I am so glad that I took the time this morning to write down and e-mail my impressions of what the day is going to be like so that it could be published. The reality followed the expectations very closely. This sounds boring, but in fact, this reflects a certain encouraging maturity in the space enterprise.

In the last hours I am scrambling a little bit. I make some video recordings talking about how I feel: I am very sad that I’m leaving the station, leaving weightlessness. But I fail to record something that may be silly or may be important: how it looks when one “collapses” in weightlessness. On Earth, doing an imitation of fainting is a skill that is taught in drama schools. In weightlessness, one can simply cease to care and let go of practically all muscles, as if one fainted. I did it many times, always with the same result: my hands came up in front of me as if I was holding an invisible ball. My legs also lifted up a little, with the knees slightly bent. Michael LA also tried it; his arms did the same, but his legs rose less. We wondered if it was because of his long acclimatization to weightlessness. I forget completely about taking a picture of this phenomenon in the rush. But Suni is helping by taking pictures of me in the American Lab and Node posing in front of the flags of the countries participating of the ISS project, or doing gymnastics that would be of stunt quality if done on Earth. Unfortunately, the stuff I am taking back to Earth has been packed for two days, so there is no way to do last-minute ideas combining US and Hungarian flags, displaying patches, and the like. The moral is that everything has to be planned carefully, which it was, but there is little room for spontaneous ideas.

The station crew is very busy packing the living compartment with garbage. Some of the waste containers started to smell a little bit, and it was decided that they should not wait for the return of the Progress freighter, but that we should take them. So it is the first time that I had a faint whiff of garbage on the station. I reflect on all the KTOs (containers of solid waste, in Russian) that are lined up to be packed into our living compartment so that they will later burn up, gleaming in silver aluminum with solid bolts and seals and could, for all I know, serve in a movie as vessels of kryptonite or the dilithium crystals of Star Trek, but I know better what’s inside them.

We give away our last belongings that we can’t take back but do not want to throw away. Mike still has some fine food from his bonus pack. I give my official Advils to Suni (these are American headache pills, but Oleg also liked them).

I eat a light lunch. We get the first of three doses of salt pills that will help us retain fluids for the return. John Glenn warned me about these in our latest conversation. He said: “Take as much as they require, but definitely not more!” Just as the weightlessness caused a loss of fluids and a redistribution of what remained into the upper body and head, returning to Earth will require replacing the fluid loss and slowing the counter-revolutionary fluid displacement back into our legs, hence the corsets called “Kentavr” (Centaur).

The TV is turned on, and we do one more PAO (public affairs operation) saying good-byes. I get to hug Suni and shake hands all around.

Misha Tyurin briefs me on the timeline. As the time of the hatch closure nears, I get to start dressing in the space station so as to save time in the spacecraft. I start with the now-infamous diapers, which I wore once but did not use during the launch. On the way down we are supposed to “load up” with water, so diapers seem like a prudent precaution in case the salt pills do not work, just like they put my mind at ease during the trip to orbit. Next comes the three-piece Kentavr corset: one piece is like cutoff jeans, and the other two wrap the feet like shin guards. There is plenty of lacing, and Fyodor and Oleg decide how much they should be tightened. On my chest comes the medical “belt,” which contains sensors for temperature, breathing rate, and a three-point ECG. I put on the two-piece long underwear in brilliant turquoise, which is an occasion for a bit of ribbing by the others, but I do not care, because soon they will look the same. We need to cut a hole into the upper part of the underwear for the medical wires to come through; later I will be happy to have this marking that identifies the original article that I flew in. The white underwear I came up in had this hole already sewn in, but this underwear is produced by a different organization. Go figure.

I say quiet good-byes to Fyodor and Oleg. Oleg tells me how much he enjoyed flying with me, and I certainly felt the same. We remind each other of the planned reunions in December for the TMA-10 crew and in summer of ‘08 for everyone.

The time has arrived. We are ready to close the hatch. I go in first as the token turquoise, carrying a small, flat package with the last tapes and photo chips to be placed into the pocket of the space suit. Misha and Michael follow in their station clothes, which can be abandoned later. The hatch is closed with six turns of the special wrench, and now we are independent of the station but will stay physically connected by the steel hooks until everything can be verified. Meanwhile, down in the return capsule, I comfortably check all my belts and connections that always vexed me during training so that they are all clearly laid out. I stow the package that will go into my space suit pocket in a niche temporarily, and I set my watch to Moscow Statute Time (MDV), which is Moscow time except for the daylight savings bit, and which is the time we use in the Soyuz.

The long pole in the schedule tent is the verification of the pressure integrity of the spacecraft, which takes about 30 minutes. The plan is to dress me up in the space suit while this check is going on and deposit me in my seat first, while they can work in shirtsleeves and dress at the end of the 90-minute orbit. This is fine with me, since I am comfortable in the space suit—not all people are—and this way I will have a lot of time adjusting my seat belts, which are very important for a pleasant landing.

Getting on the space suit in zero G is so easy when you have help. I simply float, contort my body as needed, and it’s done. What a change from the difficult training in the weightless parabolic flight! I float down into the descent capsule, no sweat, and get ensconced in my seat where I will be staying until the landing. Misha helps me by checking all the connections and then goes back to his busy tasks. I am out of their hair. I check everything carefully and try to tighten every one of the six belts. Then I loosen them so that I am comfortable and can see more. I am happy with the seat liner; my being possibly taller did not affect the fit, although I do need to wiggle a little bit to find the exact place around my helmet and shoulders. As I float up a few inches, I survey the view through my window. I see the trusses and solar panels that I first saw on our arrival. Since my view is to the side and we are docked to the station from below, like a pilot fish on a shark, I cannot see the station body, just what hangs from it. I can also see the changes in light as the station is moving from light to shadow. I understand how lucky I was that I got my first glimpse of the station 12 days ago at this magic moment of sunset where the colors are the most intense.

Meanwhile, Michael has dressed and joins me in the capsule. He is taller than I and, although trim, has a bigger frame. It is not easy for him to squeeze through. Also, I, being already attached and on the opposite side, cannot help him. The ground starts being nervous about the timeline and is asking questions. We are in constant communications with Moscow center because even though the Soyuz has only the shorter-range (”line of sight”) UHF radios, the station can serve as a relay, and will do until the very last stages of the reentry—our return orbit will not take us away from the view of the station. I’ll explain this later.

Misha is still up in the living compartment getting ready, and Michael is handling the comm. He has an excellent command of Russian and patiently explains the situation. Finally Misha comes down, closes the hatch above us that separates us from the living compartment, and attaches the hoses hastily. The hatch above us will become the outer hatch once the living compartment is jettisoned, so its integrity has to be checked, which we will do next. Misha asks me to hold onto the onboard documentation books for the flight since all the other crannies are already full of stuff that we are returning to Earth. I am happy to help and guard the books that are always trying to get away from me like a bunch of cats. Misha suggests I hold them like a baby in my arms so they won’t hit anyone when the later violent reentry events come. I am a little apprehensive, but one way to look at it is that the g loads cannot be so bad if Misha trusts me with holding a small library during reentry.

We run through the space suit pressure integrity checks. We don the gloves. Close the visor—two clicks. Michael opens the valve to pressurize the suit. Misha’s suit is not pressurizing at all, but he tells us to continue with the checks. We complete the check, calling out .1 and .35 atmosphere pressures inside the suit, then deflate the suits and open the visors. Misha checks his connections, finds a kink in his oxygen hose, and repeats the test. He passes, which is good because only two tests are allowed; otherwise, way too much oxygen, which is used for testing, would get into our cabin atmosphere. As it is, we already have red lights on the control panel warning us of the elevated levels. I am just glad it was not my suit that had the problem.

