But as Gabdul lit a cigarette, stepped outside and looked up, he was mulling a new problem. There had been far more dust than he’d expected, and he needed to check Lunokhod’s systems for damage. More importantly, though, some of the dust might have landed on top of his rover, where the solar arrays gathered the power that kept it alive and the radiator allowed the internal heat to escape. If there was too much dust, the vehicle could both overheat and run out of power. He stared at the Moon for a few seconds, thinking of ways to clear the dust.
But first, they had to deal with the Americans. The astronauts would soon be climbing down the ladder and walking towards his rover.
Let them come. He took a long drag, the harsh tobacco raw in his throat, the moonlight on his face. I’m ready.
44
Mission Control, Houston
The celebration in Mission Control had been enthusiastic but brief. Raised fists, a small roar of relief and hurrahs after the pent-up tension, followed by a few handshakes. Then back to work: make sure Bulldog was healthy and get the crew fully dressed and ready to go outside. The real point of the mission, just begun.
Kaz picked up the console phone to call Washington, as directed. He heard two rings, and then the clunking noise of a handset being picked up.
“National Security Agency, General Phillips’s office.”
“Hi, Jan, Kaz Zemeckis here. Is the General available?”
“He sure is, Lieutenant Commander Zemeckis. Just a second.”
A click, followed by Phillips’s calm, warm voice.
“Kaz! Good news, I hope?”
“Yes, sir, they’re safely on the Moon as of 12:17 Eastern Time, just getting into preparation for their moonwalk now. Best guess is Chad will head down the ladder in about three hours.”
“How close did they get to the Soviet rover?”
“We’re not sure of the exact distance yet, but Chad landed within sight.”
“Excellent! Like Pete did on Apollo 12.” In November 1969, just after Phillips had left NASA, the second manned lunar landing had touched down 538 feet from an American probe called Surveyor 3, and the crew had retrieved pieces of it during their spacewalks.
“Yes, sir, a good piece of flying.”
“Kaz, I booked the meeting with the Security Council for 15:30. Does that timing sound about right?”
Kaz looked at the flight plan. “Should be good, sir. We’ll get an out-the-window description from Chad soon, and that will help set priorities. And we have the Soviet call to the cosmonaut booked for 16:30, to congratulate her once she’s standing on the surface.”
“Sounds good. How about once you reset the priorities you call me with an update?”
“Will do, sir.”
“And Kaz—well done.”
It had been a long, unsettled day for Father Ilarion.
He’d missed the chanting of the bell ringer that usually woke him, but his eyes had opened by habit at five a.m., in time for morning prayers. He’d read from his liturgical text in his room until seven. It was nearing the end of the 40-day Lenten fast leading up to Palm Sunday; as always by now, his hunger felt deeply purifying.
He had forgotten about the time zones, though, and was surprised when Alexander arrived at his door to say it was actually nine, time to leave for Ivanteevsky Deanery, the Orthodox church he’d arranged for them to visit before they had to go to Mission Control that night.
The seminarians had quietly welcomed Father Ilarion for prayers, followed by time for reflection and then conversation over a meager lunch. Afterwards, Alexander had made their excuses. They’d walked back to their quarters and, at his interpreter’s urging, the monk had tried unsuccessfully to nap in preparation for what would be a late night. Eventually he had risen to observe Vespers and Matins in his room, feeling somehow inadequate conducting the ritual alone, and so far from home.
As suppertime approached, Alexander again knocked on his door. It was time to go.
As they arrived at TsUP, Ilarion leaned against his car window, peering up while they drove the length of the massive, four-story stone-and-glass building and pulled to a stop at the columned entrance.
“Are we here?” There was wonder in his voice. “It’s huge, Sascha!”
“Yes, we are here, Father.”
The sign over the double doors read Glory to the Soviet Conquest of Space. Underneath it, a man wearing no coat was smoking. He spotted the car, flicked his cigarette to the side and strode across to open the back door.
“Welcome to Mission Control, Father Ilarion. We’ve been eagerly awaiting you.”