Where are the Russians?

with the u.s. and the u.s.s.r. in a feverish race to be first with a manned moon shot, here's a highly educated, dramatized prediction of how it may well come out

Under, the cool, dark, faintly starlit canopy of the predawn Florida sky, Apollo Saturn, Flight AS-468, stands like a colossal monolith of black and white, floodlit into dazzling relief. Poised over a 40-foot-deep trench on Pad 39, soon to become a raging inferno of flame and hissing steam, Saturn V stands aloof, charged with a quiet but terrible menace. One malfunction could trigger a pad disaster that would mushroom into a stupendous, conclusive fireball, incinerating everything within a quarter of a mile. Before tanking, unconcerned technicians, gnats by contrast, swarmed over Saturn's fantastic network of systems and subsystems, each carrying a share of the most dramatic responsibility ever assumed by man and machine. On this historic morning of October 4, 1968, three astronauts perched atop a 365-foot colossus will begin the longest journey in history--a round trip to the moon of nearly 500,000 miles. Flight 468 (October 4, 1968), connected to its launch tower by a maze of cables and pipes, reaches toward the infinite, taller than an upended Nautilus-class nuclear submarine and nearly as heavy. Over 6,000,000 pounds of aluminum, titanium and propellants, a million separate functioning parts and almost ten years of design and flight testing carry a collective price tag of 20 billion dollars and represent the efforts of 17,000 industrial firms.

It is 5:30 A.M. and T minus two hours. Everything proceeds "nominally" while the mammoth spherical tanks adjoining Pad 39 pump 206,000 gallons of kerosene fuel, 350,000 of liquid oxygen into the rocket's first stage. Three miles away, in the modern launch control center with its multiple firing rooms, an army of computer consoles flash myriad lights under the test conductor's eye, checking against the thousands of procedures in the 185-page countdown manual.

"Begin liquid hydrogen loading per procedure."

The press and privileged viewers can see the raised pad on large closed-circuit TV screens facing them, but the roadblocks are up and no one except the launch crew is allowed anywhere near the giant rocket. The 7,500,000 pounds thrust generated at lift-off by Apollo-Saturn's first-stage engines--160,000,000 hp--is enough to power 10,000 Lockheed Electra turboprop airliners.

T minus 65 minutes and counting. The white transfer van stops near the top of the slope to Pad 39. Three space-suited, helmeted figures descend, each carrying a portable air-conditioning unit. With them is "Doc" Wells, their flight surgeon, a graying, soft-spoken medical genius. Smiling through upraised visors, they wave casually as they start for the base of the launch tower, where an elevator will whisk them to the 340-foot level in 34 seconds. There, on the top level, clean-room technicians, white-capped and -gowned, are ready to help the astronauts into the couches aboard Apollo, which will be their home for the next eight days. Although tethered by harness and biosensor connections, given a minute's warning of impending pad disaster by the emergency detection system, the crew could still blow the hatch and slide down the escape chute into a bombproof room.

As television viewers sense the growing tension of the last few minutes before lift-off, CBS's Cronkite tries for human-interest relief: "Lieutenant Commander Walter Schiller II, a Navy man, is command pilot on this trip and a veteran of two earlier Gemini missions. Wally is a sports-car enthusiast and his red Italian Ferrari is a thing of beauty. He is dark-haired, handsome, suave and soft-spoken. But above all, he's known as a cool cat in any situation. It's the highest compliment his fellow spacemen could pay him.

"Major Roy Balchen is copilot and navigator and a seasoned jet pilot with more than three thousand hours of flight time. Roy comes from a poor family--he had to stop school in the eighth grade for a while. He flunked pilot school the first time because of educational requirements, so he took math and engineering at a resident college in Britain, sponsored by the University of Maryland. Roy taught himself basic algebra, studied an Air Force manual, and a year later breezed through the math course into integral calculus and a degree. That was how he finally made the test-pilot school.

"Roy is a compact, tightly knit young man with an open sun-tanned face and crewcut hair. He's a skindiver when time permits because, he says, that's the closest thing to weightlessness down here on the ground.

"Systems engineer on this trip is Dr. William Norlund, a noted geophysicist and a biochemist as well. He was the first applicant under NASA's civilian candidate plan and he is the first civilian of any nation to be making a space trip.

"Dr. Norlund is a slightly built, blond man with a humorous twinkle in piercing blue eyes. Prematurely gray, he looks older than his 37 years, but he can run or swim a mile and he withstood the astronaut survival course better than any other candidate. His favorite recreations--you would never guess--percussion records on stereo and karate. This is no guy to fool with."

T minus 30 minutes and counting. All systems "Go." "The booster and spacecraft are as clean as a whistle," the public-information officer announces to the press.

Now the launch director supervises the final count. Wives and parents have been interviewed, registering everything from joyful pride to near panic. All Saturn V systems are on internal power. T minus one minute. T minus 30 seconds. Ten seconds. "Five-four-three-two-one-zero! Ignition!"

The launch director confirms the computer command, eyes glued to the color-TV screens. The pad erupts in a volcanic sea of flame. "Lift-off!" Imperceptibly, the world's biggest rocket begins to rise. Movie and TV cameras on board, at various launch-tower levels and around the pad, pick up a landslide of snow (frozen condensation) slipping from Saturn's flanks into the seedling caldron below. The orange glare of the flames is dazzling as the monstrous cigar gathers speed.

"We have ignition and we have lift-off!" exults the Cape announcer, his voice partly drowned by a noise like a salvo from a battleship's guns. Around the firing room, 200 tense faces relax slightly. Some 20 seconds after lift-oil, AS-468 starts a slow, clockwise roll, then the nose tilts slightly in a wide climbing arc, eastward over the ocean.

"Roll-pitch maneuver completed," Balchen tells the Cape.

"Roger. You look good."

Ninety seconds into flight, accelerative forces build up to about two Gs, gently pushing the astronauts into their couches as maximum aerodynamïc pressure is reached. Biomedical sensors give readouts to Dr. Wells at the Cape's Mission Control. Schiller's pulse, 110; Balchen's, 120; Doc Norlund's, 96.

"Everything's nominal." comes Schiller's casual voice over the radio. "Beautiful sight down below."

As Saturn's speed quickly tops 5000 mph, accelerative forces pass the four-G mark. Four times the weight of each astronaut pushing down on him. but the restrictive circulation system in the space suits minimizes discomfort.

Two minutes and 30 seconds into the flight comes a jolt, a quick release of the G forces and a feeling like flying through a downdraft. "We have separation!" Cape announcer tells the press. "We have second-stage ignition as planned ..."