We are ready for the descent capsule hatch pressure integrity check. I’ve done this test in the simulator myself, so I know what is going on. We start to depressurize the living compartment, watch its pressure, and at 550 mm mercury pressure, we issue the command to close the valve. By the time the slowly operating electrical valve is fully closed, the pressure will be at 500 mm, which is optimal for the test. If the seal not right, air will move from the capsule, which is at the normal 760 mm, to the other side, where the pressure is lower, and we would notice this. So Misha starts the procedure by opening a depressurization valve. Soon the time comes for closing the valve, and the valve does not close. The pressure keeps dropping. The command is issued again. The pressure keeps dropping. It is 300 mm now.

I mentally review what I know about this hatch. It has a peculiarity: if the pressure is low in the return capsule but high in the living compartment, it may deform—this is an important point one has to keep in mind in case of fire, for example, when the return capsule has to be depressurized. But now the situation is reversed. With the low pressure on the other side, the hatch will hold—if it has integrity, which is not proven yet—but there are no hissing noises or ear pops that would indicate a leak of air from the descent capsule into the now partially depressurized living compartment. Nor is there an additional red light that would say “давление падает” or “pressure drop” in addition to the “состав воздуха” or “air composition fault” red light that is already aglow from the suit checks. We have proven space suits that would save us in any situation. Clearly we have our first off-nominal situation of the flight, but there is no immediate danger. However, the pressure in the living compartment is still dropping.

Suddenly, in the midst of all the activity, the pressure drop stops at around 250 mm. The valve finally closes. The leak check can continue. We will measure any drop in the pressure in the descent capsule that might be caused by a failure of the double seal in the hatch, just like we checked the seal in the hatch between the living compartment and the space station earlier. Remember, there is no evidence of anything being wrong with the hatch. The problem we ran into was in the preparation for this leak check. But what are the consequences of this off-nominal low pressure in the living compartment? The documentation clearly states: “Do not lower pressure below 500 mm.” I speculate that it has to do with the possible use of the living compartment as a temporary refuge in case there were other problems during reentry—just like the Lunar Module was used as a lifeboat in Apollo 13. Using the resources of the living compartment, we could survive for two additional days while reentry problems could be ironed out. When the valve did not close this time, we were losing pressure, which is spare air that might be needed in such an emergency; that is why the concern about the pressure: we want it to be lower than normal so a leak check can work, but not too low so that we have ample air resources left. The ground chatter confirms my suspicion because they are organizing a refill of the living compartment with air from the station. They are talking to the station crew now and ask Fyodor, the commander, to bring a portable pressure gauge with him to the station hatch that we earlier closed and to briefly open a pressure-equalizing valve so that station air could start replenishing the living compartment.

Fyodor gets the idea right away, and he is ready to try cautiously so that we can get an idea about the air flow rates first. I do not think that this procedure was tried before, but all three parties—ground, spacecraft, station—understand their situation and roles and proceed to act so as to maybe make things better and definitely not make them worse. Is this improvisation, or the straightforward application of a very transparent and robust system to fix a simple problem? I cannot tell, but I am comfortable with Fyodor’s cautious small opening of the pressure-equalizing valve first and monitoring the pressure change. We have plenty of time in any case because the planned leak check can proceed in parallel—it is not disturbed by the low pressure; if anything, it is enhanced: the seal has to stand up to a greater-than-planned pressure differential. Once the small manual valve opening works, the time is cautiously expanded, and soon we have more than the 500 mm required in the living compartment at the cost of the station’s air pressure being reduced by 2 mm! This gives us an idea of the relative volumes of the station versus the living compartment: the station is about 100 times greater (500-250 mm divided by roughly 2 mm).

With all the checks done, we gratefully thank the station for the refill and start the automatic undocking process. Small electric motors through reduction gears and levers start the slow opening of the seven steel hooks that connect us to the station. What would happen if we could not undock? There is a backup procedure that uses explosive bolts to let go of the hooks—but this would render the docking port unusable and was never needed in the history of the program. The TV display shows us a crude image of the immobile docking port. After a couple of minutes there is the slightest wiggle on the screen, a green light that shows the docking contact goes out, a click, and we are on our way, driven by three strong springs that give us a bit of a push. The theatrical scenery of the trusses and solar panels is slowly passing by. It is going to be a long opera; there will be some boring bits before the fat lady sings. We coast for about 100 yards (100 meters), and then the small backward rockets that are just under my window fire, spitting star-like splatters of fuel residue every which way. I can see why it is a good idea to get to a decent distance first; it is not that these rockets are powerful—you can barely feel their thrust—but they could easily dirty up the windows and solar panels of the station.

Six minutes later, when the station is barely visible on the screen, the spacecraft turns and there is a longer, 30-second forward burn of the small engines to get us away from the station in a safe orbit starting behind and a little bit higher than the station. Because we are pushed to a higher orbit by the forward burn, we get further and further behind the station (remember how a runner running on an outer track in a curve would get behind the others even if he ran a wee bit faster?). The next orbit is spent with preparations of the computer systems. The old-fashioned but reliable machines, some running complex emulators, transfer dozens of numbers in tens of seconds, which is very interesting to watch. More modern computers do so much more in so little time that watching what they are doing is impossible; one simply has to hope that everything is fine. Slowly, one by one, all the transfers and tests complete. Mike hands out the remaining salt tablets and water packages—time to load up with fluids. We are nearing the time of the reentry burn. Misha carefully tests and reports our orientation through the periscope visor. The ground track is straight and the ground moves in the right direction—that is, backwards. The visor is a little like a bombsight and shows the features on the ground moving by very fast. But the purpose is just to check our orientation, so we simply pick up any feature—a cloud, or a lakeshore—and watch it move through the frosted glass screen on which the image is optically projected—no fancy electronics here. A point will pass through the 8 inch (20 cm) circular screen in about 2 seconds. If it moves along the hairlines etched into the glass, all is fine. If not, our orientation needs to be adjusted.

We are quite a bit behind the station now, but still within its line of sight, so our communication is fine. Less than one minute before the burn, the door protecting the engine opens. At the appointed time, the burn starts—with a smaller bang than on my first spacecraft—and we monitor the progress. I keep dropping my pencil to see how much we accelerate, it is very little. The accumulated speed slowly rises on the display. We need the 115.2 meters per second to get to our target area. Of course, this is the amount by which we slow down, but never mind; we can call it speed, or impulse, or we can call it delta-vee, which is change (delta) in velocity (v), as long as it gets us there. Misha calls out the various displays monitoring the fuel consumption and the fuel pressures—all indicating the general health of the engine. As various mileposts are passed in the burn, they are noted. There are many possible emergencies and many ways to recover from them. I’ve seen several in the simulator—short burns, long burns. But this one is for real, and the СКД engine works perfectly. The number I was staring at shows 115.3 at shutdown; the .1 m/sec difference, I later learn, was nominal. Now we are in an orbit that will cut below the station and intersect the Earth’s surface at our landing area in Kazakhstan. As we get slower and lower, we will start overtaking the station because now we are flying below it in a tighter circle.

The next interesting event is about 15 minutes away: the separation of the three parts of the spacecraft. The spacecraft retains its inertial orientation after the burn, and as we go around the Earth, it looks like we turn with respect to the Earth’s surface. After half an orbit, we will be going forward. If you do not believe me, take a stubby pencil with an eraser around a globe. Point the eraser in the direction to its path—that is the braking burn. Now continue to go around the Earth, but the pencil should remain in the same position relative to the room—which represents the “inertial” space in which gyros and the like live. By the time you arrive on the other side, the pencil tip will point in the direction of the orbit, and the eraser will be opposite to it. Now you get a small taste of relativity.

