The monk’s eyes went wide as he followed the man down a long, broad corridor, looking at the portraits on the walls of Director Korolyov, of cosmonauts Gagarin, Tereshkova and Leonov, and a parade of color views of the Earth from high above. Our world from the heavens, he marveled.
They rounded a corner, where their escort waved them into a small room with chairs and a sofa set around a low table with food, the dark paneling harshly lit by flickering fluorescent ceiling bulbs.
“Please be comfortable. Someone will be here shortly to bring you to TsUP.” He turned and exited, closing the door behind him.
“What time is it, Sascha?” Ilarion asked. He’d lost track again.
“It is nearly 8:30, Father, well past time for supper. I suggest we eat a little and observe Compline before they come for us.”
The table was laden with bread, cheese, sliced meat, tomatoes, parsley and cucumbers. Alex prepared two small plates, handing one to the monk, and poured them each a glass of water.
“Sascha,” the monk asked, “is my brother already on the Moon?”
Alexander checked his watch. “He should be landing very soon, Father. Perhaps we will be able to watch it.”
A boyish smile spread across Ilarion’s face. “I would like that very much.” He set his plate down and took just a small sip of water. “In truth, I am too excited to eat.”
He closed his eyes and calmed himself by quietly chanting a prayer. It was Friday of Great Lent, and he included the memorized verses of the Penitential Office. At the end, he offered a special thanks for the privilege of the day, and a wish for the health and success of his brother.
As the monk opened his eyes, there was a knock on the door. It opened abruptly. The two of them stood as a strong-looking man in a suit entered, wearing an air of unmistakable authority and urgency. He flicked his eyes dismissively past Alexander to rest on the hieromonk.
“Father Ilarion, I am Director Chelomei, Vladimir Nikolayevich. Thank you for traveling all this way. It is an honor to have you in Mission Control.”
The monk bowed his head, his high kamilavka and veil magnifying the motion.
“I am glad to tell you that your brother is safely on the Moon.”
Ilarion’s heart fell that he would not see it, but he gave no sign.
“Soon you will have a chance to speak with him directly. Would you come along with me now?”
The monk nodded and followed Chelomei, with Alexander trailing. They walked down another long corridor, this one ending at a set of wooden doors, where Chelomei stopped, turned and spoke formally. “Welcome to the Center for Control of Soviet Manned Spaceflight.” He turned the knob, pushed the door open and gestured for the monk to enter first. The black-robed figure said “Spasiba” quietly and stepped into the heart of the Soviet space program.
It was much bigger than he had expected. Like a cathedral. There were rows of consoles to his left, each manned despite the late hour, and a sweeping semicircle of observers’ chairs to his right, where a handful of people were seated. Terse, sporadic English came through a loudspeaker. Chelomei led them to the viewing chairs and asked the monk to sit.
“Please be comfortable, Father. Very soon you will speak with your brother.” He flicked his finger for the interpreter to follow him, turned and walked quickly towards the center console. Ilarion sat, his gaze probing the strangeness of his surroundings.
The front of the room was dominated by a large, dark screen, showing a map of the Earth with several digital timers above it. An inset TV screen showed a grainy image of what he guessed to be the Moon’s surface. The rows of consoles below it glowed green, silhouetting the operators. He noticed Director Chelomei and Alexander, now standing in the middle of the row, talking intently. Chelomei gestured with his hands, one fist forming a ball as the fingertip of the other circled it. The interpreter nodded his head and walked back to Ilarion.
“Father, it’s time to talk with your brother. Unfortunately, the radio link is limited, so he won’t be able to respond. But he will definitely be able to hear you. Director Chelomei thinks that after his long and dangerous voyage, your voice will be a great comfort to him, giving him strength before he steps outside to walk on the Moon.”
The monk’s brow furrowed in disappointment. “He won’t be able to talk to me?”
Alex shook his head gently. “The Moon is so far away, Father, and he is in an American spaceship, which complicates communication. This is a rare privilege, just barely technically possible.” Alexander turned and pointed at the TV screen. “You can just see his ship there—that shiny metal spider on the lunar surface.”