A Step Beyond

Colonel Schebalin would occasionally look up and over his shoulder at the wives behind the glass window, but never for more than a few seconds. He felt guilty, as if he were to blame. He told himself that he was no more responsible than anyone else in the room, somehow that didn't help. He felt the resentment of the wives and children. They did not display it in their faces or in their manner. It was not outwardly evident at all. But it was there. Whenever he looked up at them, they would smile sadly and politely nod their heads, and he felt more uncomfortable than he would have had they been pointing accusing fingers at him. He was certain they blamed him.

As Valentina Titov was led away to say her final goodbye to her husband, Schebalin looked down at his watch--it was five minutes until the press conference. He headed straight for the bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face, then grabbed a towel to stop the water from running down onto his shirt. He studied his face in the mirror. His eyes were encircled by dark rings. His lips were pale. He ran a comb through his hair and patted his face dry. It seemed to help. He took several deep breaths, straightened his back, and made for the conference room.

The room burst into blinding flashes of light as he entered. With his arms waving like a blind man's, he felt his way to the podium. The flashing subsided, and his eyes slowly adjusted. He recognized several of the reporters; many of them were regulars, assigned exclusively to the Russian space program. He also recognized reporters he had not expected to see, famous television personalities from the United States, Japan, and the European Community. They must have flown in last night, thought Schebalin, shortly after the story broke. The Russian press occupied the first several rows. Schebalin felt perspiration roll down his back; the room was unusually warm.

"Gentlemen and ladies, I have a short opening statement, after which I will answer any questions you may have."

With unusual quickness the conversations stopped, and after a brief rustling of papers and shifting of chairs the room went quiet.

"At 10:00 a.m. this morning we reached the unfortunate conclusion that a rescue attempt would not be possible. Without the ability to maneuver the Volnost, a rendezvous with the supply ship would take a minimum of twenty-seven days. As you know, the reserve tanks held only forty-eight hours of oxygen. The details are outlined in the press kits which will be distributed at the doors when you exit. The cosmonauts were informed at 10:05. They decided to continue their investigation of the explosion. We have reason to believe the ship was struck by a meteoroid."

Several of the reporters started shouting questions, but Schebalin motioned them to remain quiet.

"The press kits contain everything we know at this point." He looked back down at the prepared text. "As I stand here talking to you, the cosmonauts and their families are exchanging final farewells. President Kerimov will be speaking with them after the families. At 4:12 a.m., five minutes before their oxygen supply is scheduled to run out, the cosmonauts will confine themselves to their individual sleeping compartments, where they will take a pill that will painlessly end their lives. The Russian Space Agency deeply regrets the lost of these fine cosmonauts. We are conducting an exhaustive investigation and analysis. With the help of the data Commander Titov and his crew are providing us, our intent is to design ships that will reduce the risk associated with this type of collision and ensure that these brave heroes did not give their lives in vain."

When Schebalin finished he looked out at the reporters, his eyes moist and slightly pink. He smiled sadly.

"They were great men," he said. "I was privileged to call them my friends." He paused, not sure what to say next. He wanted to express his feelings. There was an awkward silence; for once, the reporters seemed at a loss for words. Schebalin cleared his throat. "Any questions?"

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