Inside the cabin we just look around in wonder. We are getting lower and lower, and the features that we see move seemingly faster and faster. Since our arrival to Earth—one way or another—is now assured by our orbital path, we can release the precious reserve air from the living compartment so that it won’t complicate the separation—we do not want the car-sized living compartment to run around wildly after separation like when you let go of an inflated toy balloon and it goes “pffft…” This way the air actually leaves through a special two-sided nozzle so that it does not create a net push.

The moment of separation in our automatic reentry mode is determined by a precise time. Six minutes before, I unstow the reentry hand controller and hand it to Misha. We all close our helmet visors to assure an added level of safety and to look very cool. I leave my glasses off so I will be more comfortable. I won’t be writing notes because my hands are full, and I can see the key numbers, although not all, without glasses. At the appointed moment there is the sharp sound of the explosives cutting through metal and various lights and displays announce the return capsule’s sudden independence. We are now on the internal oxygen, the internal batteries, the internal stabilization, the internal carbon-dioxide scrubbers, down to the wire.

Looking outside my window, I notice a large 1 by 3 foot (30 cm by 1 m) panel of black insulation cloth torn free by the separation flapping outside of my window. Yes—floating free, but also flapping back and forth like a sail in a stately way, at one point even coming into contact with the skin of the spacecraft not far from the window, and I can hear and feel the impact. Then it is grabbed by some unseen force and disappears behind. We are not in deep space anymore. There is some miniscule amount of air, that at our speed of 5 miles a second—Mach 25—can push on pieces of debris, and probably soon we will feel the push, too. We are also facing forward because the debris disappeared to the back. I can also see the ground go by very fast and seemingly very close, scenes from the Arabian peninsula. All of this is a little disconcerting because our main heat shield is behind us—we should start turning around soon so that the heat shield will face the wind.

But I should not really worry about this because I know that the capsule is designed with its center of gravity so that it will right itself naturally and remain stable in its correct orientation. All the careful measurements of our centers of gravity (mine was near my stomach, if you remember) and the placement of the returned freight near the center of gravity are all paying off now. The spacecraft is slowly assuming the correct position with heat shield forward.

We do not feel g-forces yet, but the superthin air around the spacecraft as it is compressed by the spacecraft body is turning into superhot plasma. There is so little air here that the heat is negligible even though the temperature is very high. To me, plasma looks like a pinkish glow outside the windows that obscures the view. We seem to be immersed in a sea of Pepto-Bismol.

Now the G meter on the screen starts to climb. Outside, the pink is replaced by a more transparent smoke and occasional balls of fire like the breath of a monster in a very cheap Godzilla movie. I have the impression that we are going steeper; it must be an illusion from the attitude of the spacecraft that is starting to generate some lifting force which we can use for steering our path.

At .5 g’s I am starting to be impressed—I feel like I am back at normal gravity—but what if it keeps climbing? At 1 g, I feel a real push like I remember for 2 g’s. As the g’s rise, so does the lift and the computer’s ability to control our path. This is done through rolling the spacecraft so that its angled position pushes the flight path to the right or to the left, just like a downhill skier turns by rolling the skis slightly. The sound I hear is exactly like the swishing sound of skis—is it the hypersonic air rushing by, or is it the hissing of the nozzles that control our rolling and use superheated steam from concentrated hydrogen peroxide? We turn more back and forth when we are high on the return curve that is shown on the screen and turn less when we are low. I’ve done it manually in the simulator, but it is also good to be just an observer—I observe Misha observing the system to see if he needs to take over.

All is running nominally. The g’s continue to climb. I use the tummy breathing technique I learned in the centrifuge. I do not feel any of the “lump in the throat” illusion I was warned about. The g’s level out just under 4, less than expected, and they do not feel excessive despite the initial impression of the change from weightlessness. The fire outside continues unabated. Inside, we do not feel the heat except that the windows start glowing reddish and then they turn black starting at their bottom edge like you would see a sheet of paper turning black in a fireplace. Soon we are sitting as if night had suddenly descended on us. But this was just the outside pane of the triple window. And most of the heat is carried away by the air itself even before it has a chance of heating the capsule—we are truly air-cooled; the high temperatures just singe the spacecraft body and the windows, but they do not really heat us up.

In about five minutes the g’s slowly come down again. I am hanging onto the library that was entrusted to me. I fiddle with my seatbelts to get them tighter. But before everything quiets down, and before I can check the timing for the next event, I feel the tremendous jerk of the parachute system opening. I focus on some small detail on the instrument panel ahead of me, as I was told to, and remember how we are now hanging by a roller bearing at the end of the parachute line. But there is not that much rotation or swinging; soon the progressively softer jerks announce the opening of the braking and main parachutes. I manage to hang onto my books. The risers of the parachute also serve as an antenna—Misha can now make contact with the rescue forces and gives a very complete report according to the set schema: the crew is well (he asks us first), the exact times when the key events like separation actually occurred, the accumulated impulse (the 115.2 that everybody is looking for), and the method of reentry, which is automatic on the digital “tight-cycle” system. This lets the ground draw all the conclusions and properly prepare for our reception.

Four minutes later we are at 15,000 ft (5 km) altitude. A bunch of the remaining pyrotechnics fire—the spacecraft must have started with hundreds of these explosive squibs that are working so well and do so many different tasks in this most unusual manner. We drop the heat shield to expose the soft-landing rockets and the gamma-ray (which is to say radioactive) altimeters in the base of the spacecraft. The burnt-up outer panes of the windows are yanked off by a steel cable that connects them to the head shield. The suspension of the main parachutes is changed from the side of the spacecraft, where the parachute container is, to a symmetric suspension so that we will hit the ground upright. Far from being violent as we were warned, this “rehooking” maneuver lets us fall free for an instant and thus reminds us of the wonderful feeling of weightlessness that we left not so long ago and which we will miss so much. The remaining peroxide is vented so that the spacecraft will be not dangerous on the ground. Vents are opened to the outside air that is still a little thin for the taste of the responsible air-checking instruments, and because they do not know that we are almost home, red lights start flashing again. Finally, our seats are raised into their landing position, just as we saw it in the factory fit checks, except that the pyrotechnics here are a little firmer than the compressed air was in the factory.

With sun shining through the now clear windows, and in radio contact with the recovery helicopters, the remaining eight minutes go very fast. Misha reminds us to keep our mouths shut—so as to protect our tongues—and I work on my belts for the last time and wiggle myself as deep and as comfortable in the liner as I can. The unusually heavy feeling of gravity here helps a lot. Sightseeing is not an option. I embrace my books and hang onto the comm stalk between my knees that is designed for this purpose so that our hands won’t flail. I am as ready for impact as I ever will be. The helicopter pilot who is pursuing us and has us in his sight is calling out our altitude above ground. When he says 100 meters, I start counting in my head and clench my teeth lightly. We should be sinking 10 meters a second. At eight I see the yellow (not green) посадка light come up, and almost immediately feel a single substantial crash. I know that at three feet (80 cm) altitude the gamma rays emitted from a radioactive substance in the “Kaktus-2″ altimeter units reflected from the ground and triggered the “soft-landing rockets,” really just explosives that softened our impact. This system was originally designed for airdrops of military equipment, and as such it achieved a high volume and high reliability. It is also very dangerous if not approached with proper caution.