"S-IC's tumbling away nicely," drawls Schiller through mounting static. "S-II's fired up on the money. No anomalies, eh, Doc?"

"None," Norlund smiles into his mikes. This is the astronauts' first use of the term "anomaly" since the word "failure" was officially banned from reports. Now, as a million pounds' thrust resume AS-468's upward rush toward a 100-mile orbit, Schiller watches the clock.

With startling suddenness, when the sweep hand on Apollo's clock nudges two minutes, 54 seconds, a jolt overhead shakes the spacecraft. "LES [Launch Escape System] jettisoned," Balchen informs the Cape. "Do you read, Tom?"

"Roger. Roy. Your programer's on the job." That's Texan Tom Beaufort, one of the backup crew, acting as capsule communicator at the Cape's Mission Control. "How do you guys feel?"

"Great," says Balchen. "Beats Coney Island any day!"

Eight and a half minutes into the mission, he flips on intercom. "Thirty seconds to go," he warns the others. Accelerative force again builds up to slightly over two Gs, although Saturn is now going well over 15,000 mph. The S-II stage, using 2700 pounds of propellant per second, nears burnout, yet continues to ram upward its own weight plus that of the S-IVB stage and the lunar module, the service module and the Apollo command module itself--some 360,000 pounds above the stage. Again the jolt and rapid decline to zero-G; again the sinking sensation. Then a harsher, closer vibration is felt.

"There she goes," Schiller's calm voice tells Cap Com. "S-II separation. S-IVB's fired up!"

"You have ignition, all right." Houston's Mission Control comes in happily on the radio. "You ought to make orbit at 11 minutes, 52 seconds into the mission."

"That's about what we figure."

As Flight 468 reaches orbital speed of 17,500 mph, G forces, already mild, cease altogether. The third stage cuts off abruptly when the computer terminates first burn. But for their restraining harness, the astronauts would be floating, weightless. Not even vibration disturbs a silence that is almost deafening. "We have you in orbit." Houston takes over.

"Confirm S-IVB shutdown," Schiller says.

"Good show. You're looking very good. Trajectory nominal. Orbital attitude nominal."

"Roger," Schiller returns on vhf.

On the first parking orbit, the crew is busy evaluating position and checking out all systems. They have 60 minutes of daylight before entering orbital night--the vast shadow cast by earth into space when the sun is behind. Visibility is exceptional. Doc Norlund, Hasselblad already focused through the window, snaps some color shots. What seems an infinite distance below, through banks of fleecy cloud, the earth's contour is a faint bluish curve. Balchen takes readings on his magnification sextant and scanning telescope, sighting on the bright star Canopus. Schiller flips switch after switch, checking telemetry and ranging data. He picks up the U.S.S. Amanda, a tracking ship in the Atlantic, then the U.S.S. Merrimac. in the Indian Ocean. Carnarvon. Australia, follows, 90 minutes into the mission; Hawaii; Goldstone (California), the first deep-space tracking station; Guaymas, Mexico; White Sands; then Houston Mission Control Center, as Apollo sweeps toward the end of the first orbit, going better than ten miles for every heartbeat.

"Good morning," drawls the tired voice of Paul Nooney, public-affairs-office communicator at Houston. "Wally, Roy and Doc. You look great from here."

" 'Morning," Schiller answers. "Gather TV transmission good. All systems Go. Goldstone acquisition loud and clear."

(continued on page 122)Where are the Russians?(continued from page 82)

"Roger. TV excellent. World-wide retransmission through Early Bird. We'll make Go--No Go decision during second pass. You're getting a lot of attention down below." In fact, the largest recovery force ever assembled is fanning out toward specified points in the Atlantic and Pacific, with backup in the Indian Ocean.

So far, AS-468 has passed through a 60-minute day, 30 minutes of darkness and emerged into sunlight again. Soon it's Beaufort, at Cape Kennedy, part of the communications loop. "How's business, Wally?"

"Everything nominal. Give me a mark as we pass over Cape."

"Roger." A few minutes later comes the "Three-two-one-mark!"

Apollo's clock reads 01:41:52 into the mission. Deducting orbital climb time, the first orbit took exactly 90 minutes. "You can't hardly beat that," Schiller tells his crew on intercom. "Do we go next time?" He gets a vigorous "Affirmative" from Balchen and Norlund. "Don't know why not!" That settles it. "We'll begin translunar injection firing program this orbit, Tom," Schiller radios. "Notifying Houston. Over."

"Roger. Have a good trip, you all. Hear?"

At 02:49:50 into the mission, Schiller tells Houston, "Translunar injection firing program complete. It's Go from here."

There's a brief pause, then the long-anticipated reply, "Roger. Go ahead."

"Begin lunar injection countdown in eleven minutes."

"Roger. Eleven minutes. Ascension, Madrid, Antigua notified."

With five seconds to go, Balchen gets set. "Ok. Three-two-one-mark!" Right on time, S-IVB fires up, its roar reduced in the void to a soundless vibration and a cone-shaped streak of flame. The astronauts feel an immediate acceleration force of half a G as Apollo surges toward 25,000 mph to escape the earth's gravity. Acceleration increases with fuel burn; it rises to two Gs. One second beyond predicted time, the engine cuts and vibration ceases.

"Confirm translunar injection," Schiller tells Houston from over the United States 03:05:58 into the mission.

"Roger. Stand by." Then, after a seeming eternity, Houston confirms. "Go ahead and bring home the bacon!"

"Roger. We will initiate turnaround at 14 minutes, 15 seconds from now," Schiller announces. This is a tricky maneuver. The command and service modules, firing small thruster rockets, do a 180-degree turnabout and dock nose to nose with the lunar module. Scheduled time for this maneuver is 27 minutes. Schiller takes 58 seconds longer. "Transposition and docking complete." Then a short coast. At 03:50:58 into the mission, a final jolt heralds the separation of the burned-out S-IVB stage.

Now Schiller, Balchen and Norlund are on their way to the moon. Almost any malfunction would compromise the mission. A few minutes later, they inform Houston, "Landing legs deployed." A lonely journey of 65 to 70 hours lies ahead, a journey no human being ever undertook before.

• • •

October 3, 1968: At noon an Ilyushin turboprop airliner touches down on the skid strip of cosmodrome number two, in Tyura-Tam, Russia. General Vladimir Efimovich Staknovsky, chief of the Soviet space program, and Professor Grigori Pavlovich Denisov, top scientist of the Soviet Academy, have arrived from Moscow. Colonel Grazenko, commanding officer of Tyura-Tam Cosmodrome, salutes the distinguished visitors. Peppery, paunchy, eagle-eyed and gray-haired, General Staknovsky grumbles, "What is this infernal weather doing to our launches?"

