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Flight Control Colonel Khalmuradov,” said the Flight Leader, pointing at the fat man with the red face.
    Khalmuradov nodded.
    “Assistant Political Instructor of the Special Cosmonauts’ Detachment Urchagin.”
    The colonel in the wheelchair turned his face towards me, leant forward in a slight bow, and removed his glasses, as if to take a closer look at me. I couldn’t help shuddering—he was blind; the lids of one eye had completely fused together, and whitish mucus gleamed dully between the lashes of the other.
    “You may call me by my first name, Bamlag,” he said in a high tenor voice. “I hope we’re going to be friends, Omon.”
    The Flight Leader didn’t introduce me to the generals, and nothing in their behaviour indicated that they even noticed I was there. I thought, though, that I’d seen oneof them during the examinations at the Zaraisk flying school.
    “Cadet Krivomazov,” said the Flight Leader, introducing me. “Well, shall we begin?”
    He turned towards me, folded his hands on his belly, and said: “Omon, I’m sure you read newspapers and watch films, and you know that the Americans have landed some of their astronauts on the moon and even driven around up there in a motor carriage. Their goals are supposedly peaceful, but that all depends on how you look at things. Just imagine a simple working man from some small country—say, in Central Africa …”
    The Flight Leader wrinkled up his face and went through the motions of rolling up his sleeves and wiping the sweat from his brow.
    “And then he sees that the Americans have landed on the moon, while we … You understand?”
    “Yes, sir, Comrade Lieutenant-General!” I replied.
    “The main purpose of the space experiment for which you will now be prepared, Omon, is to demonstrate that we do not lag behind the countries of the West in technology and that we are also capable of sending expeditions to the moon. At the moment it is beyond our capability to send a piloted, recoverable ship. But there is another possibility—we can send an automated vessel, which will not have to be brought back.”
    The Flight Leader leaned over the protruding mountains and small hollow craters of the relief map. A bright red line cut across its centre, like a fresh scratch made with a nail.
    “This is a sector of the lunar surface,” said the Flight Leader. “As you know, Omon, our space science programmehas mostly studied the far side of the moon, whereas the Americans landed on the bright side. This long line here is the Lenin Fissure, discovered a few years ago by one of our sputniks. Last year an automated expedition was sent to this unique geological formation to gather samples of the lunar surface, and the initial analyses have suggested that further investigation of the fissure is required. No doubt you know that our space programme is oriented mostly towards automation—it’s the Americans who risk human lives. We expose only machines to danger. The idea is to send a special self-propelled vehicle, a so-called moonwalker, which will travel along the bottom of the fissure and transmit scientific information back to earth.”
    The Flight Leader opened the drawer of his desk and began rummaging about in it with his hand, keeping his eyes on me all the while.
    “The overall length of the fissure is one hundred and fifty kilometres, but its width and depth are a matter of a mere few metres. It is proposed that the moonwalker will travel along it for seventy kilometres—the batteries should have enough power for that distance—and set up a radio buoy at its centre point, which will broadcast into space radio waves encoding the words ‘Peace’, ‘Lenin’, and ‘USSR’.”
    A small red toy appeared in his hand. He wound it up and set it at the beginning of the red line on the map. The toy began to buzz and edged forward—its fuselage was like a tin can set on eight small black wheels, with the letters USSR on its side and two eyelike bulges