I couldn’t hide my surprise, my shock. “Why?”

“Why Artemov, or why no Voskhod?” Triyanov was inhumanly calm, a gift, I was sure, from his days as a test pilot. At that moment I could never hope to emulate him.

“Either! Both!”

“Well, they’re the same thing. A month ago the big bosses had decided that the bureau was going to be run by Tyulin. Everybody was in agreement that no one man could replace Korolev, especially since even he had suffered a string of failures. Tyulin would break up the bureau into smaller units while the core—including this department—would concentrate on manned flights to the Moon, especially with Chelomei’s lunar orbit mission given to us.”

“That’s what I don’t understand: The ministers thought the bureau was being mismanaged, but still they wanted us to take over the Moon program.”

“Clans. Chelomei’s bureau is just as badly mismanaged, and he has the added burden of being hated by Ustinov, who felt that with an old pro like Tyulin as boss, our bureau—with some radical restructuring—could still do the job, which is to beat the Americans. Never forget that that is the goal.

“Our good friend Filin screwed everything up by succeeding with Luna 9, and with the dogs. Suddenly the bureau didn’t look so mismanaged.”

“But, shouldn’t that have worked to Filin’s advantage? Artemov was opposed to the dog flight, but it worked great!”

“In a perfect socialist paradise, it would have all been to the glory of Filin. But Filin’s Jewish mother has always kept him from making the kind of friends Artemov makes, such as the Hammer himself.”

I guess I had been blind. Filin’s Jewish heritage never seemed relevant. Certainly he gave no outward sign of any suspicious religious activity, unlike my father and even Uncle Vladimir, who were always saying, “Thank God,” “God be praised,” like old Orthodox peasants.

“So Filin’s good luck all landed on Artemov.”

Triyanov smiled, like a teacher hearing a student recite a multiplication table. “Now you’re getting it. It will still take weeks for things to play out . . . the Hammer has to wait for the Party Congress to distract Ustinov before Artemov can be officially crowned the new king.” (This was a little pun on Korolev’s name, which translated as “king.”) “But you will see him everywhere now. And, much as I like Filin, it’s good news for our little department here.”

“How?”

“Korolev wanted to create his own cosmonaut team, but chose not to challenge the Air Force directly. Tyulin wouldn’t, either, since he’s still a military man at heart. Filin really doesn’t care.

“But having pulled off this coup, Artemov is going to look for another battle, and he has always despised the military. He’ll try to kick their pilots off the crews completely, you watch.”

All these politics and machinations were too much for me. I wanted to be back at my desk worrying about numbers. Better yet, I suddenly wished I could go back to a classroom at Bauman, preferably about my second year, when I was happiest.

“Now, what is this?” Only then did Triyanov look at the certificate from IMBP I had placed on his desk. “You passed. Congratulations. How did you like it?”

“I learned a lot.”

Triyanov laughed. “Very diplomatic.” He slid the certificate back at me. “Well, when they picked the first military cosmonauts, no one had any idea what they would face, so they got perfect physical specimens and didn’t worry about intelligence.

“Pretty soon they discovered that intelligence was as important as physical fitness, which is how Feoktistov managed to sneak in. You’re lucky, Yuri: You have both, with the added bonus of youth. You could be making trips into space to the end of the century. You could walk on Mars.”

I remembered that Triyanov himself wanted to fly in space, at the age of fifty-five.

“There are lots of people around here with more experience,” I said, thinking of Yeliseyev, Kubasov, Grechko, some of my senior colleagues.

“Yes. They will get the first chances. They’ll become Heroes of the Soviet Union. But you will have more fun, I think.”

I stood to leave, then realized that Triyanov was still looking at me. “Is there something else?”

“I was a little worried about you, Yuri. You came out of nowhere, like someone’s favored son. I handed you the shit jobs just to see if you’d do them, and you have. I don’t care who your uncle is—” For a moment I thought he meant Uncle Vladimir, but he was speaking generally. “—take my advice and follow your better instincts. Over time, it is the only way.”

Was he warning me? Embarrassed and confused, I walked back to the kindergarten, where several other engineers were hard at work in groups, on the telephone, moving in and out with great purpose. Something I, at that moment, did not have. Or, rather, I had too many purposes. To better myself. To satisfy Uncle Vladimir. To make Marina happier with me. To make my father happier with me.

That night as I left the bureau and joined the legions marching to the Podlipki Station, I felt the first warmth of spring in the air. Places on the broken sidewalks and muddy streets were suddenly bare. Steam rose from heating pipes and chimneys, covering everything in a light fog, the way I always imagined London to look in the stories of Sherlock Holmes. I wished for Mr. Holmes’s brilliance that night, but felt only a mental fog.

I had not seen Marina since being released from the IMBP; impulsively, hoping to clear my mind or, at least, change my luck, I stopped at her building across the river.

Since she had resisted the idea of my medical tests, relenting only at the last minute, I had telephoned her first thing Saturday to tell her the good news of my hard-won certificate. Hearing that I had passed them did not ease her worries—it seemed to have the opposite effect. Suddenly she was “busy” that day. And Sunday.

And as she came down the stairs, she was already dressed to go out, and looked quite severe. If the appearance hadn’t been warning enough, she actually turned her face away when I tried to kiss her. “So now they’re going to shoot you into space.”

“No. The real reason for the medical testing was so that I could do my work in the department. Many things would have to happen before I could become a cosmonaut. I’m still not even a full-time employee at the bureau.” As I said all this, I could tell she wasn’t listening. “Is something else wrong?”

She shook her head forcefully, but unconvincingly. “I’m just worried about everything.” Then she did kiss me, which was enough to quell my growing anger. Maybe I was being selfish: Marina had troubles that had nothing to do with me. Her schoolwork. Her job.

“Where are you going?”

“Alla and I were going to a Party meeting.” Alla was a rabid young Communist friend from Marina’s hometown.

“Since when did I become less important than cookies and punch with the Komsomol?”

“I promised her I would go. I’ve made excuses the last couple of times.”

“Well, let me walk you.”

I felt our whole relationship hanging on her answer. “Please don’t,” she said, after a painful moment. She busied herself with her scarf and gloves. Then, with another kiss, she went out into the dark spring evening.

I thought about following her, then rejected the idea as juvenile. She clearly didn’t want to see me right now. Without saying so, she was giving me an ultimatum: Give up the bureau, especially the idea of being a cosmonaut, and she would come back to me.

But giving up that idea not only meant betraying my soul, it also carried a very real risk . . . .

It also meant going against Uncle Vladimir.