"Weather reports indicate a clearing sky and good tracking visibility in three hours, Comrade General," Grazenko assures him. "As you know, the sun usually burns out this stuff."

"It had better do so! Any unscheduled holds in the countdown?"

"None so far, Comrade General." Grazenko strikes a match for the general's cigarette. "We had minor problems with a gyro-stabilizer during precount, but correction time was absorbed by a built-in hold."

"Ah." Staknovsky, inveterate smoker, puffs through a long holder. "The Amerikantzi go tomorrow morning with their Saturn. No delays are foreseen. Poniemayete?"

"Yes, I understand, Comrade General. If only----"

"If this, if that. Lift-off number one is still scheduled for 1700 hours, then?"

"Barring the unforeseen--da!"

"Harasho," nods the general. "It is vital to Comrade Premier Kobelev, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and the Communist world that we succeed in this lunar mission!"

"We will, Comrade General."

"Still, the Amerikantzi may well get there before us," Staknovsky frowns.

"They will launch before we are ready, but our trajectory will take much less time," Professor Denisov points out. "At the least we will be the first to return to earth."

"Will there be a public announcement?" the colonel inquires.

"Of our real intentions? Absolutno nyet!" snaps the general. "Tass agency will announce orbital maneuvers, since it is impossible to conceal this; but nothing more will be said until the journey is almost completed."

In the huge command blockhouse, Professor Denisov reviews launch plans for the general. "Our idea is exactly the opposite of the Amerikantzi, as you know, General. Instead of lifting what is needed into an earth orbit and then assembling for the trip to the moon, the Americans lift all the hardware and three passengers on one rocket and aim directly for a moon orbit. There the lunar excursion module separates and lands two of them on the moon. Later, the upper half of the lunar excursion module takes off and docks with the so-called command module. The two astronauts transfer to the command module to join their pilot, discard the lunar excursion module and come home.

"We have decided on the earth orbit as the first stop. This permits us to lift everything we need and assemble it in orbit close by. But we will need three launches to do the job. We have our first launch at 1700 hours this afternoon. The pay load is the lunar excursion module on top of a lunar braking module. These will not be used until lunar descent and so they are sealed to minimize corrosion and contamination.

"To reduce maneuvering and docking problems with later modules, this pay load must be put into a precise orbit," Professor Denisov's dry voice continues. "If it gets away from us, the entire lunar mission will be compromised and the Amerikantzi will beat us both ways."

"Da, da." General Staknovsky is a little impatient.

"Our second launch will be one orbit later, at 1830 hours. The pay load is the Voskhod three-man spacecraft, below it a sealed service module, and below that an earth orbit maneuvering module that performs the docking maneuver with the sealed lunar braking module.

"Countdown of the two launches is concurrent but independent. There is, however, inter dependence."

"Pravda. Comrade Professor," agrees the general. "The ninety-minute launch schedule must therefore be met or we'll be in as much trouble as if we lost the first pay load."

"Theoretically," Denisov reminds him, "we have five hours available----"

"Theoretically nothing!" snaps the general. "There is no time left to play games. Let us now have the latest information on the third launch, pojaloosta. If that one doesn't go and the other two are in orbit, we have no choice but to abort the mission."

"The third launch," Denisov takes up the narrative, "will be at ten A.M. tomorrow morning--seventeen hours after the first launch. The pay load is the translunar injection module that will accelerate the multiple docked modules of the first two launches to escape velocity. This is our locomotive. To lift it into orbit, we (continued on page 152)Where are the Russians?(continued from page 122) have had to design a new two-stage Lunik booster."

"The Amerikantzi suspect, but don't know for sure, that we have a rocket almost as powerful as their Saturn Five," the general gloats. "It may come as a big surprise." (He is wrong. The CIA's guess is within two percent of the exact figure.)

The three cosmonauts sleep late in their specially equipped villa three miles from Launch Pad B. Their doctor is indulgent; his charges, Colonel Ivan Petrovitch Protsenko, Captain Sergei Leontovitch Bogdanov and Professor Dmitri Alexandrovitch Malinin, are in fine shape.

At two P.M. the phone rings and Captain Bogdanov grabs the receiver. It is Blockhouse A. Countdown is proceeding normally, says the test conductor. The weather is clearing. First launch schedule is still 1700 hours.

Ten minutes after the telephone call, the general struts in, brisk and businesslike, exuding confidence. He shakes hands all round. "Sit down, comrades. You doubtless know more about this mission than I do. My sole purpose is to bring you up to date. Preflight medical at 1500 hours, one hour from now. At 1600 hours you begin suiting. First launch, 1700 hours. Depart for Pad B at 1730 hours. By 1800 hours you are sealed in the spacecraft cabin. Second launch at 1830 hours. Any questions?"

There are none. "All right, comrades," nods the general. "Doska, pojaloosta, e miel." The blackboard is pushed forward. Someone hands the general some chalk. It squeaks as he begins writing essentials in a neat, precise hand.

"We launch you into an orbit of 58 to 60 degrees inclination to the earth's equator. This compares with 28 to 30 degrees for the Amerikantzi. Your orbit will be near circular, the same as theirs, but higher--about 200 to 220 kilometers, which puts you above the first launch. If all goes well, you complete rendezvous with the target modules at 2330 hours, five hours after launch. Docking and mating about 90 minutes later. Should be complete by 0100 hours, 06:30:00 into your mission. You will be tired by all this space walking--even you, Comrade Captain Bogdanov! So we have programed eight hours of sleep for you, with--if required--intermittent watches."

The cosmonauts protest, but the general holds up his hand. "Hear me out, please. At 0900 hours tomorrow morning, October 4, you will check all systems, in readiness for the third launch. This is scheduled for 15:30:00 after your lift-off. Rendezvous and docking with the 'locomotive' should be complete in five hours. You will have two extra hours to transfer oxygen, food and equipment to Voskhod. By then it will be 1700 hours, exactly 24 hours from our first launch and 22:30:00 into your mission. It will also be 0800 hours at Cape Kennedy, or 30 minutes after the Saturn launch, but this we cannot help. You will require a further five hours of orbit evaluation and systems check before requesting permission to start the locomotive's engine and begin translunar injection."

Protsenko rises. "We could shorten the time for orbit evaluation----"

"And perhaps compromise the mission? Nyet! No question of that. Better return first than not leave at all; but as a matter of interest, you might also get there first! True, the American flight will inject into translunar trajectory about eleven A.M., which could be up to two hours ahead of us. With ten hours less travel time, however, we might still land on the moon hours ahead ..."

