“I know the feeling. But you have to learn to relax, when there really isn’t a damn thing you can do to change the course of events.”

Michaels was right, of course. The Soviets and Americans had exchanged mission control staff for this flight, with some American controllers being stationed at Kaliningrad. And there at Tyuratam the Americans had been let into the cosmodrome as far as this observation bunker. But that was the extent of it. There was no way Seger, or any of the American staff, could exert any influence over the way this launch developed.

“I’m just glad they aren’t two of our boys up there,” he said. “I wouldn’t let this damn thing fly. Fred, we wouldn’t even man-rate the N-1.”

Michaels, sleek, in control, dug his antique watch out of his vest pocket and checked the time. “So the Soviet space program is all hat and no horse, eh, Bert?”

Seger sipped his drink. It was sour vodka, but the alcohol seemed to have no effect on him. “It’s not so funny when you know as much as we do, now, about the Soviets’ preparations for launch. They do a lot of checkout in their assembly building. But then there’s very little checkout once the thing gets to the pad. Hell, there’s hardly even any electronic monitoring gear there, and only a limited computer interface. It lets them get to a launch point faster, but at the cost of a hell of a lot of reliability. No wonder they suffered so many failures with this booster.

“And did you know they’ve got a roll axis with pitch and yaw control only? That damn thing can’t control its own flight azimuth, and they have to swivel the whole support structure to align—”

“Give me that in English, Bert.”

“The Saturn V can steer itself into orbit, with its onboard computer. The N-1 can’t. Depending on where they want to head, they have to point the thing…”

This was the Soviets’ main cosmodrome, their nearest equivalent to Kennedy. It was lost in Soviet central Asia, a couple of hundred miles east of the Aral Sea;, where the Americans used the Atlantic as their firing range, the Soviets used the huge, empty heart of their country. The nearest town was Tyuratam, a small railway junction fifteen miles away, which had remained poor, shabby, and backward, despite the spectacular cosmonaut hotel planted in the middle of it.

The launch facility in use today was isolated even from the rest of the cosmodrome, situated maybe twenty miles farther to the east. They’re taking no chances. And I don’t blame them.

Seger felt cut off there, isolated, impotent. I’m nearer to the Chinese border than I am to Moscow, even.