I feel no aftereffects, no pain. My vision is clear. I still have the books. Now the spacecraft trips on its side, being dragged by the parachute on the ground. As we slide, what seems like quite a distance, the body of the spacecraft rotates, and I wind up hanging sideways. At this point, I lose the books as they escape from my embrace under my chin as we turn. Finally, all movement stops.

I survey the situation. My left arm is very heavy when I let go of the stalk and let it hang. Otherwise, I feel fine, and the rescuers are just minutes away, judging from the last helicopter report. I can breathe well—I was warned that there might be a problem there—and I see that we are opening the faceplates, so I open mine as planned. My comrades are uncharacteristically quiet and inactive. We are all hanging sideways, with Mike on the bottom, Misha in the middle, and me on the top. Mike is buried under a few lose books and also under the reentry hand controller. He makes no motion to clean up the mess but does not seem to be injured. Misha is very quiet. Given that there is no emergency and the rescue forces are close by, we all need to keep our seat belts on tight until otherwise commanded, so there is nothing for me to do. But I am puzzled. Is my commander all right? Is my flight engineer all right? The mood seems to have changed in the capsule from all business to deep fatigue during the last few minutes as I was focusing on my getting settled in the seat. There seems to be something about returning from a long-term spaceflight that saps even the strongest people. I think to myself, if this was an unscheduled landing in a hostile environment, being out in the rain wearing socks, as I was during the exercise, would be the least of my problems. I feel guilt like a soldier in battle who is not injured while his teammates are.

The rescue team is around the spacecraft now; I can hear them speaking through the spacecraft wall, but I can understand only fragments. They are waiting for our last antenna to deploy by yet another explosive pyrotechnic device. This happens by default eight minutes after landing. Isn’t there a command we can give to deploy it earlier? Isn’t this in our checklist? I do not know the exact answer without the manuals, and it is easier just to wait than to bother my crewmates with what is just curiosity. Sure enough, we soon hear the explosion of the squib, and then feel the spacecraft being rolled a bit so that we are now with the head down. This sounds uncomfortable, but we were briefed about it during training, and it makes sense for the coming extraction—this is why we were to keep the seat belts on tight. Soon we hear the noise of the hatch being opened, and a curious soldier’s face appears. He is pulled back by our official paparazzo, who quickly takes a bunch of photographs through the tunnel. Then the paparazzo is pulled back by our doctor, who takes a look and tells us that Misha is to go first, then me, and then Mike. I signal Mike that I could stay behind if he wanted out first, but he declines. I watch as the ground crew loosens Misha’s belts and contacts, which puts Misha squarely on the top of the hatch which opened inwards and below the seat that is on the top of the capsule. So Misha can simply slide or crawl forward on his belly and be pulled out the tunnel by the doctors outside. When my turn comes, it is all very simple; we undo the connections, and I crawl on the shiny cover of the hatch—which, by the way, doubled as a UHF antenna when the hatch was closed—to the outside. I grin giddily as the doctors get me and hand-carry me to the lounge chair set up a few steps away. The chair is covered with fine furs. The doctors calm me constantly: easy, slowly, carefully, do not move, keep still.

As I am placed in the chair, I am becoming aware of a number of things. The weather is wonderful; the sun is still shining. It is about an hour from sunset. I take off my headphones, which makes me feel better. I still feel very heavy, and I have a few vestibular illusions, the most pronounced of which is called—as I later learn—the “tilt translation.” When I nod, I get the impression of my whole body moving back and forth. When I turn my head from side to side, I get dizzy. No problem, I can just listen to the doctors and keep my head stiff and still. My poor vestibular system, having finally adjusted to the signals of weightlessness, is now facing a completely different environment that it has to relearn. I can see how it would be much worse for my comrades, who adapted to a much longer period of weightlessness.

A few feet from the chair, behind a makeshift cordon, is what looks like a big throng of various people, some in uniforms, some in lab coats, and some with cameras—50? 100? Where did they come from? Only 15 minutes ago, this was an empty desert landing site.

A nurse offers me an apple. I munch on it eagerly, even though it is a little mushy, but after two bites the nurse says “enough” and takes it away. I manage to get it back a little later. My support team is there; Anousheh Ansari is there to see her original crew, Misha and Mike; and there are reporters only a few feet away asking questions. I feel chatty and enthuse away in English and Hungarian, but I won’t turn my head. My doctor slips an instrument on my index finger that gives him my main vital signs—they are all fine.

We pose for pictures, with the doctors sometimes shooing people away or themselves posing with us or taking pictures. Misha and Mike seem to be doing fine. We are grabbed by the doctors and nurses and carried into a large inflatable tent that appeared in the meanwhile. We are placed on cots. After a little rest, it is time to take off the space suit, which is ordinarily no big deal except that it necessarily involves some head movement. I get a lot of help, and slowly I am out of the space suit at the cost of getting a little dizzy. Now they can take a look at me. My blood pressure is fine. There are no marks on my back—I am happy to hear that, and it confirms my impression that the seat protected me well during landing. I get into a flight suit. I take a few steps within the tent but prudently let myself be carried to the next station: an impressive all-terrain vehicle of obvious military heritage, with another cot inside that will take me to the helicopter nearby. There I get to chat with the pilot a little bit; the helicopter is a Mil-8. I am happy to hear that it has two engines. I ask the pilot to take us on a scenic flight around the landing site, but alas, that is not to be. I realize how little I saw of the spacecraft and of the process and resolve to come to the landing of Oleg and Fyodor in October. By now the crew is separated; we all have our own helicopters, which seems like a luxury, but in fact, all the helicopters are full of personnel and material that support the recovery. I get a nice cot in the helicopter and get to sign the wall next to the signatures of other cosmonauts. I am very comfortable with a survival jacket over me as a blanket. When we take off, I glimpse for an instant what is on the ground, but it is almost dark now, and I happily fall asleep for the 90-minute flight to Karaganda.

When I wake up, we are practically at the airport. We land in helicopter fashion and transfer by car to the main terminal where a throng of journalists is waiting. I am reunited with the crew and whisked into some back office. This is a great opportunity to go to the toilet finally, and with my doctor standing guard outside, I get to sit down. Standing is still discouraged—we do not yet have “orthostatic tolerance.”

There is the first of many press conferences. We are first given traditional Kazakh hats that are unlike any other hats I’ve ever seen and then asked the questions. I had some nice Hungarian quotes ready for the Hungarian media that followed the trip. We get gifts, books, and a golden reproduction of the symbol of Karaganda: a miner holding a giant lump of coal. When the conference is finished, it is nice getting back into the familiar cosmonaut’s jet on which we came down to Baikonur two weeks ago. We are flying home to Star City. On board I have my own cabin and cot. I grab a little food and get a bottle of cold beer, plus a taste of the Hungarian digestive Unicum whose delivery was specially organized by General Korzun.

Before going to bed, I have to move a video camera to make room. It is identical to the camera I used in space for the last two weeks. I am astonished by its weight; first I think I am a victim of a practical joke. I inspect it; there are no tricks. Things are just very heavy on Earth. But stretching out on the cot, I feel very relaxed. While weightless sleep was very nice, there is also something to be said for gravity, and in space I sometimes missed the feeling where at least one half of your body is relaxed—the half away from the surface of the bed—and you can change which half by turning. In space, the minute tension that you experience in your body in all directions never seems to go away; this is not unpleasant, just different. But now I can compare these sensations and fall into a very pleasant sleep all the way to Moscow.

