Upon reaching the manned maneuvering unit, Vladimir slipped his boots into the foot restraints. The MMU was attached to the wall of the airlock. It stood 123 centimeters high, 82 centimeters wide, and 68 centimeters deep, and looked, with its metallic latches and assortment of interfaces and modules, as if it would be more appropriately worn by a robot. Its total mass with full propellant load was 143 kilograms. An inspection checklist popped onto Vladimir’s heads-up display. He flipped the main power switch in the top left-hand corner of the MMU. Several small lights and an active-matrix display flickered on. He verified that the battery was fully charged and the fuel tanks had sufficient nitrogen. He methodically went through the remainder of the list.
“Visual inspection complete,” he announced several minutes later.
“Proceed,” Komarov replied.
Vladimir extended the arms of the unit by pulling down on them. He removed his boots from the foot restraints and turned around until he was facing away from the MMU. He stepped backwards into the outstretched arms of the unit. A message appeared on his heads-up display indicating the MMU was secured. He undid the safety tether. He walked to the edge of the portal and, looking down at the planet beneath him, jumped out into space. The sensation reminded him of skydiving. He was floating away from the spacecraft and would continue floating until some force intervened. In grade school, Vladimir’s teacher had used marbles to demonstrate the Newtonian laws of motion. But the marbles, once launched, would always stop rolling within a few short seconds. He, on the other hand, would fall into orbit and would not stop revolving around the red planet for several years—not until his orbit decayed. He felt cheated that he would only be able to enjoy the first seven hours, the point at which his primary life-support system would fail.
“Pitching upward.”
He pushed up on the joysticklike knob that controlled the pitch and yaw of the MMU. His body rotated until it was facing the supply ship. He then pressed the left-hand control, which controlled straight-line motion, and several tiny thrusters at the rear of the MMU fired. He released the control, the thrusters stopped, and his body continued forward at a constant velocity. There was nothing to do but wait and perhaps make an occasional adjustment.
As the supply ship slowly grew larger, he had time to contemplate what he might find inside. It should look much the same as it had when it was launched. The exterior, of course, would be dented with the impact of micrometeoroids, but the inside should not have changed. The food would not be safe to eat because of its long exposure to radiation. He was to bring a few packages back for study by the scientists on Earth. He was also to bring back water and samples of the plants. They wanted him to determine why the power had failed. He was curious himself. The most critical system on a spaceship was its power supply—many of the other systems were dependent upon it.
The supply ship, which required only a fraction of the power necessary to run the
Druzhba
, was powered by photovoltaic blankets mounted on arrays outside the ship. The energy captured by the solar cells in the blankets was stored in series of sodium-sulfur batteries located underneath the flooring. The system was simple—there were no moving parts—and should not have failed. But it had.
As the details of the ship emerged, now twenty meters distant, he searched the hull for damage from micrometeoroids, even though the ship was still smaller than the enlarged image he had viewed through the telescopic systems on the
Druzhba
. At ten meters, he started firing small bursts of nitrogen to send him to the far side. As he circled the dead craft—it had no more life than an asteroid—his breathing grew shallow. He was unable to detect any visible evidence of damage and decided he needed to move in closer.
“Approaching the ship,” he announced. He pushed the left-hand control forward, and a burst of nitrogen sent him in the direction of the spacecraft. At three meters from the hull he was able to make out one or two dents that had been inflicted by micrometeoroids, but none so deep they might have damaged the power supply. “Commencing close inspection.”
“Very good,” Komarov replied.
With his hands, he pushed back from the ship and made his way around it with the MMU, maintaining a range of one to two meters. He inspected the hull for thirty minutes, the time allotted by the mission planners, and found nothing more than a few dents. He was not surprised. The Russian Space Agency scientists had said the answer would most likely lie inside.
“No evidence of external damage,” he said.
“Proceed with entry,” Komarov instructed.
