The General Designer twisted his head to look back over his shoulder.
“I have a favor to ask,” said the Chief Designer.
For the first time that the Chief Designer could remember, the General Designer showed an expression other than spite. The tight pinch of his mouth softened, falling into a small O. His eyes, usually squeezed to slits like the tail edge of a wing, opened enough to reveal the color of his irises, a gentle blue. The eyes of a baby, the Chief Designer thought.
“Why would I help you?” asked the General Designer.
“You’re not even going to hear the request before you deny it?”
“What do you want?”
“Your heat shield.”
“You have a heat shield.”
“You have a better one.”
The General Designer shifted, rotating more toward the Chief Designer without turning all the way around.
“Yes,” said the Chief Designer, “I admit it. Our ablation rate has never been satisfactory. But I’ve seen the reports on yours.”
“Those reports are brand new. Most of my staff have yet to see them.”
“I’ve been at this game longer than you. I have my sources.”
The General Designer’s face returned to its normal glowering state.
“Don’t be angry, comrade,” said the Chief Designer, choking out the last word.
“What would I get in return?”
The Chief Designer walked around him so that the two men stood face-to-face.
“My gratitude,” said the Chief Designer, “expressed to everyone who matters.”
“Khrushchev?” asked the General Designer.
The Chief Designer turned and headed back along the tracks. The squeal of the rocket carrier seemed far away now, but it was still just over his shoulder.
“There’s no need to decide right away,” said the Chief Designer. “Marshal Nedelin invited me to join you both for dinner.”
The General Designer offered a reply, but the Chief Designer was already too distant to hear it.
THE BUNKER NEAR the old R-7 test site had been converted into Baikonur’s formal dining room, in that it now had a great round table in the middle set in a simulation of formality, other metals substituted for silver, glass for crystal, dull ceramic plates produced in a dank factory. Red drapery hung from brass rods screwed into the concrete walls. Scarlet curtains, unmatched to the drapes, decorated the slit of the old observation window. A painting of outer space, deep purple with shining stars and swirls of ethereal gases, covered the whole ceiling, giving the impression that the table was falling top-first into the void. The Chief Designer noted with pleasure how much better Giorgi’s paintings at Star City were.
Several of the General Designer’s top aides also sat at the table, people the Chief Designer had seen before but to whom he had never spoken. After a few greetings when he arrived, the table fell back into silence. That had been about ten minutes ago. Nedelin and the General Designer were late.
A young man, bespectacled and with hair slicked into a neat part, cleared his throat.
“The General Designer always makes us wait,” he said, his tone half apologetic, half joking.
“Not to worry. Where else would I have to be?” The Chief Designer gestured around him. “Nothing but dry, cracked land in every direction.”
A murmur of amusement passed around the table. Several of the aides visibly relaxed.
“I promise,” said the Chief Designer, “the stories the General Designer has told you about me are mostly untrue.”
A round of laughter, but it was cut short by the click of the door, a wood-paneled slab that had been installed in place of the bunker’s old steel one. The aides at the table stood, and the Chief Designer followed suit. He faced away from the door, and saw only the questioning looks on the aides’ faces. He turned.
Ignatius shut the door behind her and smiled. She moved to the seat beside the Chief Designer, shucked her large leather jacket, and hung it over the back. She smiled again, taking time to make eye contact with each person at the table.
“Greetings,” she said. “I’m from Glavlit, here to report on the test.”
The young man with the glasses responded, “This test is secret.”
“Then I guess I’m only here to eat your food.”
She pulled out her chair and sat. The others retook their seats as well, though none looked away from Ignatius. The Chief Designer felt a little sorry for the aides. They had an important test tomorrow, and first their boss’s rival joined them for dinner and now an agent of the Party. He recognized his younger self in these people. He recognized how they tried to hide their nervousness with little tasks, straightening a knife on the table, taking a sip of water so dainty it could not have done more than moisten the lips. The young man with the glasses adjusted the knot of his tie six times. The Chief Designer wondered if he had been so obvious as a young man, and worse yet, was he still so obvious now. He doubted it. Experience had long since purged the nervous tics out of him, and maybe the trick to not seeming nervous was to accept the truth that you were, not try to hide it. Hidden things had a way of being discovered.
The Chief Designer noticed Ignatius inspecting him the same way he had been inspecting the aides. She never seemed nervous, but then he had never seen her in a situation in which she did not have control. She barely seemed human. Perhaps part of Tsiolkovski’s master race. The Chief Designer pushed thoughts of Tsiolkovski out of his head.
The door clicked open again, and Nedelin and the General Designer entered. Beads of sweat dotted the General Designer’s face. He dabbed at them with a handkerchief, but as soon as he pulled it away, new beads emerged. He and Nedelin, continuing a conversation, took seats opposite Ignatius and the Chief Designer.
“… a test cycle on the pump before we can begin fueling,” said the General Designer. He looked at the handkerchief in his hands as he spoke.
“As children, we would make rafts and tie long ropes to posts on the banks of the Don and float out to the middle.” Nedelin tilted his head and flashed an impish grin for the benefit of the table. “It was best just before harvest, when the crops crept right to the edge of the river like waving cliffs, and the currents then were at their most gentle.”
The General Designer continued his previous tack, nodding to himself. “From the time the fuel lines are disconnected, we need two hours before the rocket will be ready for testing. And before a full test we’ll want to run several simulations.”
“Along the straight stretches of the Don, we could wade out for meters. In winter, it froze solid enough to walk on, though our parents forbade it. Like many things forbidden by our parents, we did it anyway.”
“So we’ll start the fueling process at five in the morning. The first crews will be at the pad by four.”
“I rarely make it home, and I miss the river.” Nedelin turned from the General Designer to the rest of the table. “All I asked him was what time the test would occur. Ten minutes later, I’m not sure I have the answer to that question, but I do now feel qualified to construct a rocket all by myself.”
The Chief Designer chuckled and Ignatius unleashed a full-throated haw. The aides turned their faces in whatever direction but toward the General Designer, whose cheeks blossomed with red. He looked around the room as if noticing the other people for the first time.
“I’m glad you’re here,” said Nedelin to the Chief Designer. “This group is always so serious before a test. They won’t even join me for a drink.” He glanced around the tabletop. “They don’t even have a drink to offer.”
The General Designer stuttered something in response but failed to form an actual word. This made the Chief Designer laugh again. He had never seen his rival so flustered. He wondered if Nedelin needled the General Designer like this all the time, or if it was just with this particular audience. Nedelin was a tactician, after all, and what better way to gain control over the General Designer than to diminish his esteem just that much.