It is 2 a.m. when we arrive, but there are a lot of people waiting, including my brother. We are led down the air stairs by our minders arm-in-arm. At the bottom, a small pandemonium, flowers, pictures, a few steps to our autobus. The ride from the air base to Star City is very quick with no traffic. At the entrance of the “profi” where we live, we have a military band, and the girls with the bread and salt welcome us, just like what I saw when Anousheh and her return crew arrived last September. The unusual hour puts a little damper on the festivities, and soon I am in my new room downstairs with lots of unopened baggage from my old room upstairs in the same building and from my room in Baikonur—it was certainly a complex trip even just with respect to my luggage. My crewmates are in the next rooms, and we get our orders for the next day: the doctors are coming starting at 8 a.m. I’ve already slept about three good hours, and I am ready to continue. I sit in the bathtub—standing is still not an option—and use the hand shower and then hit the bed. I am a very happy camper back on Earth.

Waking up I realize that this may be the last time for a while to experience the wonderful feeling of slumber while floating. Now my sleeping bag is tied up in a hammock fashion, so it affords me some more movement and feels like a cross between being on a boat at anchor and the usual floating in a pool. I have lots of things to do on Earth, but I hope that technology will advance and maybe I can come back one day with less preparation.

I think today will be again like a big simulation, with some added special effects. I am looking forward to flying with Misha Tyurin and Michael Lopez-Alegria, if only for the two hours. After lunch we will start putting on the anti-G garments, called “Kentavr.” We’ll have a little ceremony and enter the TMA-9 spacecraft—it has been recently relocated to the aft port so we all have full confidence that all of the systems are fine. (It is worth noting that I have not seen any failures yet that would have made it necessary to activate any backup systems—not on the launcher, on the trip up, or on the station.)

Once we seal the hatch and become independent, we will spend about an hour still physically latched to the station while the pressure integrity is carefully checked—essentially the big manovacumeter is used to see if there is any pressure drop in 30 minutes—and we will don the space suits and get seated very carefully. Then we will unhook, back up, and perform our deorbit burn to slow us down by exactly 115.2 meters/second speed (about 250 miles per hour). This will put us on an “orbit” that intersects the Earth near the recovery area.

The next major step is separation. When the sensors start feeling the effects of the atmosphere (either by the minute deceleration, by the first heat generated, or by the crew noticing the glow of plasma), the three sections of the spacecraft are separated by explosive bolts so that the heat shield needs to protect only the return capsule. When the atmosphere becomes denser we will feel up to 4.5 Gs and a lot of heat will be generated—but most of it is taken away by the terrific “wind” of plasmified air around us. Radio communication will not be possible, and from the ground we will look like a big meteor. The spacecraft will be steered a little bit by rolling it slightly—like a skier changing the angle of the skis downhill. By making more turns we can land earlier; by making fewer turns (technically they are called “roll reversals”) we can land farther or a little bit to either side.

When the heat shield has done its work, a series of small, medium, and large parachutes open, each tossing off the previous one. The large parachute is then “rehooked” so that the capsule hangs vertically under it. All of these events are accompanied by violent jerks and twists that will challenge our vestibular system for a few seconds—all we have to do is not move our heads or gaze. There are also good opportunities for further tightening our seat belts as we literally get shaken deeper into our seats. After a carefree float toward the ground, the seats will be hiked by about 10 inches, a green light will signal the imminent landing, and the “soft landing” rockets will fire (or really explode) under us, which will be indistinguishable from the impact itself.

The spacecraft will probably be dragged to its side, and we’ll be hanging on the seats. It will be 45 minutes to local sunset. The rescue forces will arrive soon and get us out one by one. If they are not close by, we can get out ourselves and wait.

I am very sad to be leaving, but also really looking forward to being back on Earth. See you all soon!

Let’s take a quick familiarization tour through the space station, like the one Suni Williams gave me soon after my arrival. The station is basically a long tube, like an airliner, that is flying with the floor always oriented toward the Earth. So we can talk about the “front” in the direction of the travel; the “back,” port, and starboard as on the ships; and up and down where the ceiling and the floor are. A submarine is also a good image in that the different segments are separated by bulkheads with substantial airtight hatches that can be closed in case of a leak. Air ducts and communication cables pass through the openings; these all have quick disconnects or can be cut with an emergency wire cutter so that the hatch can be closed. Just like a historical building, such as the Tower of London, the different segments also tell a story of how the space station was constructed: the separate segments were manufactured by three different major subcontractors, two in Russia and one in the US, lifted into orbit one by one, and some of them were joined automatically, so they were capable of autonomous flight at some point in their past. This explains the bewildering differences between the designs of the different sections, not only in the fire extinguishers (three different kinds), the communication panels (also three kinds), and even the electrical power (two different kinds, neither of them the usual 110 or 220 Volt AC). Many of the sections also have fanciful names from the time when they were on their own, like “Sunrise” or “Destiny,” but nobody uses these, and I will refer to them like we did during training and flight.

Let’s start in the back, in the Russian segment. There is a docking port here where the Soyuz TMA-9 is docked right now. I am going to return on this Soyuz to Earth, and I am also assigned the living compartment of this Soyuz as my sleeping berth, so my sack with my clothes and my private things, books, cameras, and the like, are stowed here. Coming through the small air lock, we arrive at the back of the Service Module, the most used space in the station. Immediately to the right is the ASU—the toilet, more about this later. On the left is a wall with tools. Now we enter into a larger volume, which is a cross between a bachelor apartment and a New York camera shop. To the left and the right are two crew cabinets of the size of a stand-up shower, with a sleeping bag on the wall and a window with a fancy mechanical iris-like window shade. The view from here is sideways, with the horizon showing. Overhead is a little shrine with various mementos left by the crews: a picture of Gagarin, a golden cross, some icons from the Russian Orthodox faith. On the floor is the American-built treadmill, which is the most important piece of exercise equipment.We immediately bump into the dining table, which incorporates two food warmers and also serves as an all-purpose work surface. The table is surrounded by the small rubberized garbage bags attached to the handrails. Above the table on the wall is the hot water dispenser.

Next, on the floor there is a large folding panel that hides an unused exercise machine and covers the large optical-quality window that is usually covered up from the outside as well to protect it from micrometeorites.

The surface panels are mostly covered by Velcro (the loopy kind, which in Russian is affectionately called “mama” Velcro, as opposed to the hooky variant that is, naturally, the “papa”). There are signs of spilled drink droplets everywhere. There are also lots of elastic belts to hold things, and handrails in a seemingly haphazard pattern. The handrails on the floor (and anywhere else, for that matter) are very important as places to “sit” with both feet hooked under them. The handrails on the walls are used for flying about. A great abundance of lenses, cameras, flashes, manuals, laptops, switch panels, cables, fire extinguishers, communication headsets, and other tools are all over the place in an organic pattern that was established by years of occupancy. For example, in one particular niche, we have a roll of adhesive-backed “papa” Velcro, which is a very important commodity. Many items have a piece of this Velcro on them and can be safely attached to the wall since the Velcro does not have to carry weight. A big camera can hang by a half-inch patch of Velcro on its side. Other items are slipped under elastic bands and bungee cords that are also stretched over the panels. On the ceiling there is a big atlas of the Earth under a bungee.

