Ben Bova - Voyagers

“This line is scrambled and secure?” Borodinski asked in a near whisper.

“Yes, comrade. Of course.”

“I have heavy news that must not go beyond your ears until I call you again.”

“I have kept state secrets before, comrade,” the general said, a slight smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“Our great friend is dead.”

“No!”

“Just a few minutes ago. The doctors have confirmed it. There is no hope of resuscitation.”

The general’s face fell. He seemed genuinely grieved. “He was a good man. A fine man. A strong comrade.”

“You understand why this news must be kept secret for the next several hours?”

“Of course, comrade. You have many calls to make, many…details to check on.”

“I have called you first,” Borodinski said, “because I want to impress on you the fact that the General Secretary’s policies are still in effect, still to be carried out exactly as he desired them to be.”

“Yes, comrade. Will the Presidium…?”

“That’s none of your concern at the moment. Of utmost importance is the question of the missiles. Are they ready to be fired if we should need them?”

“The strategic strike force is always prepared, comrade.”

“I mean,” Borodinski explained patiently, “the missiles that are being held ready for the alien spaceship.” Is the man being deliberately doltish? he wondered.

“Oh! Them! Yes, comrade, they are prepared for launching at an instant’s notice. The tracking radars have precise data on the alien’s position. The warheads are armed and ready.”

Borodinski nodded. “Very well. Keep the missiles in readiness. And yourself as well. I will call you, personally, if we should need them.”

“I understand, comrade. They will be ready, and so will I.”

As Borodinski clicked off the connection and the general’s face faded from the screen, he looked across the bedroom at the body of the General Secretary, arranged carefully on the bed, eyes closed, hands clasped on his chest.

“So much to do,” he muttered to himself. Now the real work begins, he knew. And the real danger. It was one thing to be handed the reins of power; it was quite another thing to hold onto them.

Borodinski shook his head. For a fleeting moment he almost envied the peaceful slumber of the General Secretary.

Stoner turned in his seat as Federenko opened the hatch that led from the orbital module and crawled back into the command section. The cosmonaut wormed his way into his own seat and gave a weary sigh of relief.

“It took longer than the schedule calls for, did it not?” He was breathing heavily, and his zippered coveralls were dark with perspiration.

Stoner glanced at the clipboard floating by his knee. “Eighteen minutes longer. Not bad. We still have plenty of slack in the schedule.”

Federenko passed a hand over his eyes. “It is so different out there…hard work.”

“I know.”

Outside the viewing port above his seat, Stoner could just make out the stubby outline of the Salyut space station. The two cosmonauts who had been living and working in the Salyut for the previous month had taken over the task of connecting the supply modules to their Soyuz.

My turn next, Stoner knew. Working in zero gravity sounded effortless, but he knew how easy it was to exhaust yourself. Every motion made in weightlessness had to be consciously, deliberately counteracted by a counter-motion. No friction to bring motions to a “natural” halt. No subliminal visual clues of distance or orientation. No up or down.

Years earlier, General Leonov, the first man to “walk” in space, had advised his cosmonauts, “Think ten times before moving a finger, and twenty times before moving a hand,” when working in space.

Still, Stoner felt eager as a puppy. Impatiently he waited and watched the two Salyut cosmonauts at work, while Federenko went back into the orbital module of their spacecraft for a squeeze bulb of hot tea and enough room to stretch his aching limbs. Stoner sat alone in the cramped command module, surrounded by the Soyuz’s instruments, his eyes on the crewmen working outside.

Finally the digital clock on the control panel showed it was time for him to suit up. A radio command from ground control confirmed the time.

Federenko came back into the command module and took the pilot’s seat as Stoner unstrapped and wormed his way weightlessly into the orbital module.

The orbital module was a globular, womb-shaped section that served as a workroom, bunkhouse and air lock. Stoner slowly pulled on his pressure suit, carefully testing each zipper and seal, forcing himself to be deliberate and patient. The module was a clutter of bunks, lockers, cabinets and two airtight hatches: one that connected with the command module, the other that opened onto vacuum.

Federenko came in to help him into the backpack of oxygen tanks and maneuvering jets. Finally Stoner lowered the fishbowl helmet over his head, sealed it to the metal collar of his suit. Federenko connected the hoses from the oxygen tanks to his helmet. Together they tested the suit’s radio, oxygen pressure, heater. Stoner flexed all the joints, then nodded to Federenko and slid the visor down over his face. The cosmonaut ducked back through the hatch into the command module, and closed the massive airtight hatch behind him.

Stoner was alone now in the metal womb. Reaching out with his gloved hand, he opened the safety latch and then pressed the button that started the air pumps. Through his helmet he heard the machinery stir to life, sucking the air out of the orbital module, into storage tanks.

The telltale panel light went from green to amber, and finally to red. Stoner slowly opened the outer hatch, then drifted out of the metal womb head first.

And gasped.

He had remembered all those months on the ground how beautiful it was in space, but the memory was a mental image, not the visceral passion. Now he saw it again, felt it in his guts again, and all the breath gushed out of him.

Before his eyes the ponderous bulk of Earth curved, glittering blue oceans streaked with dazzling white clouds, huge and overwhelmingly lovely. Turning slowly, Stoner saw the depths of infinity, utterly black but flecked with so many stars that it looked like diamond dust sprinkled across black velvet.

O Lord, I love the beauty of Thy house, and the place where Thy glory dwells.

The words welled up in him as he turned slowly, effortlessly, surveying the heavens. And then he saw the squat, bulky spacecraft sections that hung a few dozen meters from his Soyuz. Beyond them the Salyut space station rode calmly through the sky, its panels of solar cells looking vaguely like a gull’s bent wings, while the Earth passed majestically behind it like a slowly unreeling backdrop.

Work to do.

Using the maneuvering unit in his backpack, Stoner jetted over to the equipment and supply vessels. They had been joined to each other by Federenko and linked by rigid steel cables to the Soyuz by the Salyut cosmonauts. Stoner’s task was to check all the connections, make the final inspection. They had saved the least demanding job for him.

He moved like a man in a dream, slowly floating, each motion a long, deliberate, weightless glide. He didn’t fight the weightlessness, he enjoyed it. Better than skiing. Like floating out in the ocean, riding the heaving swells out beyond the breakers. Go with the flow, Stoner reminded himself. Enjoy it while you can.

He chatted with Federenko over the suit radio as he inspected one by one the connections that linked the Soyuz with its new equipment and supply modules. They checked out perfectly; the cosmonauts had done their work well. The Soyuz was ready to move outward toward its rendezvous with the alien.