Kaz waved the interpreter to the EECOM console. Gene spoke again.
“Meanwhile, CAPCOM, tell them to start building the setup on board. We can’t wait too long.”
They moved the suit cautiously, like a fragile balloon, down towards the floor of the lunar lander, strapping it into place. Chad screwed a metal tube onto the pressure valve on the square hatch while Michael peeled sections of tape off a large roll, carefully wrapping the tube to join the helmet purge valve.
Svetlana pictured the Yastreb suit schematics. If they keep the flow rate low, it ought to work. She looked around the cockpit. They’d been keeping her in the other part of the ship, and this was her first chance to see the lander in detail.
I’m going to land on the Moon in this!
The thought thrilled her. She’d graduated top of her class from the Moscow State Aviation Institute, and became an aerobatic instructor pilot as well as a test pilot at the Gromov School outside Moscow. Her father had been a decorated fighter pilot in the Great Patriotic War, and his influence had been key in her cosmonaut selection.
Papa will be so proud!
While the men were distracted, she looked closely at the lander’s controls, picturing herself flying it. That must be the rotational controller on the right, to turn the vehicle. It looked like a joystick, similar to what she’d trained on in the Almaz return capsule. She looked on the left for the thrust controller, which would move the vehicle up and down and left and right. That’s it, no doubt. It resembled a palm-sized drawer handle, mounted on a short, pivoting stick to move in all directions. She reached out to touch it.
“Hey, what are you doing! Get away from that!” Chad’s face was a mask of rage. He pointed at her. “Don’t touch nothin’！”
His meaning was clear, and she floated back to beyond arm’s length. Both men watched her suspiciously.
No matter. I’d feel the same if these Americans were in my ship.
She continued her visual inspection. In front of both crew stations were familiar artificial horizons, the gray-and-black balls recessed into the instrument panel. They were surrounded by gauges. Must be speed, height, systems pressures, she reasoned. All flying machines were essentially the same; you just had to figure out how to get them started and how they wanted to kill you.
She realized that the triangular windows were mounted low, like in a helicopter, so they could look down while landing. She glanced around for seats, and couldn’t even see fixtures on the floor where seats might be mounted. We must fly this thing standing up! A reasonable compromise for low lunar gravity, she acknowledged, but still it would be strange.
She looked at the commander. Tschad. He’d most likely be the one flying this lander with her. She doubted they’d trust a Black man to do it. Mikhail. No, Michael. She moved her lips, trying the English pronunciation.
Chad’s voice came into the headsets in Mission Control. “Houston, Bulldog, we have the suit strapped down securely on the floor and the helmet purge sealed against the hatch line. Just let us know when we can open the valves.”
Kaz glanced over at the EECOM console, where the tech and the interpreter were engrossed in a laborious technical conversation with TsUP.
“Roger, Bulldog. We’re talking with the Moscow specialists now, and should have word shortly.”
“Copy, Houston, but regardless what Moscow says, we’re gonna take care of this. This suit is bulging, and we’re the ones at risk here.”
Kaz could hear him thinking, You morons!
“Roger, Chad. We’ll get you that ASAP.”
As soon as possible—the phrase echoed in Kaz’s head. The whole idea of “possible” had changed in a hurry.
——
Five minutes later Kaz pushed the comm button. “18, Houston, Moscow has described the suit valving to us, and we’re good here. You have a GO to vent Luke’s suit to vacuum.”
“Thanks, Kaz,” Michael responded. “Here goes nothin’。”
Michael cautiously turned the vent valve handle on the side of the white helmet, the large red CCCP letters at the edge of his vision. He heard a slight hissing sound as pressure equalized into the vent hose, and then quiet. He sniffed for leaks, wrinkling his nose, but smelled nothing.
He glanced at Chad. “All set, Boss?”
Svetlana was curiously observing the men messing with her old suit.
“Yep. But close it immediately if something isn’t going right.”
“Agreed.”
Michael reached around the vent hose and began turning the knob on the Cabin Relief and Dump Valve test port. Houston had said it would take a full turn to start flow, and he carefully rotated it between his thumb and forefingers, like a safecracker. A hissing began, barely audible above the noise of Bulldog’s air recirculation fans. He stopped turning, and all three of them turned to watch Luke’s suit.