Larger functional units are in fixed places that are familiar from the ground mock-up: on the right we have the primary and backup oxygen generator, the carbon-dioxide scrubber, the amateur radio (ham) set, and the backup computer control. On the left, the medical cabinet with supplies and medical electronics. Going forward, we reach the “central post,” a kind of bridge of the station with the warning panel with the three red lights signaling danger surrounded by other yellow and green caution lights. There are also four laptops that show the status of the systems, the daily schedule and the map of our ground track. To proceed, we have to fly over the bridge through a hatch into a larger spherical adapter that connects us to the next section of the Russian segment, the FGB. But connected to this adapter is a large cylinder than hangs below the fuselage, called the docking compartment (DC). It is used as an air lock to start Russian space walks from, and it can also accept a Russian spacecraft docking below. Right now we have a Progress freighter docked here. It is half-full of supplies and half-full of garbage, since the freighter is turned into a garbage truck when the supplies are all unpacked, and it will carry the garbage back to a fiery destruction in the atmosphere. The DC is dominated by big air bottles and the large Orlon space suits that are used for space walks. There is a large hatch that opens to space, and, most importantly, there are windows that look forward and back since we are below the fuselage. Actually, the view is slightly to the right because the forward straight view is blocked by the next Soyuz that is parked at the next port.

But let’s continue to the FGB, which is the Russian abbreviation for functional cargo block. This pretty much describes this narrow corridor whose panels cover up lots of equipment and also about a dozen compartments full of supplies. Large cargo secured by bungee cords covers the floor in a heap of about two feet high, further reducing the space. We have there numerous empty aluminum containers that are stacked like paper cups. We have a six-foot-long spare oxygen generator. We have maybe 50 cases of food rations. We have a fascinating piece of an unused large, heavy-duty tool board that seems to contain in a secure fashion a complete locksmith’s workshop, including a great assortment of taps and dies—I may be completely ignorant of the purpose of this but would be willing to wager that it will never be used.

Another important function of the FGB is to serve as the bathroom where we can clean up. The personal care kits of the crew are Velcroed to the wall, and next to them everyone hangs their towels, folded around the handrails, to dry in the airflow. This is very practical because the moisture will be recovered by the air conditioners and will be used to generate oxygen. Suni shows me how one can get some privacy by partially closing the large hatch, which signals the others that a sponge bath is in progress. One gets the impression that this bathroom arrangement was a complete afterthought, including the small water fountain that was cannibalized from a Soyuz.

After the hatch, another spherical docking adapter, smaller than the aft one and with one Soyuz docked underneath—TMA-10, the one I flew up in. It is going to be the lifeboat for the next six months, so it is carefully deactivated and ventilated with warm air from the station.

This adapter marks the end of the Russian segment. The next transfer tunnel has a slight S-turn in it downward because it is a copy of the tunnel in the very front that needs to connect with the space shuttle in a particular way. The walls are covered with plastic bags containing clothing for the long-term crew: there are T-shirts, exercise shoes, and so on. Since there is no laundry, and there is a lot of wear, more clothing is necessary than one would assume. Misha Tyurin’s famous work pants are an exception; he has mended them so many times that they have became a revered object.

Exiting from the adapter we find ourselves in the first large space of the US segment, called simply the Node. It connects forward to the US Lab, and to the right we have the US Air Lock.

The ambience in the US segment is more science-fiction like. The hatches are large and rectangular and disappear behind hidden panels. The walls are gleaming metal, rather than dull Velcro. In the air lock the two US EVA suits sit across from each other like sumo wrestlers in the ring.

There are TV cameras watching. It is not HAL, the computer, but Mission Control, who can see what is going on at all times.

The Node also houses the exercise equipment that is a fancy weight machine with a harness and adjustable bungee cords creating the load. The Lab also has a stationary bike for exercise, a truly excellent medical cabinet like the best ambulances would have, lots of cabinets for experiments, numerous laptops, and a console for the large Canadian arm that is used to help construct and maintain the station. There is one large Earth observation window in the floor that is not always uncovered, but when it is, the view is spectacular.

At the very front is the closed hatch leading to the transfer tunnel to the shuttle. Above the hatch is an inspiring display of the flags of the nations that participate in the ISS project: the US, Canada, Russia, Germany, Japan, and many others.

To the right of the hatch is one crew cabinet, but without a window. Suni lives there; Michael LA camps deep in the US Air Lock.

Throughout the station there are numerous small changeable signs that glow in the dark and give directions to the different Soyuz lifeboats and to the shuttle when it is there. But there is also a permanent exit sign over the front hatch that I find pretty funny. The front hatch can be an exit, sure, but only for a few weeks a year when the shuttle is parked there, and even then, only for some of the people on board.

One of the most fascinating and striking visual illusions of weightlessness is the sudden change of what one thinks of as up and down. As babies we all learned about the concepts of “up” where there is danger, and “down” where things fall to. The space station is designed with this in mind: there is a floor that is a little darker in color than the walls and the ceiling. Through the windows on the floor one can see the Earth below, just like from the observation deck of the CN building in Toronto where there is also a window in the floor 1,000 ft above the surface—to my mind, much scarier than the space station window. The ceiling is where the lights are, and the walls are covered by equipment. This is all very friendly and cozy. Flying horizontally, which is the usual manner of getting around, does not change this perspective, just like lying down on a sofa on Earth does not change what we think about up and down.

But there is a strange moment when I fly from the service module to the FGB, over the DC docking compartment, which is a large cylinder about 30 ft deep hanging below the fuselage. As I look down through the very large open hatch, it looks like a deep well! To explore this space, I stop and start floating “down” with my feet toward the Earth and my face toward one side of the compartment. It is very much like scuba diving, sinking slowly, looking at the side of a well. I arrive to face a flat surface on the wall with some straps and hook my feet into them to look around. I torque my body to stand up perpendicular to this surface. Surprise! After about a second in this position, something clicks in my brain and my perspective radically changes. I am now standing on the floor in a horizontal tunnel that I do not recognize, although it has some resemblance to the well I was just in moments before. It takes me a while to locate the hatch that I just came through, which is ahead of me and is more like a door now. I fly forward over the new floor through the hatch. Now my body is in the same position as it was a minute ago when I started to descend into the “well.” But because of my new perspective, I feel I am face down toward the floor I last started from, and the corridor from the service module to the FGB now looks like an unfamiliar mine shaft that crosses the end of my horizontal tunnel at a steep 60-degree angle! Wow! But rolling ever so slightly and noticing the familiar light fixtures on the ceiling, there is another “click” in my head, and I am suddenly back in the main corridor being horizontal, and the docking compartment is again the deep well below me.

It is hard to explain what this click is like. It must be what Spock feels at the moment of being beamed up by Scotty. One moment you are in one place, and the next moment, without movement, you feel like you are in a different place. Of course, it is the same physical place, but the change in perspective causes you to perceive a different environment. Once you understand how this works, you can have a lot of fun. Basically, you have to stand or crouch perpendicular to some surface, or fly parallel to and facing toward some surface for longer than a split second, and your perspective will adjust. If you tumble or just float, the perspective may get confused, perhaps, but will not click. When it happens, it is an amazing sensation. A room with four walls, a floor, and a ceiling can turn into six different-feeling rooms, depending on which surface you choose to click “down.”

