I guess we stood there for a good three minutes, just staring at the thing, me thinking how much more like real spaceships these Russian vehicles looked than ours. This one was on its side, two big spheres, maybe eight feet in diameter, made of some dark-painted metal, originally shrouded by green quilting that looked like it had pink attic insulation stuffing exposed where it was ripped, which was most everywhere. There was a canister on one end, an obvious docking drogue, and a big cone on the other, fat end clamped to one of the spheres, little end pointing away, showing the muzzle of a small rocket engine. There was a little window on the lower sphere, a small porthole really, and it was dark inside.
Finally, Meat said, “You'd think it'd be hard to fly without windows."
I said, “They use TV. Can you read the Russian printed on the hull? I can sort of sound out the Cyrillic characters, but..."
"Nah. I took Russian-for-Lit as my main non-science elective sequence. No technical vocabulary. All I can do is talk like Stinking Lizaveta."
"Hmm?"
"Never mind."
I pointed to a recessed T-handle, next to which was printed a big black arrow. “Spaseniye. Rescue?"
"I don't remember. It's a noun, I think."
I started to reach for it, hesitated, feeling my fingers cramp. Sure. What then? Hatch pop open, or is it explosive bolts? And what happens if the hatch hits you in the helmet? I turned and looked at the other sphere. “Maybe we can unseat the drogue and get in through the docking adaptor."
Meat pointed. “The airlock hatch has a handle on the outside."
"Yeah. No keyhole, either."
He snickered. “I don't imagine it locks. Still, you'd think it'd have a big lever, like ours."
"Russian hatches open inward.” Ours don't. We'd always relied on having the latches work. Or we had, anyway. Apollo 1's hatch opened inward, just like in a science fiction story, which was why those three guys were toast.
Meat stepped forward, reached up, turned and pulled. Nothing.
"Inward."
"Oh. Right.” And when he pushed, it opened on darkness. No air, then.
I took hold of the upper hatch rim, and pulled myself up, reached in and grabbed some boxy thing just inside, tried to go through, bumped everywhere all at once. Maybe Russian PLSS backpacks are littler'n ours? “Shit. Can you guide me in?"
He said, “Lemme grab you by the legs. Just hold on. If I turn you just so..."
I slid through the hole, suddenly filling up the space inside. Belatedly clicked on my helmet light. It was big for the inside of a spaceship, an American ship anyway, where you barely had room to sit, much less turn around, but full of clutter, lockers and control panels bolted haphazardly around the inside of the sphere, wherever there wasn't a hatch.
Meat said, “Anything?"
"Hang on. I'm going to try to open the hatch to the command module.” There was an L-handle, like on a cheap screen door. Turn. Pull. Nothing. Think. It's an airlock. Pressure equalization valve? There was a knob next to the hatch. When I twisted it, seemed like a little dust flew out. Okay. When I pulled the handle this time, the hatch swung open toward me, revealing a circular space beyond, maybe ten inches deep, with another hatch on the other side.
"Well?"
I said, “The CM hatch has a handwheel. I, uh..."
"What?"
"There was pressure in the tunnel. If there's pressure in the CM..."
He said, “And what if they're not in suits?"
"Right."
"What are our options?"
"None."
"Well, then."
Laconic, like Hemingway heroes. I said, “They're probably dead anyway."
"Yup."
I found the valve and twisted. Nothing. Held my hand over the little hole, but could sense no pressure. I said, “I can't tell, Meat. I'll just open it up."
He said, “Anyway, if there was air in there, there ain't no more."
"Right.” Spun the handwheel. Nothing. I gave the hatch a push and it fell open on a dark space, my helmet's wan light glinting off irregular surfaces. There was a flat control panel, above it, two acceleration couches bolted to the vertical surface beyond, strapped into them, neatly folded up, two motionless bodies in spacesuits.
I said, “Christ."
"Dead, are they?"
I slid through the tunnel, leaning toward them, getting my knees through, then my feet, bracing myself so I was heads up. The guy on the left had a star pattern on his faceplate, with a long sinuous crack leading away from it. Inside was a pale, clean-shaven man with a lot of black freckles on his face, eyes shut, as though sleeping ever so peacefully. I pulled back, looking at the nametag on the suit. “Bojib-something...” Cyrillic. Idiot. “Volynovskii, I guess."
