Laika

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. Of course space's first explorer cannot scream. She isn't human.

23 Oct '57

We prepare her canister in silence now. The team has hit a low point in morale. The secretary visits daily, struts around the lab, claps us on the back and calls us all heroes. товарищи мы победим! comrades, we will win. He crows, hands on his lapels to show off his shiny new medals. Nobody here feels much like a winner.

Her solemn brown eyes follow us as we move about the room. We each find ourselves entering the kennel more often to offer a scratch or a morsel from our lunches. We try not to cry in front of her but sometimes fail. She knows something is up. She is smart. It's why we chose her. One of the junior scientists breaks down one day, throwing a piece of metal across the room. He pleads with us to let him take her away. He is sent home for the remainder of the project. There is no getting around what must be done.

The senior scientists all pitch in and buy her a hunk of beef. It costs us a week of wages but no one complains. We all sit and watch her devour it. It takes her no time at all to finish, even with her licking the floor after. Of course she doesn't know the need to savor such things. Has no idea this may be her last taste of meat ever. We each scrounge bits of dinner from home, stuff them into pockets while at our tables then hide them in coats to smuggle in to give to her. It is only when the lead scientist tells us that she might not fit into the canister with such a diet that we stop.

28 Oct '57

As we enter the final week, the tension rises. It is now impossible to hide our sadness from her. Crying is frequent, a low thrum of sorrow coats everything we do. We tighten each bolt as if it will save her. We prepare every inch of the canister with love. It is love we feel for her, we all know that now. How disappointing it is that only in the moments before goodbye do we know ourselves most clearly.

At lunch, there is a strict system in place. We each get a turn throwing a crumpled paper ball for her down the corridor while someone keeps watch. The secretary no longer stops by, too busy preparing for the celebration of the anniversary. We are pushed daily by the lead scientist. The launch must not be delayed. She is put into the canister for hours on end, watching us all from her confinement. We cannot meet her gaze.

We prepare the agar for her flight, only one meal's worth. They insist her flight will be safer if we reduce weight in this way, but we know the truth. She will not need more than this. She will be gone.

31 Oct '57

As the days tick down to the launch, the lead scientist relents. He takes her at night to his home so she may feel the grass under her feet once more and play with his children under the dark sky that will take her life. As he removes her from the canister in the evenings, he is gruff but we see him. We watch as he buries his fingers in the fur at the base of her neck, works the wrinkles behind her ears with a thumb until she sighs with contentment and we know. He is like us.

Each morning when she returns to the lab, we dress her in her suit and place her back in the canister. We take turns doing it. She goes in easily, never struggles or fusses. She is brave. She licks the hand of a junior scientist as he whispers хороший пес good dog. Each night, the lead scientist removes her from the canister and takes her home to his family. We hear his daughter has grown quite fond of her, sneaking her into bed at night. It is impossible for anyone to resist her charms.

3 Nov '57

The morning of the launch arrives. We stand like mourners around a tomb as she is placed into the canister for the final time. She sniffs at the agar in the dish and turns up her nose. The lead scientist ruffles the fur on her head. не умирай с голоду ты испорченная корова don't starve you spoiled cow. He turns away striding towards the rocket but we see the gleam of tears in his eyes.

We take turns petting her soft fur and stroking her ears while a refrain of хороший пес good dog fills the air. One female scientist leans forward, weeping, to plant a kiss on her nose. Простите меня forgive me.

We act as pallbearers, carrying her canister towards the rocket. She is placed inside. She begins to pant lightly. This is a change in her usual protocol. She whimpers and we echo in kind. The lead scientist hushes us all with an irritated wave of his hand but tears remain in his eyes. The hatches of the rocket are closed. We step back.

Positions are resumed at the panels. Buttons are pressed in order. The engines ignite, the rocket launches. We follow it with our eyes until it becomes a streak in the sky, then a dot, then a speck. We are convinced we can still see it even when we know it's gone. The lead scientist weakly offers congratulations. We numbly give handshakes. The secretary pours shots. отличный день для нас! a great day for us. We take them solemnly.

****

That night, we each make our way outside of our homes. We stare up into the twilight sky and at every twinkle of light, we wonder if it is her.