Being captured is only the first step in the arrival, but the rest of the scenario now will be very close to the simulations. I recall my first days at Star City last September, seven months ago! The first spacecraft system I studied, due to some quirk in the class schedules, was the docking system, which is now leaping into operation. We now have the “first mechanical connection” by our probe, a rather tenuous device, not unlike a toggle bolt that you can use to hang a heavy shelf on a wall. The latches in the probe opened up behind the hole in the middle of the receiving cone; that is what’s meant by “capture.” It takes a few minutes for what is effectively a big electric screwdriver, in a very low gear, to pull us tighter against the docking port. Now it is time to establish the “second mechanical connection,” which is done by seven serious steel hooks at the rim of the port that engage similar hooks on the station side. These hooks are turned by a mechanism that provides 20 tons of leverage from the small electric motors with even lower gearing. We wait patiently until their work is complete and the proper electrical contacts are made to show that all are in their places. The connection with the seven hooks is very strong. The double seals of the docking rings are now compressed, and the connection is ready to be tested for pressure integrity—that is whether they are safely airtight. Also, the latches of the “first connection” are now not carrying the weight, so the first connection can be released as the first step to opening the doors. But before that can happen, we start monitoring the pressures in the various volumes. We monitor the spacecraft pressure. We pressurize the docking tunnel between the station and the spacecraft and then monitor the pressure in the tunnel—it should hold—and monitor the pressure between the double seals—it should not change. Then we pressurize the space between the seals and monitor that—it should not leak.

Now we can take off the space suits and comb our hair once more for the opening of the hatches. We open our hatch first. The docking assembly which did the first contact and capture is now inside the spacecraft—remember we are held by and sealed only by the ring at this time. The stainless and titanium parts of the probe were a short time ago in the vacuum of space. This is supposed to impart a special smell, the “smell of space” to the metal, really an outgassing from the metal, so I assiduously sniff for it but I can smell only the faintest burning smell—could be a lubricant, could be anything.

It is almost one revolution after the docking before the station hatch is finally opened. I wait for Oleg and Fyodor to fly out, and I wave to Sunita Williams on the other side, whom I last saw in Star City last November, as she was preparing for her launch on the space shuttle in December. Our good-byes were, “See you on the station!” I am so happy to see her. After 48 hours in space, I am getting fairly comfortable, so when I swim through the hatch and meet Michael (Lopez-Alegria) and Misha (Tyurin) and hug Suni, I can move around pretty well, and I know where I am, thanks to the ground simulations in the space station mock-ups. I am glad that the larger volume of the station does not seem to generate any additional vestibular problems.

We do not get to talk much because the TV ceremony is coming up. We line up in the service module (Russian segment), and a kind of press conference is taking place. At this point, I do not realize how large productions these PAO (public affairs operations) events are, and I still live in the relative intimacy of us six in space plus a few disembodied friendly voices in Moscow control. So as the conference goes on, I get the irresistible urge to try my newly found degrees of freedom and slowly start turning 180 degrees in pitch and roll. I think I want to show that where we are is not an everyday place, but a place full of new possibilities.

With the show over, I get to talk to Michael. He is the commander of the station, and he is also a very gracious host. He gives me a couple of wonderful American storage bags (kind of like a large laundry bag made of very light woven material) so that my stuff can be kept in one place. He also asks Suni to show me the ropes. Suni is a Navy helicopter pilot, so she knows what is operationally important for a rookie: where things are, how to fix things, the rudiments of flying, what not to bump into. We visit each section—they are all very much like the simulation, except for the airlock CO, for which we had no mock-up on the ground. Suni also shares with me her favorite views from the various windows. It is so much to take in at once. My first glimpse of the station before we docked that has impressed me so much is apparently just a tiny part of what will be in store for me.

I also meet Misha, a delightful engineer—actually with a software background—who wears a pair of pants that has been mended many times during his six-month stay. He flits around with astounding ease, always keeping his momentum in the right direction while grabbing a pair of comm headphones from the ceiling and continuing to his stash of Velcro tape and scissors to fix something.

During dinner, which features hot dishes, we reflect on how lucky we are, six people in space out of six billion humans. I get to talk more to Michael and get acquainted better.

I am offered a berth in the living compartment of the Soyuz that I will be returning on two weeks from now. I eagerly accept and move there my meager belongings, a couple of T-shirts, shorts, socks, and underwear, found among all the cargo, all packed into a laundry bag. I set up the sleeping bag like a hammock and prepare to go to sleep on schedule after another very eventful day. The time is 10:30 a.m. GMT (13:30 Moscow time) on Tuesday, the 10th. If you find this very confusing, it is. Every day during my stay here, we will be going to bed at 10:30 a.m. and waking up at 18:30 p.m. Why can’t we just admit that we are in a time zone different from Greenwich, for example, in a time zone where it is 9 or 10 in the evening right now when we go to bed? I was told the software could not handle it and that it does not make sense for the space station to be in a time zone anyway. Do not get me started. Good night!

In preparation for docking, the manual backup instrument—a laser rangefinder—was installed in the forward-looking window in the living compartment, which unfortunately blocked it for further sightseeing.

In the afternoon, Fyodor shows me some space exercises we can do, essentially isometrics when we push with our legs against the arms. I doubt that my legs are much impressed by the load that my arms could deliver to them, but at least we are trying. We also take a lot of time to clean up, shave, comb, and put on our flight suits for the arrival ceremony in the station.

At 6 p.m. we have a quick dinner, then we don the space suits for the first time under the conditions of weightlessness and in the living compartment. With a little help from each other, it is so much easier than how it was during the simulation in the airplane. Here we can simply float, take our time, and use minimum effort and movement to get into the suit. The checklist does not call for the full leak check because there is not enough oxygen on board to support one, and the docking is not considered especially hazardous.

As we get into the seats we are just observers to a fully automatic rendezvous and docking procedure. We not very far from the space station in a lower orbit, slowly catching up as a skater in an inner path on the oval course seemingly catches up with the skaters in the longer outer paths. We can use the space station as a cell-phone tower because we can use our UHF radio to communicate with the station and the station can forward our line through its US satellite system through Houston to Moscow, so we are now in constant communications with Moscow center.

At 19:50 we turn on the “Kurs” radar system. This is quite old technology and uses a rotating radar antenna in the front of the spacecraft, which on TV makes us look like a patrol car with a rotating beacon on the top—or makes us very science-fiction-like with a strange rotating flickering thingamajig, if you prefer. We turn on the reserve batteries because the power usage will greatly increase with all the electronics.

At 20:12 we are 150 miles (240 km) from the station—a little below and behind. Our closure rate is 75 mph (30 meters/second, 120 kph). The system commands the first burn for 18 seconds, increasing our speed by 20 mph (7 meters/second.) As you see, the speeds and the distances would not be unusual even for the highway.

At 21:00, we are 60 miles (100 km) away, and we burn for 17 seconds to speed up another 6 meters/second. Our goal is not to be in a hurry, but to raise our orbit. And as we get higher—to join the outer skater, so to speak—our relative velocity starts to decrease even as our absolute velocity is higher.

At 21:20, we are 12 miles (20 km) away, and speed relative to the station is back to 75 mph (120 kph). The station is clearly visible as a bright object in the optical visor. At a distance of 7 miles (12 km), we turn on the forward-looking TV camera and observe the space station as a blob on the display. By 21:38, the distance is 2 miles (3 km), and the relative speed is a comfortable 25 mph (35 kph). This is the speed limit on a suburban street. But what we want to do is to park nearby, not to drive by the station, so we turn around and perform three braking burns, first on the large engine and then on the attitude jets to get us to within 500 yards of the station and essentially hovering by 21:50. These burns follow each other in rapid succession, and Oleg comments on the progress in similarly rapid-fire cosmonaut speak. He is ready to take over at the slightest sign of a malfunction. Because we are about to enter into the Earth’s shadow (predicted for 22:08), we are in a wee bit of a hurry and push forward with the final docking, still in automatic mode.