"Dead?"
"Yeah.” Not freckles at all. Petechiae. “Looks like something let the air out before we got here, anyway."
"No surprise. What about Borodin?"
I leaned to the right and looked in through the faceplate, my light picking out a boyish face with a big, dark goosegg over one eye, a smear of blood coming off one corner of his moustache. His eyes were shut, but not quite all the way, showing just a sliver of white. “Mmmm ... no crack in the faceplate."
"Well, they sure as hell got banged around."
"Yeah.” I reached out and took him by one shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Felt a hard pang in my chest as his lids fluttered, dark brown eyes rolling, suddenly seeming to find my face against the light.
Meat said, “Bill?"
Borodin's lips worked slowly, mouthing something.
I leaned in, putting my bubble against his faceplate, just like in the movies, and heard that faint, tinny, bottom-of-the-well voice say, “Thanks, Yank. I knew you'd come.” His eyes rolled up, and he seemed to slump in the suit.
"Bill?"
I looked around. “Jesus!"
"The other one alive?"
"Yeah. There's a rip in his suit sleeve, though. He managed to get a tourniquet in place before he blacked out."
Meat whistled softly, then said, “There's a coldpatch kit on the mooncar."
"If he lives that long."
I started unbuckling his seat harness.
* * * *
I'd been up for about forty hours by the time all was said and done, tireder'n fuck, but unwilling to sleep, lie down, eat, anything. Just sat there in my longjohns in the med module, looking at the tear sheets mission control faxed up.
The Washington Post headline just said, “Russian Saved,” and had pictures of Borodin and Volynovskii above the fold. Nice pictures. Russian publicity photos of two handsome boys in their neat dress uniforms. The Evening Star said, “Cosmonaut Rescued on Moon,” and had one of my photos of Oryol 1's ascent stage lying on its side. The photo credit said, “Courtesy U.S. Army."
The Daily News, being the cheap tabloid that it is, said, “American Heroes!” and had pictures of me and Meat. Unfortunately, it was our Project Harvest Moon publicity photos, the two of us still in our early thirties, in dark suits, with skinny 1962-style ties looking like a couple of black ribbons, Meat with his crewcut, me with my black hair slicked straight back so everyone could admire my widow's peak. My suit, I remembered, had been navy blue.
I looked away, my eyes feeling like they were full of moondust. Go to bed, you God-damned fool. Looked back at the pictures again, and wondered how much they'd help, when I asked for my next assignment. Felt obscurely ashamed for wondering.
Heard Meat's voice in my head, snickering, “It's how the world works, Wild Bill.” Looked at my watch and realized we'd been back for six hours already.
The partition to the operating theater accordioned back and Micky Linville ducked through. Dr. Linville had been forty-seven when we came up here, the oldest man on the Moon, a full bird-colonel thinking to round out his last two years of service in Outer Space and go out in a blaze of glory. Now he'll be retired as a three-star general.
I said, “So."
He wiped
his face, looking exhausted. “He's awake. Asked to see you."
"Me specifically?"
He smiled, “By name? He just wants to see the guy with the gray beard filling up his helmet."
I rubbed the thing. “Jeez. You know, I don't know whether to cut it off or take it home with me."
"Come on. He needs to get back to sleep."
"Right."
Borodin was on the table, covered with a worn old sheet, clean white bandages around his chest and shoulder, wrapping the stump where his left arm had been. I couldn't help glancing at the plastic garbage bag on the floor nearby, at the suggestive shape inside. His arm? Or maybe just rolled-up bloody towels.
I flinched away, and when I looked at his face, the dark eyes were open, looking at me, skin pale as paper, grayish lips smiling through the mustache. “How you doing?"
He tried to shrug, winced, smiled again, and said, “Don't speak Russian?"
"Sorry."
"That's okay. Sorry we can't take you home now."
"I guess I'll be taking you instead."