At 1600 hours two visitors arrive--engineer S. Zelnachev, designer of the spacecraft, and B. Parin, noted bioastronautics specialist. Zelnachev, a retiring man, holder of the coveted Lenin Prize, speaks briefly. "You will not wear your space suits at lift-off, comrades, but only your slacks and shirts. The space suits will be stored on board. The cabin is hermetically sealed at room temperature and normal atmospheric pressure. The general wants pictures of you walking to the pad without space suits, for future publicity use."

At 1655 hours engineer Zelnachev answers the phone in monosyllables, then announces, "Carrier rocket number one is within five minutes of lift-off. All systems working. Weather good enough for optical tracking. Countdown on carrier rocket number two proceeding normally. No holds."

Twenty minutes later the phone rings again. The first pay load has safely reached orbit. Correct azimuth and inclination. Estimated orbital height, 160 kilometers. Protsenko, Bogdanov, Malinin and their doctor exchange satisfied grins. Zelnachev and Parin already have departed.

The white transfer bus pulls up outside, looking like a New York single-decker 20 years ago. The cosmonauts stroll out, joking. The whole routine is casual beyond belief. Voskhod 9's crew might be taking a bus ride to the zoo instead of the departure point for a trip to the moon. The absence of space suits and air-conditioning units adds to the deception, though the suits are on the bus, along with Dr. Volynkin.

The bus arrives at Pad B gantry. The cosmonauts step down, their carefree smiles and informal attire duly recorded by the photographers. Floodlights bathe the touching scene where Colonel Grazenko steps forward to give each cosmonaut a traditional farewell hug. The triangular, windowless elevator begins its upward scoot on a steeply inclined rail, carrying the cosmonauts. It soon returns for the others.

At 1800 hours technicians begin sealing Voskhod 9's hatch. The interior is surprisingly roomy. The cosmonauts can stand up, swing their elbows, even change places. Three couchlike seats hold them comfortably secured for liftoff. Supplies and gear have been stowed away.

The earphones crackle. "Terminal count proceeds. No holds. Stand by for mark!"

From Professor Malinin's meticulously detailed log of the misson: "Considering the million pounds of thrust beneath us, lift-off noise is surprisingly gentle; comparable with a modern airliner. Vibration not excessive. The bumps (stage separation) remind one of freight cars coupling up. G loads easily tolerated. Transition to weightlessness a pleasant experience."

In orbit at 1843 hours, 10 seconds. Bogdanov's pulse rate is 70--72; breathing, 18--20. Protsenko, 72--75 and 20--23. Malinin, 80 and 25. This is his first trip.

Bogdanov tests the two-way ultra-high-frequency voice link. "Almaz to Zarya-1: How do you hear me?"

"Zarya-1 to Almaz: Hear you excellently. Over."

Protsenko cuts in. "Almaz to Zarya-1: commander speaking. Feel fine. Assignment will be carried out. Cabin pressure 1.1 atmospheres. Temperature, 19 degrees centigrade. Relative humidity, 58 percent."

Two orbits into the mission, Zarya-1 transmits cryptic vectors that correct navigation and tracking. Then, "Package on parallel course. Fifty [kilometers] below. Sixteen hundred ahead." Protsenko fires short bursts from the reaction control rockets. Voskhod's speed makes it impossible to communicate more than ten minutes with any one station. (All U. S. S. R. ground radio stations are connected with the communications center [Zarya-1], from which commands are issued. Landlines are duplicated for safety.)

The sky is dark. The earth appears below in many hues, rather indistinct. There is no feeling of motion. Silence reigns. Malinin takes some pictures. They eat a light meal, then take turns napping. There are still four hours to rendezvous.

A feeling of exhilaration acts like a stimulant. Protsenko is slightly nauseated, but a tablet helps.

At 2300 hours Protsenko, who has fantastic eyesight, exclaims, "There it is! Way ahead to our left and below. See?" After a moment, the others spot a dark cylindrical object drifting on the sea of infinity. They begin orbit transfer. Five minutes later all doubts are dispelled. There are the lunar landing and braking modules. They can see angular projections at the base of the landing module housing the legs.

Zarya-1 breaks radio silence. "Greetings, Almaz. Do you receive?"

"Almaz to Zarya-1," Bogdanov replies, "receiving you excellently. Over."

"Zarya-1 to Almaz: Do you have visual?"

"Affirmative. Closing rapidly. Target about three [kilometers] below, five ahead. Over."

After a brief pause, Zarya-1 replies, "Have you on radar tracking. Proceed. Notify completion of maneuver. Out."

Bogdanov slips into his space suit. Weightlessness is the main problem. With help, the task is completed in 12 minutes. Bogdanov secures helmet and umbilical connect as Voskhod closes to within five meters of target. The braking module's bell-shaped engine, tightly sealed, is starkly clear. Protsenko fires a short burst to put Voskhod ahead of the first-launch modules. When modules are realigned, it is about ten meters ahead, closing to five. They dock.

What a fantastic sight! Five modules lined up like a train, traveling at 7.7 kilometers per second, seemingly motionless. They look as if suspended by an invisible thread. Bogdanov checks emergency oxygen, releases his harness and grabs a wrench. He smiles, eases through the air-lock door, carrying his coiled life line like a huge serpent. He connects up and tests it, then secures the door behind him. Soon, decompression is completed and Bogdanov floats out into space.

Using small steel plates secured at intervals to the aluminum skin of the spacecraft, Bogdanov gets a grip with his magnetic boots, working carefully back so as not to disturb the craft's attitude. Protsenko is ready with instant correction in roll, pitch or yaw. He makes two corrections while Bogdanov works his way back to secure the docked module. He has practiced this maneuver a hundred times on the simulator.

"Harasho, pelot!" he presently informs Protsenko. "Let's go. I'll need you. Malinin can fly us."

"Understood." Protsenko hands over the control and releases his harness. He is already suited but wearing no helmet. One hour remains.

"Task half completed!" Bogdanov sounds breathless. His pulse rate is too high, 160 beats.

"Take it easy," Malinin warns him. "Rest for a moment. Protsenko is coming out."

"I do no real work," Bogdanov complains, pausing for breath, "yet it is tiring. Absurd!"

With docking completed, the piloting job is simple. No closing velocities to worry about. The two outside must secure the connections between the Voskhod and the lunar module. Bogdanov is tied to the module and Protsenko is tied to Bogdanov, yet they have ample freedom of movement.

"I am a dourak!" Protsenko fumes. "An imbecile. Each time I push, the wrench pushes me back!"

"Use less force," Bogdanov tells him. "There you go ..." Slowly, with infinite pains, they make the connections. The tethering cable remains.