There was something about Komarov’s tone that annoyed Vladimir. It sounded somewhat smug. He wondered how close Tatiana was standing next to him, if she was close enough that her skin touched his. A burst of nitrogen sent him toward the hull. Using the metallic rungs that served as handholds, he worked his way toward the airlock hatch. In a cavity next to the hatch was a long red lever with a warning stenciled beneath it.
“Perhaps you should knock first,” Komarov said jokingly.
“I’m afraid someone might answer.” Vladimir could distinguish Tatiana’s voice from the others as she laughed. He gripped the lever firmly in both hands and pulled down. The hatch moved slightly as the lock disengaged. Pausing to consider what he might find, he recalled the abandoned train and the box with the dog’s skeleton. He pushed open the hatch. A cone of light, originating from his left shoulder, revealed a compartment almost identical to the one he had just left.
“Anyone home?” he said. Although they all knew there was no reason to wait for a response, they all did. The compartment seemed remarkably new, as if it had never been used. He turned his back to the mounting frame for the MMU and grabbed the large mushroom knobs on either side of him. He pushed himself backward into the locking mechanism.
A message appeared across his visor indicating the MMU was properly mounted. He threw the latch to unlock the MMU from his space suit. Drifting into the middle of the compartment, he swiveled his upper torso to look back through the portal. There were several stars and a blue dot he knew to be Earth. The blue dot looked a long way away. He closed the hatch and pushed himself toward the other end of the airlock. He would have to raise the pressure in the airlock to match that of the main compartment—the pressurization system was mechanical and did not require electrical power to function. He adjusted the pressure knob to one hundred kilopascals, and thought of Tatiana as he watched the gauge rise. It took about three minutes.
“Opening the hatch to the main compartment,” he said as he slipped his boots into the floor restraints.
The compartment beyond the portal was a cylindrical corridor, just large enough to accommodate a man, and ran the length of the ship. It was identical to the full-scale model he had practiced with on Earth. Along the walls of the corridor were rows of white drawers, each neatly labeled in black Cyrillic type. The type formed long thin lines that stretched the length of the tunnel and converged at the far end. It created an optical illusion that made the corridor seem much longer than it actually was. No end was up, and that was disorienting. To Vladimir the neatness of the compartment seemed out of place. It reminded him of a crematorium.
He was to open only certain drawers. They had been selected by the Russian Space Agency for their scientific value. There was not time to open them all, and for the most part it would have only been redundant. Most of the drawers contained food supplies that did not vary much from one to the next. He was to inspect their condition and bring back samples. The first drawer slid open without resistance. Inside were silver and gold packages immaculately wrapped. They appeared undisturbed. He held a gold package up to his visor and slowly turned it around until the label was facing him. BELUGA CAVIAR.
Now that was something he had not eaten in quite some time, and the thought of the Russian delicacy appealed to him. Next to it he found some black bread and pickled mushrooms.
“I could prepare quite a feast with all of this,” he said. “Vladimir,” Tatiana said disapprovingly.
At the sound of her voice his mood darkened. They had not talked in several days. He tried to think of what he should say, but he was afraid that whatever he might say would start an argument—so after several seconds of indecision he said nothing at all.
He moved on to the next drawer and pulled out a package that was several times larger than the others. It read REHYDRATABLE TURKEY TETRAZZINI. The label struck him as humorous, but then he recalled Sergei Demin, who had been his friend and who had died aboard the
Volnost
. Demin had an insatiable love for Italian food, and it was likely that the meal had been stored at his request. Vladimir had not thought of his friend in months. He had stood at his widow’s side at the funeral while the pallbearers of the empty coffin waded through the morning fog. These are the types of ghosts I will encounter, he told himself.
It was not until he was halfway through the corridor that he remembered the deception he had planned. Noticing that he was within a foot of the proper location, he paused for a moment to gather his wits. He pointed the camera situated on his shoulder at a drawer that was eye level. As he opened the drawer with one hand, he reached down and opened a second drawer with the other. His lower hand encircled a soft bag containing liquid. He knew the liquid to be vodka. Twirling a package of strawberries Romanov in full view of the camera, he slipped two bags of vodka into his pouch.