You could see a momentary shadow cross behind his face, quickly pushed away. Right. When R-3 splashes down in the Pacific, this boy is home for good. I suddenly realized I was glad to be here, despite the years, that'd I'd do it again, that I wouldn't mind coming back.
Worth it then? Really worth it?
Maybe so.
I said, “You get some sleep. We'll see you in the morning."
He reached out and touched my hand briefly, “Yes. And you.” And said, Bolshoi-something, like he was talking about the ballet. “Bolshoye spasebo,” maybe.
* * * *
There was a lot of static in the little black-and-white TV screen, solar activity gradually increasing over the years as we moved from minimum to maximum, but I could see Billy grimace. “Where's your beard, Dad?"
I said, “Somebody told me they were out of style on Earth. Don't you think it makes me look younger?"
A level stare for a few seconds, then he said, “Maybe once you put on a little weight."
I'd been startled by all the lines that'd been hiding under my beard all these years. That and the fact that I was fishbelly white, from having been either indoors or hiding behind a UV-opaque faceplate for the past decade.
He said, “You get all the forms I faxed up?"
"Yeah. I was thinking of bringing them back in R-3. Handing ‘em in in person."
A frown. “Fax them back today, Dad."
"Uh...” Trying to tell me something? “All right. As soon as we're done."
He said, “There's more news."
"Yeah?"
"They approved the Grand Tour. And the Voyager unmanned Mars probes."
"Wow!"
A slow nod. “They think the Democrats are going to take back the Senate this fall, and Muskie will be Majority Leader. Since you and Mr. Patterson saved that Russian, the space program's popular again. Even McGovern says it's worth doing."
I said, “Imagine that."
"Dad, maybe you shouldn't underestimate what this could be worth to you."
"I'll try not to blow it, Billy."
His face suddenly brightened and softened. “Well, another surprise...” He got up and moved out of the stationary frame.
A young woman sat down in his place, very pretty, with a heart-shaped face, tip-tilted nose, dark almond eyes, wavy hair I knew was chestnut brown. Not smiling. She stared at me, then said, “Hello, Dad."
I sat back hard in my chair. “Millicent."
She said, “It's Millie, Dad. Nobody calls me ‘Millicent.’”
"Sorry. Jesus, you look great! All grown up."
She looked away, at someone out of the frame, and I thought, a total stranger. Maybe always a stranger. I remember when she was little wondering about the hair and eyes, the little nose. Her mother and I both had black hair, green eyes, long noses, and this little changeling ... well, sixteen now.
She looked back, obviously uncomfortable, and said, “There's someone else to see you."
"Millie..."
But she got up anyway. Long, empty moment, then another little girl, skinny as a stick, with long black hair, green eyes just like mine, long nose, one hand holding a cane, so very awkward as she sat, wincing briefly, then giving me the biggest grin. “Daddy!"
"Oh, Beatrix.” I had to clench my teeth for a moment. “Is it Bea, now?"
She smirked at someone out of frame. “Beatrix, Daddy! I love my name.” More big smile, “Besides, anybody tries to call me ‘Aunt Bea'...” She lifted the cane, miming a crack on the head. Ant Bee. Christ. Is that show still popular?
I said, “How's your back, kiddo?"
The smile didn't falter, maybe remembering how I'd called her that when she was little. Maybe not. “As good as it's going to get.” Then, before I could go on, “It'll be great to have you home again!"
She was just shy of four years old when I left. Is it me she wants home, or just any father at all? Well. There's the little brother. And our friend the construction worker. Softly, I said, “It'll be great to be home, Beatrix. I've missed you all.” Maybe a little scrap of time to see her grow up? Uh. Yeah. But Starover 1 will be leaving in 1977. I'll be a busy little beaver for the next four-five years. And if ... and if...
She looked away, seeming dismayed, then back. “Billy says time's getting short. I love you, Daddy!"
She struggled to her feet, moving out of the frame, while I swallowed a hard lump. Her brother leaned in, head sideways in the image. “One more visitor, Dad."
"Hello, Bill."
I don't know why I didn't expect it, but I didn't.
Bushwhacked.