"Pig!" Bogdanov pants. "Stupid pig wrench! I have just lost it in space! Luckily, I tightened the latch ..."

"Don't worry. We have the impact wrench," Malinin reminds him. "Get back in, both of you, if you've finished. You first, Bogdanov. You've been out ninety minutes exactly."

By 0115 hours (6 hours, 45 minutes into the flight) both men are back in the Voskhod. Docking and mating the modules took 15 minutes longer than anticipated, but the hardest maneuver is completed. Protsenko calls Control. "Almaz to Zarya-3. All secure. Over."

Promptly comes the reply, "Zarya-3 to Almaz. Prekrasno! Repeat, excellent! Keep biosensors connected. Rest essential, pending locomotive. Over."

Grinning, Protsenko replies, "Understood. Out."

• • •

October 5, 1968: President Lyndon B. Johnson, the lines bracketing his mouth etched deeper by a difficult second term, sits at his desk. Frowning, he scans intelligence reports. The uneasy truce with North Vietnam since 1967 threatens to flare into a new war of escalation. Johnson finds it hard to concentrate. It is nine A.M. and out there, in deep space, three U.S. astronauts have been drifting through the lonely void for 22.5 hours, on their way to the moon. This is the supreme test in the space race with the Soviet Union. Success will bring enormous international prestige. Failure--disaster? Johnson senses the entire world watching and waiting.

He removes his glasses and begins pacing the yellow carpet of the oval room, staring with unseeing eyes through the bulletproof window at the vista of the sunny south lawn. The buzzer on his desk sounds startlingly loud. "Yes, Marge?"

"Mr. Swanson is waiting on the line, Mr. President," his secretary tells him. "Says it's urgent."

"Very well, put him on." Johnson flicks a switch. If the chief of the Central Intelligence Agency says it's urgent, it must be. "Yes, Ludlow?"

"Mr. President, it's about the Russians." Swanson cuts all preamble. "Here's the latest information."

"OK, shoot."

"You already know about the two heavy launches on October third and that whopper, yesterday, at one P.M., EST, which means that they launched in darkness--ten P.M. their time."

"Uh-huh."

"Well, we finally got things sorted out, sir. The third launch--the Lunik booster--was twelve hours late. They ran into technical problems and the weather at Tyuratam prevented optical tracking. Anyway, this translunar injection module, which they call a 'locomotive,' docked with the other modules at eight P.M. last night. We picked up some brief, guarded radio transmissions, besides radar tracking."

"Yes." This was no news to the President--the Air Force satellite tracking system had reported the third launch last night at dinnertime. The President's Texas drawl takes on a sudden clipped tone. "So you're telling me it's the real thing, is that it, Ludlow? The Russian manned lunar flight?"

"No longer any doubt, Mr. President. They went into escape velocity at one A.M., EST----"

"Why wasn't I informed?"

"It took us about three hours to confirm all this, sir. We saw no point in disturbing you at four o'clock in the morning. It wouldn't have changed a thing."

"Maybe not, Ludlow, but I'd sooner be the judge." Lyndon Johnson brushes aside his impatience. "Anyway, where does it leave us?"

"Not too badly, sir. Not too badly at all. Taking our injection time of about eleven A.M. yesterday, we have a lead of fourteen hours. On the other hand, they're heading straight for a landing--it's bound to be that--which will shorten the Russian trip by at least ten hours ..."

"So with any luck, our guys should land on the moon four hours ahead of them?"

"Give or take an hour, yes."

"Trust the Russians to pull a fast one!" growls the President. "All I can say is that it's lucky for us they ran into that twelve-hour delay. What does NASA say this morning?"

"Nothing about the Russians, Mr. President. Nothing official, anyway. They're too busy with Apollo and the translunar trajectory. Do you plan a press statement, sir?"

"If you mean about the Soviets, the answer is negative. What is there to say, officially? Why take the play away from our boys?"

Aboard Apollo, some of the strangeness has already worn off. Weightless, silent, seemingly motionless; a quiet drama fills each passing minute. At five hours into the mission (12:30 P.M., EST) Balchen had sighted on the stars, collecting data for mid-course correction. Apollo's guidance computer processed information; earth data support system relayed additional parameters.

The crew now works in a shirt-sleeve environment at slightly over five pounds per square inch, room temperature. Doc swivels the camera to record Schiller's expression, Balchen's hands, the instrument panel, the spacecraft window. First mid-course burn occurred at 05:05:58 into the mission, 12:36 EST. A sudden blast of orange flame licked the darkened sky. Mild G. In 30 seconds, the computer cuts the engine.

Second mid-course burn occurred at 16:04 into the mission. This was a short one. Some 30 minutes later, with all systems Go, Schiller ordered, "First watch cycle. Your nap. Doc. Roy and I take turns." Apollo's clock read four minutes after midnight, EST. Norlund slept like a cat. He can drop off anywhere, reawaken instantly. Now at three A.M., EST, Houston comes in, fainter. "Four-six-eight, do you read? Over."

"Below strength but clear," Schiller says.

"Hold onto your seats. The Russians are coming!"

Schiller takes a deep breath and stiffens, wide-eyed. "Say again?"

"Russians on the way. Repeat, Russians on the way. Delayed main launch, but injection confirmed nearly two hours ago."

"Never a dull moment!" Schiller's tone is level. "Presume impact trajectory? Over."

"Roger, four-six-eight. Russian news black-out indicates."

"Impact ten hours shorter. Over."

"Roger. Your estimated lead time, four hours. Out."

Burn for the third and last course correction is over at 63:15:04 into the mission. It lasts only a few seconds. This time ground tracking corrections are minor. Apollo's clock indicates 10:45 P.M., EST, October 6. By now, the astronauts have spent three "days" and are in their third "night" aboard Apollo.

"We've had Houston, Ascension, Madrid and Antigua," Schiller yawns. "Should be Goldstone or Canberra next."

As if reading his thoughts, California comes in. "Goldstone to four-six-eight. Are you receiving us? Over."

"Four-six-eight to Goldstone. Loud and clear."

"Roger. Begin preparations for lunar orbit insertion."

"Understood. Where are the Russians?"

"We lost them."

"You mean an abort?"

"Negative. Radio black-out after injection. Require Go--No Go soonest. Over."

"Roger."

"Bet the moon's getting big?"

"Enormous!" Schiller enthuses. "Fantastic sight. Everything looks sharper. Startlingly bright."

"Can you get some TV shots?"

"Affirmative. Craters, man! Craters every place. Stand by for Doc's camera. Over."

At 64:07:04 into the mission, it's Houston by relay. "Four-six-eight. Do you read? Over?"

