The Chief Designer might not have known the rocket was moving at all if not for the sound of grinding steel. The Proton rested on its side atop three flatbed railcars, screeching slowly along the tracks between the assembly building and the launchpad. Sunlight diffused through a haze of dust all across the steppe, the landscape flooded with yellow broth. He walked behind the rocket, just beside the tracks, pacing his steps so he would not catch up and overtake it, looking up into the nozzles of the six engines. The Proton was not one of his rockets, and the configuration felt strange, like trying to read another language. The engines attached to six tubular blocks spaced around the bottom stage, as if they had been added as an afterthought. As if engines had been neglected in the original design. The Chief Designer did not think it impossible that the General Designer might have forgotten engines.
An army officer approached from the other direction, following the tracks from the launchpad back toward the assembly building. Still several meters away, he leaned his head forward and made a visor of his hand. “Chief Designer,” he said. The Chief Designer squinted, recognizing the officer as Marshal Nedelin by the overflowing cluster of medals on his uniform even before he could make out the features of the man’s face. Nedelin had fought, it seemed, in every battle in the war. Once, at a state dinner, the Chief Designer sat near him as he consumed three whole steaks, sawing off huge chunks and shoving them into his mouth with a prideful motion. Nedelin had explained that after Stalingrad, where days went by when he did not taste food, he never ate less than all that was offered to him. Still, he was a fit man, no belly even as he pushed well beyond middle age, his spine like an aluminum rod from the base of his back all the way up to his skull.
Marshal Nedelin smiled as he covered the last of the distance to the Chief Designer. The men shook hands, firm, but not like with some military men where it seemed a contest of grips. The Chief Designer would have liked the Marshal very much if it were not for the fact he reported directly to Khrushchev on matters concerning the space program. When Nedelin was around, it was always an evaluation.
“Marshal,” said the Chief Designer. “We’ve not seen each other since the last test of the N1.” He winced to himself at the mention of that test, which had been far from a success. Not the worst test ever, not the largest explosion. It was a strange business where success was measured by the relative sizes of explosions.
“Indeed!” said Nedelin. “I apologize for not being able to make the last launch. All my time is spent thinking about the moon, and the General Designer had an engine test that required my attention.”
“You know how I feel about his engines. We may have had our problems, but a similar malfunction from the General Designer would prove catastrophic.”
“Your concerns have been noted, but I won’t lie—that engine of his is a sight to behold. I’ve seen many, many explosions. Hell, I’ve created more than a few myself, but I never once thought to control one.”
“It’s his ability to control it that concerns me.”
“And yet you’re here for the test.”
“I have a small piece of business with the General Designer.”
“Would that require you to actually speak with him? Both Khrushchev and I wish that you two would get over whatever led to this feud in the first place.”
“Feud? Can’t I consider the man to be an ass without it being labeled as a feud?”
Nedelin laughed, a sound that rang in his chest as much as it came from his mouth. Yes, the Chief Designer liked Nedelin. If only more officers were like him.
“If you promise not to fall to blows with him,” said Nedelin, “will you join the General Designer and me for dinner this evening? The test isn’t until tomorrow, and this place hardly has any diversions except for the company of others.”
“Even if that company is a man who hates me?”
“I’ll be entertained by it, at least.”
It was the Chief Designer’s turn to laugh.
“I’ll see you this evening, then,” he said.
Nedelin pointed backward with his thumb. “Last I saw the General Designer, he was at the south fuel pump. If you hurry, you can catch him.”
“There’s no need to rush. He won’t leave before the rocket arrives.”
Nedelin walked on, chuckling to himself. The Proton had pulled several meters away during the conversation. The carrier’s wheels squealed against the tracks and a shudder passed up through the rocket. The Chief Designer had made this same walk with rockets of his own. Then, every vibration worried him, every pop and click of the rocket’s structure. Now, he appreciated the music of it, how something so rickety could loft to the stars.
A technician came from the other direction, but stopped when she saw the Chief Designer. She turned and jogged back along the tracks. The Chief Designer recognized her. She used to work at OKB-1 in the ’50s, poached by the General Designer when he opened OKB-52. She was hardly the only one. Several dozen engineers had gone with her. Whenever the Chief Designer came across any of them at meetings or conferences, they seemed terrified, as if they thought he carried a violent grudge against them. Yes, he did not like the General Designer, and he could think of a million people for whom he would rather work, but he did not fault anyone for advancing their career. In his youth, he had done the same thing, leaving Tsiolkovski to set out on his own. Unlike Tsiolkovski, the Chief Designer was one who could forgive.
The only noise across the whole steppe seemed to be the wheels of the train. When they quieted, even for a moment, it was like a light had been shut off, the silence as black as how the cosmonauts in orbit described empty space. The Chief Designer found himself closing his eyes until another squeal escaped the wheels. He focused on his steps. The launch tower loomed nearer and nearer, but so large it was difficult to tell exactly how far away it was. Long after he expected to have arrived, it still stood some ways in the distance.
A figure approached him along the tracks, at first just a black tick against the dry earth, moving toward the Chief Designer much more quickly than he moved toward it. The tall, thin man, wearing a full suit despite the heat, could be none other than the General Designer. He hurried to a stop directly in front of the Chief Designer.
“I’m flattered,” said the Chief Designer, “that you came to greet me personally.”
“I’m quite busy, as you well know.”
“Not so busy that you couldn’t spare the time to walk half a kilometer to meet someone who was already on his way to meet you.”
“What are you doing here?” The General Designer’s face, pinched as if he smelled something unpleasant, looked even more ratlike than usual.
“You’re forever talking about your engines,” said the Chief Designer. “I figured I should see them at work.”
“We don’t allow tourists at the launchpad.” He shifted one foot as if to turn and leave but stayed facing forward.
Another technician passed them, heading to the pad. She wore a rubberized suit and had a breathing mask dangling from her neck. The goggles on top of her head made her look amphibian.
The Chief Designer cupped his hand over his nose and mouth. “Anyway, I don’t have a breather.”
“I can’t hear you through your hand.”
“I was simply observing that we don’t require breathing masks to work on our rockets.”
“That again?” The General Designer spun and started to walk away.
“Wait, General Designer. I apologize, I apologize. It was a poor attempt at humor.”
“I expect nothing but poor attempts from you.”
“Was that a joke?”
“I’m not a humorous man.”
“Then let me take care of my business before you return to yours.”