Lights in the Deep by Brad R. Torgersen Page B

a U.S. Navy carrier.”
    Her eyes became fearful. “I am to be prisoner,” she said.
    “No, I don’t think so. Consider yourself…my guest.”
    Her eyes strayed out the forward window, to the lost L3.
    “Will be disgrace, in Moscow. Many repercussions. Myself included.”
    “The accident—” I motioned out the window “—was your fault?”
    “Nyet. Valves. Terrible design. They would not listen to me when I told them so.”
    “Why?”
    “I am a woman. The engineers are men.”
    She said it as if it were ipso facto. Then she pointed to my face and said, “White engineers listen to you?”
    I stopped short. As a matter of fact, they did.
    Well, most of them anyway. Some of the older ones who were Von Braun’s holdouts still thought of me as untermensch, but they tended to keep their opinions to themselves and weren’t part of the bigger picture anymore. The younger ones, the wiz kids, they were a little more hip. Many of them had gone to integrated schools. We didn’t exactly have lunch together, but they’d shake my hand and give me the same respect due all the other Astronauts.
    “If you knew there was a problem, whatever possessed you to launch in the first place? If an Astronaut suspected there was a glitch beforehand, he’d never let the countdown proceed.”
    “Is not so easy for Cosmonaut. Politics in Star City. Designer Korolev and comrades under great pressure to deliver results. Cosmonauts follow orders, not give them.”
    “Clearly, we’ve got some things to talk about,” I said.
    “Da.”
    I began warming up the Chiron’s reaction thrusters, so as to get some distance between ourselves and the wrecked L3.
    “Anything you want to say before we go?”
    “Nyet,” Raisa said, her voice turned bitter.
    “Okay then, hold on. The Chiron’s engines can provide quite a kick.”
    • • •
    Zaslavskaya was a quick study. Our first day out from lunar orbit, I ran her through a crash course on the entire cockpit, during which she asked many questions. Often my language grew so technical or abstract as to require us to break concepts down to simply-worded English, but she seemed to get the drift, and was openly admiring of the Gemini—especially the craftsmanship that went into its construction.
    “How do you get workers to produce such equipment?”
    “McDonnell hires good people,” I said, “and pays well from what I’ve been told. Of course, NASA wouldn’t have awarded them the contract if they had a reputation for shoddy work.”
    “Other design bureaus make spacecraft?”
    “McDonnell isn’t a bureau, it’s a company. And yes, others make spacecraft. North American was in the running to produce the ship that would go to the moon. Grumman is still going to build the lander.”
    “And they all make workers build quality parts?”
    “They have to in order to remain competitive with each other, though I have to admit we’re always kicking them in the butt for the things that still get missed. Like whatever killed Vic.”
    “Will company be punished for your co-pilot’s death?”
    “No, but the accident will be thoroughly investigated, so that they can find out what happened and be sure it doesn’t happen again. NASA can’t overlook something as serious as an Astronaut’s death. The public wouldn’t stand for it.”
    Raisa’s eyes grew hard. “When Vasily died, they did nothing.”
    “Who?”
    “Husband.”
    I stared at her. “I’m sorry.”
    “I was sorry. All Cosmonauts sorry. Vasily become Hero of Soviet People, but problem left in place to kill other men.”
    “Just how many Cosmonauts have died?”
    “You do not know?”
    “Star City doesn’t exactly broadcast it every time something goes wrong.”
    She grunted, shaking her head in disgust. “Moon booster kill two crews alone. No time allowed for investigation. Had to win against the Americans.”
    “They must have fixed some of the problems.”
    “And leave others untouched! Then Cosmonauts get blamed when