"Four-six-eight to Houston. Hello again. Some interruption, but can read. Decision, affirmative. Everything is Go," Schiller decides. "Mission is Go. Repeat--mission is Go!"

"Roger. Start retroburn into lunar orbit in eight minutes. Parameters show you'll enter circular equatorial orbit at programed inclination. Altitude 100 miles. Powered flight, 352 seconds. Over."

"Roger. Retroburn, in eight minutes' time. Powered flight, 352 seconds. Altitude 100 miles. Out."

At retroburn, the astronauts, now suited and wearing helmets and closed visors, experience the G forces again, pressing them into their seats. Five minutes, 52 seconds later, the engine shuts down. The three men goggle at the lunar landscape below. "Man, oh, man!" Balchen exclaims. "Ever see anything like that? It's for real!" Biosensors indicate soaring pulse rates, as expected. Balchen tells Houston, "Maneuver completed."

At 65:41 into the mission (1:11 A.M., EST, October 7), the lunar module is pressurized. At 66:41, Balchen informs Houston, "Orbit completed. Crew standing by to board lunar module."

"Houston to four-six-eight. Roger. Board lunar module."

"Well," grins Schiller, "here we go, Doc. Let's take the elevator." Waving to Balchen, Wally eases through the connecting hatch in Apollo's nose, enters the lunar module and reaches for the TV camera Norlund hands him. Doc follows, securing the bulkhead. At 68:04:14 into the mission, Schiller tells Balchen on intercom, "Initiate disconnect."

"Roger. This is the tricky one. Disconnect!"

There is a jolt and simultaneously the lunar module's reaction control thrusters open up. Apollo and the service module drift away rapidly to continue in lunar orbit; a critical coast period begins for the lunar module. They are in touch by radio and telemetry with Balchen and with the earth network. Their signals are picked up by any of the three deep-space earth stations in line of sight with the moon. Information relayed to Houston is processed for action. Standing in the lunar module is like riding an elevator with a parachute harness. The astronauts have shock-absorbing armrests and handgrips. The initial coast period lasts 20 minutes, then the descent engine fires for 35 seconds, putting the module into a Hohmann elliptical transfer orbit designed to bring them toward final trajectory. Second coast duration to the low point of orbit is 58 minutes. This will put them into an orbit within 50,000 feet of the moon's surface. During 45 minutes of the second coast, there will be a gap in communications as they swing around the far side of the moon. Still ten minutes to go.

"We expect to tome out approximately 225 miles uprange of landing point," Schiller radios. There is a delay of 2.5 seconds (the time it takes for a signal to travel between moon and earth and back).

Then, "Roger. We read you."

Schiller and Norlund are not long alone. Soon Apollo, which maintains line of sight with the module for 75 minutes during descent, is back. "Four-six-eight to lunar module. You guys OK?"

"Roger," Wally says.

"You've a sight in store. Wait till earth pops up over your horizon!"

With Schiller and Norlund busy every moment, updating information, minutes slip away unnoticed. Suddenly, Doc exclaims, "I see what he means, Wally. Look!" Earth, now frighteningly large, looms up over the lunar horizon like a monstrous balloon. The planet is almost four times larger than the moon and bright. "The earth is a blue planet--and the shape of the continents shows clearly! Look at those hues! Wish I had time for a picture."

"I have you on optical tracking as well as radar," Balchen informs them. "Your values check."

"Roger," Schiller says. "Earth sure looks big. Wonder who lives there?"

The lunar landing site has been chosen so that the module can remain in direct contact with earth throughout its 24-hour stay, once it lands. It will, however, lose line of sight with orbiting Apollo. Now Houston comes in strong, the black-out ended.

"Bet you have a ringside seat."

"Houston, this is lunar module. Where are the Russians?"

As before, it takes almost three seconds for Houston to answer. It seems like an hour. "Russians far behind. Jodrell Bank still tracking them. No numbers. Do you read?"

"Roger." Switching to Balchen in Apollo, Schiller says, "Fire descent stage at mark. Three-two-one-mark! Can feel push."

"Roger," says Balchen with audible relief. "Your altitude 50,000 feet. Start descent braking phase. Will black out shortly."

"Roger. Gimbal [engine tilt] OK. Variable thrust OK at ninety percent."

Balchen no longer answers, but Houston comes in. "Houston to lunar module. Allow one-four-zero seconds--repeat, one-four-zero--to High Gate at ten thousand feet. Over."

At 69:29:23 into the mission, Norlund reads off to Schiller, "Altitude 10,070 feet. Approaching primary site, 45 degrees west longitude. We're nominal."

The site has been carefully chosen on the lunar equatorial belt, at a time when it is easier to protect astronauts against temperature extremes. During lunar "day," which lasts 14 earth days, temperature can soar to 210 degrees Fahrenheit; but at the programed time, this extreme is reduced to approximately 150 degrees Fahrenheit.

"Houston to lunar module. You can abort any time."

"Negative."

Schiller has scarcely spoken when Doc Norlund exclaims, "Oh, my God! Do you see what I see?" He points through the lunar module's big window. "Yonder, on the left."

It takes Schiller an instant to focus, but in the crystal-clear void, he can't miss it. It is a large, man-made object with landing legs deployed and some kind of symbol painted on its side. Descent rate increases as the module arcs over toward hover and touchdown. Schiller stares, saying nothing. A kaleidoscope of bitter disappointment flashes across his mind. At precisely 700 feet (1 minute, 55 seconds later), he informs earth, "Lunar module to Houston. Low Gate."

"Roger," comes back three seconds later. "Landing site OK?"

"Pretty grim."

"Say again?" There is undisguised alarm in the mission director's voice. This is Dead Man's Zone. Loss of power would mean almost certain disaster. And that's just one possibility.

"I think they've beaten us to it!" Norlund cuts in. "Something down therewith a red flag on it. Hammer and sickle."

"You're kidding!"

"Negative. We're at hover now. One minute, five seconds to touchdown."

Fifty feet off the surface, it is obvious the module will land beside a shallow crater about 100 feet across. Schiller initiates final thrust vector on gimbals. "Lunar module to Houston, it is the Russians!" He nudges Doc as the truth dawns on them simultaneously. "OK. Relax. It's an old lunar probe. Probably Luna 15, the one they sent up over a year ago. Nothing stirring."

"Roger. You down?"

