats as well, though none looked away from Ignatius. The Chief Designer felt a little sorry for the aides. They had an important test tomorrow, and first their boss’s rival joined them for dinner and now an agent of the Party. He recognized his younger self in these people. He recognized how
they tried to hide their nervousness with little tasks, straightening a knife on the table, taking a sip of water so dainty it could not have done more than moisten the lips. The young man with the glasses adjusted the knot of his tie six times. The Chief Designer wondered if he had been so obvious as a young man, and worse yet, was he still so obvious now. He doubted it. Experience had long since purged the nervous tics out of him, and maybe the trick to not seeming nervous was to accept the truth that you were, not try to hide it. Hidden things had a way of being discovered.
The Chief Designer noticed Ignatius inspecting him the same way he had been inspecting the aides. She never seemed nervous, but then he had never seen her in a situation in which she did not have control. She barely seemed human. Perhaps part of Tsiolkovski’s master race. The Chief Designer pushed thoughts of Tsiolkovski out of his head.
The door clicked open again, and Nedelin and the General Designer entered. Beads of sweat dotted the General Designer’s face. He dabbed at them with a handkerchief, but as soon as he pulled it away, new beads emerged. He and Nedelin, continuing a conversation, took seats opposite Ignatius and the Chief Designer.
“. . . a test cycle on the pump before we can begin fueling,” said the General Designer. He looked at the handkerchief in his hands as he spoke.
“As children, we would make rafts and tie long ropes to posts on the banks of the Don and float out to the middle.” Nedelin tilted his head and flashed an impish grin for the benefit of the table. “It was best just before harvest, when the crops crept right to the edge of the river like waving cliffs, and the currents then were at their most gentle.”
The General Designer continued his previous tack, nodding to himself. “From the time the fuel lines are disconnected, we need two hours before the rocket will be ready for testing. And before a full test we’ll want to run several simulations.”
“Along the straight stretches of the Don, we could wade out for meters. In winter, it froze solid enough to walk on, though our parents forbade it. Like many things forbidden by our parents, we did it anyway.”