Public Loneliness: Yuri Gagarin's Circumlunar Flight Read Online Free

craft. And…well, if
you can’t reach it, the combination is 1-2-5. Got it?”
    “Got it. 1-2-5.” I smiled.
    “All right, my little falcon.” He
patted my shoulder and lingered for a second. A lifetime of hopes and dreams in
his tired eyes. Then he receded through the crowd, headed for the bunker.
    There was movement in the mass of
people. Ivanovsky, anxious. (In case you don’t know, he was lead engineer for
the ship, working under Feoktistov.) There was something he needed to say, a
hot coal in his mouth he needed to spit out. He pulled me towards the ladder
and cupped his hand over his mouth. Then he, too, whispered in my ear the three
numbers.
    “Got it,” I said with a nod.
    “That’s it?” He seemed to think I
was insufficiently grateful—which was understandable. He was risking his career
to give me information that might save my life.
    “Korolev told me already.” I
grinned. (You can’t discuss the foibles of the lowly with the mighty. But to do
the opposite is all right.)
    He, too, smiled and gave me a pat
on the shoulder.
    Then came the ladder to the
elevator. Green steel. As solid as my confidence. I clambered up excitedly,
with Ivanovsky backwards in front of me, waiting to offer a helping hand. The
support arms clasped the rocket above us, creating the illusion of a soaring
interior space. Awe-inspiring, like a metal cathedral.
    Up top, I turned to wave to
everyone before I got into the elevator. I was surprised: so many smiles!
Surely they all knew I would not be up there without all of them. But they
seemed genuinely happy. Glad to be part of something so great. They knew my
life was in their hands, and so my hopes were their hopes.
    Then the elevator door closed and
I left them behind. Watched through the round window as they got smaller and
the ground fell away. The start of my ascent.
    And then the capsule. Its
gleaming circular hatch. The portal to my future. When I went in everything was
the same as it had always been. But I knew when I came back through it
everything would be strange and new.
    I put my hand on the rim of the
hatch as I climbed in. Saw my gloved fingers against the capsule’s green skin.
I remember thinking: this will be in space. Then burned by the atmosphere.
Although I knew it, it did not seem possible. But nothing happens without
change.
    Once on my back in the capsule I
settled in. Shifted my weight around. By then it was all comfortable and
familiar. The pale green interior. The little control boxes with their switches
and dials. The globe.
    Ivanovsky was above me, his
narrow diamond face upside-down in the circular hatch. He explained again the
communications tests we needed to run. The blockhouse was Dawn-1, Kopashevo was
Dawn-2, and Elizovo was Dawn-3. We’d run through it already, but it was a
welcome refresher. And he kept talking, running through the last-minute issues.
On a project this big everyone has thoughts and tips and suggestions that have
been lingering in the corners of their mind like lint.
    And at last: Kamanin.
    He leaned in close. “I don’t know
if I should tell you this, but the combination to the manual controls is
1-2-5.”
    “Got it,” I said, smiling so hard
it hurt. A real, genuine smile. Gagarin, the laughing one. This is who I was,
who I still am. This is what they expected from me. What they still expect.
“Thank you, sir.”
    Ivanovsky stepped back up and
armed my ejection seat.
    For a long time after they closed
the hatch I was talking to Korolev in the blockhouse. Communicating and
identifying issues. I gave them readings on temperature and humidity. They had
to fix an issue with the hatch sensors. In the meantime they piped music in:
songs about love. I was feeling good. Ready to start.
    As they resolved various issues,
they announced the readiness. One-hour readiness. Ten-minute readiness.
One-minute readiness.
    Then they said they were giving
the signals to start the ignition and I heard valves opening beneath me and
there