No time to reply. Four seconds to touchdown, three before engine cut, a minor cloud of cosmic dust, blasted upward by the exhaust, envelops the module, fogging their vision. Instantly, however, unsupported by any atmosphere, the dust settles. Schiller and Norlund brace against the landing jolt, but touchdown impact is mild. The module legs appear to sink a few inches into the surface, then meet firm ground. The clock reads 69:32:23 from lift-off. One hour, 28 minutes, 9 seconds after separation from Apollo. The two astronauts shake hands, pat each other on the back. At 5:02 A.M. plus 23 seconds, EST, October 7, 1968, two American astronauts have landed on the moon. Every capital, every city on earth will hear the momentous news within minutes.

"We're on time, after all!" Norlund jokes.

"We've landed level," Schiller informs Houston. Lift-off at a steep angle would be impossible. "This is it!"

"Lunar module, this is Madrid. Houston is having relay problems. Heartiest congratulations from all. Do you read?"

"Some static," Schiller replies, "but read you OK."

"Roger. Repeat: heartiest congratulations from the entire nation! Wonderful show. Stand by." There is a 30-second pause, then Madrid resumes, "Pat on the back from the President! Open line by phone."

"Please thank the President," Schiller replies. "It was easier than expected. Thanks to Doc and Roy. Relay to Balchen. He's on the other side. Over."

"Request anticipated. Roy has choice comments! How far is Luna probe?"

"Estimate six hundred yards. Will investigate."

"Roger." Schiller and Norlund begin unfastening their harnesses. "OK, Doc. Let's get this show on the road."

Stage data readouts seem nominal. Methodically, the two men run through the prelaunch check list to condition the module's flimsy-looking, aluminum-skinned ascent stage for lift-off. The astronauts' sole means of lunar escape seems in good shape. "Everything's Go," Schiller informs Houston, 1 hour, 20 minutes later. Then to Norlund, "I can't wait to get out, Doc. I know you'd like to go first----"

"You'll make a beeline for that Russian probe!" Norlund kids him. "Go ahead, Wally. Suit up."

"Roger. Wonder when the Russians plan to get here?"

"Let them worry about that. We've enough problems to cope with."

All equipment nonessential to the lunar stay is switched off. Wally slips on a two-piece, loose-fitting "pajama suit." Its multilayer, aluminized thermal material insulates the wearer against radiatmion. It slips over the life-support system backpack. Next, Schiller dons boots, also reflective and easy fitting. Then, gloves worn over his lightweight space-suit gloves for added protection. Now, Schiller adjusts helmet and double visor while Doc checks his life-support system. This backpack includes enough compressed oxygen for four hours; contamination, humidity, pressure, ventilation, temperature and recirculatory control; electrical power; voice communication and telemetry facilities.

"OK, Doc!" Schiller claps gloved hands.

"Don't try anything funny till you find your legs." Norlund plugs his suit into oxygen and thecks the supply. "Stand by for decompression." He flips a handle that vents the cabin's atmosphere through a valve into airless space. "It's all yours, Wally. I'll hand you down the stuff." Schiller hangs both legs out of the open hatch, then seemingly floats onto the moon's surface, kicking up dust, which settles at once. "Here's the TV camera. Watch your step. And the tripod." Doc passes out the equipment. "Remember the outside antenna. Here's your still camera. Now the pick and the dust sample container. Forgotten anything?"

"Sure. Old Glory!"

"Ok. Here it is, with the telescopic flagpole. Set it up first, Wally."

"You bet. I'll keep in touch. Be gone at least three hours."

"See how you feel."

While Norlund secures the hatch, Schiller opens the scientific equipment bay hatch in the descent stage and removes a 15-cubic-foot package that would weigh 200 pounds on earth. Its lunar weight is a scant 33 pounds, but it includes a radioisotopic, thermoelectric generator that supplies power to six items: an ion detector, triaxis magnetometer, solar wind detector, seismometer, lunar heat-flow gauge and medium-energy solar wind gauge. Deliberately pacing himself, conscious more of muscle restraint than of effort, Schiller first plants the Stars and Stripes, then installs the equipment some 300 feet from the module. "Take it away, Doc. I'll switdi the camera to a 360-degree scan to give earth viewers more for their commercials! Have Goldsione report soonest on transmission quality."

"Roger. What's your dosimeter reading?"

"Nominal. This thermal suit is the nuts. I'm going for a walk."

Craters of all sizes and depths dot the landscape. Not a drop of water nor a speck of vegetation. Wally is reminded of a World War Two carpet bombing. Some craters are a foot in diameter and an inch deep. Others, in the near distance, are ridged with high escarpments. Everywhere, fine to coarse cosmic dust covers pumicelike porous stones with a firmer subsurface. As Schiller drifts along without effort, headed for the derelict Luna, he smiles to himself. Here is a piece of equipment the Russians kept so secret on earth it would have cost the life of any snooper to get near. At a glance, Luna 15 is even larger dian our Surveyor, but not as sophisticated. Three hours go like three minutes. Schiller collects several pounds of dust and chipped rock, repositions the TV camera. "Goddard says the TV pictures are of terrific quality," Doc tells him. "Boy, those Luna close-ups really turned on the Russians!"

"I figured they would. Where are the comrades?"

At that moment, Balchen's voice cuts in from orbiting Apollo. "Speak of the Devil! Here they come now! Fantastic. Boy, what a break. They've just fired the landing engine! Look west, you guys. They're below me now."

Just in time, Schiller spots a comet of bright flame descending rapidly toward the lunar surface, just over the horizon, west-southwest. Must be a good ten miles away. Probably more. Not a whisper disturbs the airless environment. "Thanks, Roy. Did you get it, Doc?"

"Negative. But I've noted the time. 72:37:33 into the mission. That's three hours, five minutes, ten seconds after our landing. So they picked up time."

"Informing Houston. Better come back in now, Wally. I'll decompress when you wave," says Norlund.

One hour, 55 minutes, 23 seconds later, it is Doc Norlund who spots the Russian lift-off while Schiller is busy in the module. Balchen sees nothing. Apollo is on the other side of the moon. Soundless, trailing a long plume of flame, the service module and Voskhod rise straight up, gathering speed visibly, then arching westward to a pin point, just like an earth launch.

• • •

At 02:57 A.M., October 8, EST, the Russian cosmonauts break their radio silence in accordance with General Staknovsky's orders. "Ardent greetings from Voskhod 9 to the peoples of the Soviet Union, Asia, Africa and Europe. We are already seventeen hours into a transearth trajectory after a successful lunar landing and lift-off. Our health is excellent." Moscow Domestic Radio interrupts a night program of music for workers:

Our heroic Cosmonauts are now on their way back from the moon! They are Comrades Colonel Ivan Petrovitch Protsenko, Captain Sergei Leontovitch Bogdanov and Professor Dmitri Alexandrovitch Malinin. On behalf of all the world's free democratic republics, our glorious comrades planted the flag of the U.S.S.R. on the lunar surface. Any moment now, you will see televised pictures of their achievement brought to you directly from the moon! Comrade Premier Kobelev has already sent heartfelt congratulations to our intrepid cosmonauts and created them Heroes of the Soviet Union by universal vote of the Presidium. They will be the first human beings to return to earth with the dramatic story of the greatest journey ever accomplished by man. The technical superiority of the Soviet Union in manned space travel, as in other fields, is once again manifest!

