Yuri sat at a metal desk too small for his body. His knees banged against the drawers, the lead paint failing where for decades kneecaps had met metal. To escape his desk, he had to scoot around one side. He was a large man, once considered strapping and athletic, but now droop-shouldered and fat. The office had a broken casement window, the gears in the crank long-ago worn flat. The air outside had pitted and stained it like a cataract, so his only view was a brighter or duller glow. The window steamed up in the summer and frosted over in the winter. Even if the window had opened, it would not have been any relief from the stale air of the office since he worked in the industrial quarter of the city. The skies smelled of sulfur or animal hides or wood pulp or petrochemicals depending on the wind and the factory output that week.
Yuri’s building was a massive high-rise built in the years leading up to the Cold War. The outside was a grey grid, shadowing the windows within; a grimy monolith of unpainted concrete suspended above the ground on squat pillars. The air inside was thick with diesel fumes, and the concrete dripped with stains from soot, pigeon shit and acid rain. Yuri worked for the Roscosmos State Corporation for Space Activities, which was guaranteed given his status as a former cosmonaut.
In applying to be one of the first cosmonauts, the initial criteria made sense; you had to be a pilot and you had to be under thirty. Other measures seemed rife with party meddling: had to be able to jump 230 centimeters; be able to ski race five kilometers in under twenty-one minutes; hang from a pull-up bar for 5 minutes with cold water being sprayed on you; be able to kick a soccer ball sixty-five yards; be able to sing the national anthem with two men standing on your chest; and you had be no taller than five feet three inches, which was Nikita Khrushchev’s height. . Like the rest of the candidates, Yuri asked no questions and completed the tasks with fervor. If would-be cosmonauts passed the physical tests, many dropped out during the math, engineering and physics exams. Eleven men were in the first group to become cosmonauts, and Yuri was at the bottom of the pack.
In hindsight, the scientists should not have used the best cosmonauts first. Those at the top of the class died in launchpad explosions or just outside the atmosphere, when a bolt would give way or a pressure suit would leak. Gradually, the best of the best were winnowed away, leaving the remainders. A combination of low test scores and faulty engineering ultimately made Yuri a hero.
Packed into his space ship like a baby in an iron uterus, he waited for hours with his knees tucked under his chin as the engineering team adjusted and rechecked countless potential sources of disaster. A tiny, round window of three-inch-thick glass allowed him a narrow view, but all he could see was the time of day. Finally, the rocket ignited and the vibration nearly shook the meat from his bones. As he gained speed, the g-force pulled all the blood to his feet and ass, and he kept his stomach tight to force at least a little bit of blood to his brain. The main engine dropped away, and the metal box was calm for a moment until the second booster lit, and he could once again feel his brain slapping against his skull as he slipped in and out of consciousness. The smell of rocket fuel wafted through his pressure suit, and he hoped it wasn’t’ a fata leak, but there was nothing he could do if it was. The final booster fell away and suddenly the ship was still. No noise, no vibration, no sense of movement at all. The radio screeched for confirmation.
“I am alive and well,” Yuri responded.
“Good. Good. It will all be over soon.”
The window had frozen over and there were no controls for Yuri to manage. It had all been set to go off automatically based on calculations from the ground. Yuri was no more a hero than the dog that had survived the trip before him; a dog which was now treated as a national treasure. But people do their love dogs. The capsule was growing colder every minute. At first he could see his breath, then the air simply left his body as a cloud of ice floating just beyond his face. His hands and feet grew numb, but all he could do was wiggle his toes and wait.
After a time, Yuri felt turbulence; he had reached the atmosphere again. The friction caused the capsule to spin with increasing speed. He had been promised that the inside of the ship would remain cool thanks to heat distributing bricks lining the outside of the ship, but this failed. The outer edges of his pressure suit were getting singed when he bumped against the inside of the capsule. The parachute release jerked the capsule like a dropped elevator, but he was curled up so tight he barely noticed being whipped about like a dog’s toy. When he hit the water, it sounded like fresh lava forming a shoreline. The bolts on the door only worked from the outside, to prevent a panicking cosmonaut from opening them too soon. Yuri remained crouched in the tin ball; steam roiling off the surface of his craft, fighting nausea from the waves, the landing, and the rocket ride he had just survived. He willed himself not to vomit in his helmet.
He was thirty-two at the time, with many younger, eager men ready to take his place. He was a hero in Russia, and was trotted out at countless Party functions, touted on the State News Agency for months, interviewed, shown doing modest activities like planting his garden, riding his bicycle to work or sharing cheap vodka with his grandfather. Greater feats than his quickly pushed him out of the spotlight, but he remained active with the program; helping in the control room or working out with the cosmonauts-in-waiting. All the while he kept secret the panic he felt any time he was outside under the open sky.
Indoors or in a car or train he was fine. Cloudy days were also welcomed, if he accidentally caught a glimpse of the open ski or God forbid the stars, his heart would pound against his chest like a trapped animal, a cold sweat would soak his undershirt, and he’d have to quickly find a place to sit before his legs gave out. Knowing that there was nothing between him and the stars overhead triggered the same terror Yuri had felt when he was helplessly circling the earth with only a flimsy skin of metal to protect him. Launches were the worst for him. He would sit on the stage with other dignitaries and Party leadership, to revel in yet another moment of technological triumph. His mouth would go dry, his skin grey, and the medals on his chest would softly rattle from the panicked beating of his heart. Once he feared he had wet himself, his clothing was so soaked with cold sweat. His unexplained but decidedly unheroic appearance pushed his seating farther and farther to side and back of the stage, until he was finally not invited at all. This was a bitter relief and was followed by gradual demotions in the space agency. Which is how wound up in his tiny office far from space agency headquarters. He was still called on once a year to sit on a parade float with all the other living cosmonauts, riding among the tanks, missiles, farm equipment, marching bands and high-stepping soldiers. He’d taken to wearing wide brimmed hats, which helped him not think about the sky, but a press handler would inevitably force him to remove it. The yearly parade was his last link to the space program and his worst day of the year.
The phone on Yuri’s desk had a peculiar ring, like it was being held underwater. It burbled, and he answered.
“Yes, this is Yuri.”
“This is Tabor, I am with public relations at Roscosmos, did you know the fiftieth anniversary of your launch was coming up this year?”
“No. I did not remember that.”
“It is. Since you were the first Russian in space, we will have a year of celebrations for you. We’ll move you back to headquarters, give you raise and all you have to is be driven around and go to parties and appear on television. What do you think of that?”
“It would be an honor to again serve my country.”
“Perfect answer. That’s all you ever really need to say for the whole year. We’ll get started on the events and can get your transfer going immediately. Someone will be in touch soon with more details.”
Yuri hung up the phone, and sat quietly. He then lifted his chair, smashing his window. Sour air blasted in stinging his face as he stepped up on the ledge. His heart started to race and before his legs could weaken he jumped, closing his eyes and holding his knees to his chest. He tumbled slowly; reminded of the spinning of the capsule on reentry.
News reports explained that Yuri had a heart attack while jogging around a lake near his expansive home. They explained how he loved staying fit, and had served with space agency with loyalty and distinction for 50 years. A day of mourning was held, and large parade in his honor featured a float with all the living cosmonauts dressed in black suits.