Hard to tell in the crappy TV picture, but she seemed a lot thinner, a hell of a lot older than the last time I'd seen her, the night before launch, when they'd let the wives into the barracks for a couple of hours, violating quarantine. “Hello, Harriet. How've you been?"
A long frown, a look away.
Unhappy. Is someone else out there too? A little boy, maybe seven years old, and a beefy, red-faced man?
She said, “I'm all right."
I smiled, “You going to be there when I get home?"
I could see her swallow. “President McGovern's flying us out to the Enterprise when you land. You're the first American to come home from the Moon."
I nodded. And then what? Then what, wife of mine? Little boy coming too, or will you leave him home with the construction worker? My home. My bed. My life.
I said, “I'll see you then. Maybe we'll talk."
"I...” She looked down, away from both the camera lens and the TV screen. “It's almost time. I have to go. I'll ... I'll see you soon.” She stood, stepped off camera, and was gone.
Billy gave me a long look. What the hell were you expecting? I said, “Thanks, son."
A nod, then he said, “Fax those papers down, Dad. It's important."
"Right. Be seeing you.” And thought, some of his Viet Nam buddies will have been in the same boat. He must know, understand. Right? I got up and went to fill out my mission application forms.
* * * *
The voice in my headphones, Jilson's, crackled, “R-3? T-minus three minutes and counting.” In the olden days, the early days of the Project Adam flights, the Army flight controllers had said X-minus in the countdown, a holdover from the days of the big-gun artillery, but they switched to “T” at the start of the Gemini A flights in 1962.
"Roger, Moon. Minus three.” Jesus. Sweaty. Itchy. I hadn't been in my old Gemini suit since the first Apollo EVA gear came up, three years ago. Baggy. Wrinkled. Sticky inside.
I glanced over at Borodin, pale and staring in his borrowed suit, much newer than mine, one sleeve rolled up and tied off. Grinned. “You okay?"
He smiled back. “Horrowshow ... Comrade Command-Pilot."
A joke. A literary reference. Either he's not as nervous as he looks, or he's whistling past the graveyard. Well, I'm sure this tin can seems mighty flimsy to a man who's flo
wn in an Almaz, or survived a balls-up crash landing on the Moon.
These Gemini Rs are a lot different from the M I flew up in. More cramped inside. No airlock, for Christ's sake. You just depress the reentry capsule and climb on in, sit in your seat, slam the door, and turn on the air.
A different voice, with a lot more static, said, “R-3? Telemetry says you haven't reset your breaker panel yet. Page seventy-four in the manual."
"Uh, roger, Flight, wilco.” I turned to the right page, reached up and started flipping switches to the indicated positions. Looked at Borodin, “First time for everything, right, pal?"
He looked a little sick. Looked away from me, out through the hatch porthole at the lunar surface he'd never see again.
"Two minutes, R-3."
"Roger, Moon."
Will I ever see it again? How lucky do I have to get?
Lucky enough.
Even the inside of the control room was changed, back in the direction of the old Gemini A, lacking the rear hatch implemented in the B model, continued in the M. An integral heat shield, ceramic over titanium, they said, able to withstand direct reentry at translunar velocity. No skip-lob. No aerobraking. No chance of winding up a meteor, or, worse, a manned interplanetary probe...
"One minute."
"Roger, Moon."
No more forward docking tunnel, either, and no more little rendezvous windows. Just a round porthole in the hatch, and a big TV screen at our feet, for “approach-and-landing."
The other voice said, “R-3? You need to be on page 212, beginning at Roman numeral one."
"Roger, Flight.” Turned to the right page and started looking over the instructions. Flip this, twist that. Read something else. If such and such, go to page nine hundred, Roman numeral LXXVII, see “Abort to Lunar Surface."
Well.
"Thirty seconds."
"Roger. See you later, Jilson."
"In about three months, Bill."
"Right."
I glanced at Borodin. Eyes still open. Not too green around the gills. How would I feel if I was going home in a Russian spacecraft, leaving my best friend and my left arm behind on the Moon?
Bykovskii was still orbiting overhead, had lowered his pericynthion to around 50,000 feet, and would try to film our liftoff. Hope it works out. I'd like to see that someday.
Asimov's SF, Sep 2005 Page 13