The Russian national anthem follows. Early-morning editions of Izvestia, Pravda and other newspapers carry this announcement verbatim as released by Tass news agency, but give no lunar landing details, no time estimates of an earth descent, no expected touchdown area. Flowery biographies of the cosmonauts are the only other material relating to the mission.

To President Lyndon Johnson, now asleep in the White House with a warrant officer guarding his door, this is merely Russian confirmation of news some 17 hours old. Jodrell Bank began tracking the homebound Voskhod as it escaped the moon's gravitational pull. Press Secretary Royal, awakened by phone, decides not to disturb the President. The earliest projected NASA estimate for the return of the Russian spaceship is the morning of October 10, EST. Plenty of time for an interim Presidential statement, if required. Moscow sends the White House a congratulatory telegram on the landing of our lunar module, but has published only a brief news item about the American mission. In the morning, the President decides to wait for the official Soviet announcement that the cosmonauts have returned to earth.

• • •

October 10, 1968: The President is up and dressed by eight A.M. The return trajectories of six earthbound men in two spacecraft--Voskhod 9 and AS-468--have been tracked not only by Russia's Gorky University radio-astronomy observatory at Zimenki but also by Jodrell Bank Experimental Station at Manchester, England. Jodrell Bank's estimate is that Voskhod 9 will land on Russian soil, probably in the Baykonur area, some time between 10 and 11 A.M., EST.

"That means they'll be landing in the dark, sir," General Remington points out. "Nine hours later, local time. Not recommended for a manned flight, even in clear weather."

CIA's Ludlow Swanson, present with the general, Secretary of State Smith, the Press Secretary and Ralph C. Oakes, NASA's deputy associate administrator for Manned Space Flight, remarks, "I don't think they had much choice, Mr. President. Valid information suggests their entire timetable was thrown off by that twelve-hour launch delay, and they had no option but to go and return as quickly as possible, with a minimum lunar stay."

"Two hours was an irreducible time," NASA's Oakes points out. "Just enough to check on-board systems, plant some lunar instruments and take a stroll. The alternative, to get them back in daylight, would have been a nine-hour lunar stay. And that they were not prepared to risk, for fear we might leave first!"

"Well, this way nobody gets hurt--we hope," says the President, philosophically. "Honors are about even, with maybe an edge for the U.S. We land first and they get back first."

"As Wally Schiller remarked," Jim Royal says, "they didn't waste much time hanging around!"

"What about our guys?" the President asks, suddenly serious. "What's the latest?"

"They're on time, sir, based on a trajectory of about seventy-two hours, with splashdown and recovery near Hawaii tomorrow morning," Oakes tells him.

"Let's hope it stays that way," says the President. "That lunar module lift-off and rendezvous gave the boys some sticky moments for a while, when they lost their computer ..."

"The deep-space relay immediately went into operation, sir," Oakes says loftily. "So the rendezvous maneuver was nominal, after all."

"Don't give me that 'nominal' stuff, Ralph," Johnson frowns.

At 2:30 P.M., Press Secretary Royal brings in the expected Tass bulletin from the teleprinter room. It is phrased in exultant terms, but carefully omits landing time.

This evening, Voskhod 9 and its three heroic cosmonauts made a perfect landing in the Kyzyl-Kum area after an uneventful journey back from the moon that lasted 71 hours, 55 minutes. "The spacecraft came to rest as smoothly as an elevator," said Comrade Professor Malinin, the cosmonauts' space surgeon, back from his first mission. "It was an extraordinary experience--almost beyond description." The three men are in excellent health and their equipment functioned perfectly throughout. Comrades Protsenko, Bogdanov and Malinin will undergo an immediate medical examination, followed by a postflight debriefing, after which they will fly to Moscow for a heroes' welcome, to receive from Comrade Premier Kobelev their well-earned award. The entire Soviet Union and the Communist world are delirious with joy at this fantastic achievement without parallel in manned-space-flight history. Congratulations are pouring in from every country. To the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, to its unmatched technologists and its gallant cosmonauts goes the credit for being the first people to complete a round trip to the moon. A postflight press conference will be held in Moscow at the U.S.S.R. Academy of Sciences, October 12, with Comrade President M. V. Starnev conducting the proceedings.

"Well," shrugs the President, making a sudden decision, "protocol says we must do it!" He lifts the receiver from the red telephone on his desk--the emergency line to Moscow--and hands it to the White House interpreter, Charles Freedman, former assistant secretary at the U.S. Embassy in Moscow. "It's all yours, Chuck. Ask to speak to Premier Kobelev's interpreter. Say I want to offer my personal congratulations on the splendid achievement of the Russian cosmonauts and to welcome the U.S.S.R. to an era of peaceful coexistence on the moon!"

There is a longish pause, then, "On behalf of the U.S.S.R., I want to thank you, Mr. President, for your congratulations and good wishes," and then, with a subtly different tone, "It is my understanding that your astronauts are on their way back even now. Our cosmonauts Protsenko, Bogdanov and Malinin would be happy to join the reception party at Cape Kennedy or in Washington to welcome them safely home."

Johnson's eyes harden. "They are welcome, of course," he says slowly. "I am sure they will want to know how their moon landing must have looked as seen from the moon."

Then, thinking to nail it down once and for all, Johnson adds, "It is a pity you did not announce your attempt earlier. We could probably have put our lunar module a little closer to your touchdown point and perhaps made it possible for your men to stay a little longer."

Kobelev shows signs of irritation. "It is not very good manners, we feel, to anticipate success, Mr. President. A little less fanfare about one's ambitions makes the winning all the more satisfying, don't you think?"

"Are you sure about the word 'winning,' Chuck?" Johnson asks sharply.

Freedman holds his hand over the receiver, "No question about it, Mr. President."

"Ok, tell him this: We were first on the moon and the world was our witness. Indeed, the world watched it happen, as they always will in a free society."

Kobelev's answer has a faint singsong of liturgy as the argument moves into familiar dialectics, "We came home first, Mr. President, as the world also knows. Once again the People's Democracies have proven their superiority in science as in all efforts of a collectivist society. Goodbye, Mr. President."

"Goodbye, Premier Kobelev."