“Now that looks good,” Tatiana said.
Vladimir studied the package curiously.
“Would you like me to bring some down to you?” he asked in a halfhearted attempt at a joke.
“Oh, yes,” Tatiana replied. “And some pashka, too, if you don’t mind.”
She laughed, and upon hearing her laughter he hesitantly joined in. It felt good to be laughing with her. Perhaps, he thought, they would talk tonight. He was conscious that his feelings for her had changed so quickly, but he did not let that trouble him too much. It had always been that way. He was simply pleased that they were getting along again.
“Please,” Komarov interrupted. “Time is limited.”
The bastard, Vladimir thought to himself. He does not want us to be happy. He is trying to keep us apart so that he can have her all to himself. Vladimir bit down on his lip to keep from cursing—he did not want to behave poorly on camera. The EVA was being broadcast live on Earth.
“Of course,” he replied, his voice shaking. The location of the next drawer was flashing with annoying persistence on his heads-up display. He placed a silver package on top of the vodka. He did so for three more drawers and finally froze in place.
“To hell with you,” he muttered.
“What’s that?” Komarov asked. It was clear by the tone of his voice that he had not made out the words and was only looking for clarification.
“The collection bag is full,” he lied. “Recommend proceeding with investigation of the power failure.”
There was a pause, in which Vladimir could hear Satomura whispering, followed by a muffled guttural sound that he took to be Komarov’s reply. Several seconds passed.
“Proceed,” came his commander’s voice. By his tone, Vladimir could tell Komarov was not pleased.
The Russian Space Agency scientists felt that the environmental-control system was the most likely point of failure within the ship. It was located in the hydroponic garden at the far end of the corridor. He grasped drawers on either side of him and, with a gentle push, propelled himself toward the garden—the point at which the black Cyrillic type converged. He felt as if he were falling headlong into a hole. Upon reaching the hatch, he pulled himself to the viewing port and looked through. What he saw was not at all what he had expected. Sheets of ice, like a maze of broken mirrors, filled the chamber. He knew at once it would be unsafe to enter.
“I’m going in,” he announced, and proceeded to open the hatch without waiting for a response. The sounds of urgent whispering filled his helmet. He had the lock pulled fully back when the response finally came.
“You better hold off until we’ve had time to assess the risk,” Komarov said.
Vladimir pulled the hatch open as if he had not heard anything.
“Repeat, do not proceed until we have had time to assess,” Komarov demanded, his voice rising.
A slight grin appeared on Vladimir’s lips as he considered how best to proceed. The ice was indeed dangerous. A prick from any one of the broken shards could cut open his space suit and bring about almost certain death. He surveyed the compartment. The ice was thicker near the walls where the hydro-ponic containers were lined. He requested the computer to superimpose the electrical grid for the compartment upon his heads-up display. An intricate network of green neon lights appeared before him. As he turned his head the grid remained stationary. In the far right-hand corner, through the maze of ice, the neon formed a bright rectangle. It was the primary circuit box for the supply ship. He would begin at the box.
“Vladimir, recommend that you close the hatch until we have had—”
“I believe I have determined the cause of the outage.”
“We need time to—”
“Time is limited. Remember? Don’t worry, I’ll take precautions.”
Vladimir looked around for something to clear a path through the ice. He decided if he could remove two of the supply drawers, he could use one as a shield and the other as a battering ram. He pulled back with both hands on the nearest drawer, ripping it from the wall and sending silver and gold packages down each end of the corridor. He placed the empty drawer at his feet and proceeded, with even greater force, to do the same with the adjacent drawer. Packages of food bounced off his space suit and ricocheted from one wall to the next. He held both drawers at arm’s length.
“I have shut down the voice link with Earth,” Komarov said, making no attempt to hide his anger. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I have just emptied these drawers of their contents,” Vladimir replied in a matter-of-fact tone.