When the spacecraft turns toward the docking port (at the bottom and middle of the “three-sectioned bus”), we see the station on the frosted glass of the optical viewer and on the crude TV picture on the low-resolution computer display but not through the windows. But it is clear that we are almost there. We move at about 5 miles an hour (8 kph) toward the station, but in the last minute we start braking with the forward-pointing engines, which were not used before. These are just abaft of the windows, pointing forward, so that when they fire, we see the white flames in front of the window, followed by the globs of residual fuel at the shutdown. This happens four or five times, and I shoot a little video with the Canon.

In the final seconds I catch a glimpse of the truss of the space station that comes into my field of view now. It is an eerie sight and takes my breath away. We are in the penumbra of the Earth, not quite the full shadow, and the grid work of the truss is painted bluish purple by the rapidly setting Sun—the sunsets here are 16 times faster than on Earth, since we orbit the Earth 16 times each day. It is so astounding to see something so big here in the void. The scene reminds me of a theatrical stage set more than anything, mostly because of the unusual lighting and because the architecture is also so improbable. The structures in space do not have to follow the rules of earthbound construction; without wind and without gravity they can be so light that they look disconcertingly fragile. We are moving 18 cm (7 in) a second when we hit the target cone and we are captured right away. It is 22:11—one minute ahead of the schedule presented to us last Friday.

We wake up at noon, Moscow time, having slept the full six hours. The weightless sleep was not completely relaxed. I feel a whole new level of minute tension in my body as the normal tension that holds us up in gravity goes away. It seems to go in every direction, as if every direction was “down,” meaning that we are pulled that way a tiny bit. As I try to relax, it is as if I was supported by pillows all around, even between my arm and my body. It is almost as if I could not move because of these pillows. When I move a little, the illusion goes away, but then it comes back when I stop. I ask my crewmates about what they observe about their weightless feelings, but I do not get much support. Fyodor has past experience in spaceflight so it is normal for him, and Oleg is too busy to spend minutes in introspection. I’ve read weightlessness being described as floating in a pool. It is a plausible description of how one can move, but, in my opinion, it does not capture this peculiar tension that comes from not having any preferred direction. As I am trying to “further” relax, I find myself longing for a little gravity that I could turn toward and maybe relax one side of my head, for example, even as the other side would feel the pressure of a real pillow.

I have a little backache that I attribute to not having moved within the sleeping bag. I rate the pain as a “2″ in the backache experiment’s pain scale that goes from “1″—no pain, to “10″—unbearable pain. It goes away very quickly as I start to move around.

My “Braslet” tourniquets need to be adjusted. They were so tight they left a bruise on my legs, but as soon as I loosen them, the heavy bloated feeling in my head returns, so I just massage my bruises, move and smooth the tourniquet a little bit, and retighten.

I ask Oleg about his sleep. He says the return capsule was cold and noisy so he did not sleep well.

We clean up with wet wipes and get into our clean set of underwear. I can finally replace my diapers with wonderful cotton underpants. The wet wipes do not contain any alcohol this time; in the closed atmosphere of the spacecraft, the alcohol fumes would be a problem and, early on, the Soviet space program had a horrible accident with alcohol wipes starting a fire in a ground simulation, tragically predating our Apollo 1 fire.

At around 3 p.m. we eat brunch: juice, bread, and cold omelets with chicken meat from cans. We have the tiniest five-cent can opener in our kit, and it takes a while to open the can. Eating is surprisingly easy; the food sticks to the spoon. If I drop a little piece, it will just float in the air and I can catch it with my mouth. Garbage is very well organized with a couple of rubberized bags with rubber ties for wet and dry waste. Oleg calls our spaceship the “limo” because it is so elegant and has all the amenities to make our travel pleasant.

I am unsuccessful persuading Oleg to let us unpack some of my more serious camera equipment, which we could have used to make very interesting records of this phase of the flight. But at least the decision process is simple: in a spaceship, the commander decides. I think he is worried about the extra time that would be taken up by this. We still have the small Canon PowerShot that lets us also take short videos.

We spend a fair amount of time in the seats in the return capsule. Each revolution, there is one UHF comm session when we are above Russian territory, and the newest data are exchanged through voice as well as through the computers.

As I can look outside with more confidence, I see the half-full Moon in the black sky (I think it is called a quarter-moon). The moon is just like from Earth, maybe a little whiter; if anything, it looks smaller relative to the enormous Earth that takes up most of my field of view. I also see some bright star-like points of light. Some are blinking, and some are moving faster than the star field behind them! This puzzles me greatly, especially as I see one of the blinkers show up at the same place in the sky even as we turn—for example, when compared with the position of the Moon. What is going on? Is the blinking thing the space station (which is almost stationary relative to us) or our third stage, which is also going with nearly our velocity? Are the fast ones space junk? I am so gullible, but not for long. I catch sight of a “blinker” which is a fleck of metal or paint rotating a couple of feet from my window. So the other lights were just far enough that I could not gauge their distance. What I am seeing are Scott Carpenter’s “fireflies,” which were much discussed when he flew in the second orbital Mercury mission in 1962. They are just debris that came off the spacecraft and follows it in its orbit. But I can see now how difficult it is to judge what one sees just from a few observations.

At the night side, as we are rolling, it is hard to tell where the Earth would be at any time. I may see some stars, and I conclude that I am looking at the sky. Then I suddenly see lightning above the star, where the Earth has been hiding in the darkness, a very unusual picture, like a frame from a science fiction movie.

Now it is daytime again, and we are flying over South America. I can see the Andes in three-dimensional splendor. In the east, farmlands and roads are clearly visible with the naked eye.

By 10 p.m. I am so tired that I float up to the ceiling and have a catnap. I dream that I am in training filling in the back-pain questionnaire, when Oleg calls my name and wakes me. I open my eyes and I find myself floating in a dark spacecraft circling the Earth. Reality is surely stranger than the dream.

Oleg woke me because we needed to do our third trim burn, and for this it is best to be in the seat belted in. We use only 2 kg of fuel in 4 seconds, changing our speed by only 0.9 meters/second (about 3 kph or 2 mph). This will change our position at docking about a day from now by almost 50 miles!

By 3 a.m. we have the sleeping bags up again and we go to sleep.

We are preparing for the first course correction, scheduled for 15 minutes after midnight. First the accelerometers are calibrated. The system is so sensitive that we have to keep still in our seats. The door protecting the engine opens 30 seconds before the burn, which then starts on time with a nasty bang, then a very mild push with very little sound for the scheduled 53 seconds, and also ends with a bang. During the burn I drop a pencil, which is on a tether, to see if it falls, which it does but not very fast. We have gained 21.6 meters per second of speed, so it is less than half a meter per second gained for every second of the burn, or less than 1/20th of a g acceleration (remember that one g is roughly 10 meters/second gained or lost every second). It is just like in the simulation except that there are no failures, knock on wood, as I write in my notes.
There is a second correction burn coming up in 45 minutes—one half revolution—and as we are waiting I peek outside at the fantastic sights. As my gaze returns to the capsule, I barely recognize where I am. I see the same control panel, but it is not “above me” as before, but I feel it is “in front of me.” In a few seconds my view clicks back to normal. I think this is quite interesting and mention to Oleg that I had this visual illusion. For the first time, Oleg gets quite upset and dresses me down for looking outside and also for wiggling while we are in a controlled attitude. He is right, of course, but I suspect that he is feeling a little sick and my story made him feel worse so I settle back down.

The second burn works just as the first one did, and we gain an additional 19.8 meters/second speed—about 50 mph (70 kph) at the expenditure of 46 kilograms of fuel (about 100 pounds); we started with about 800 kilos (1700 pounds).

Up to this point we were stabilized by the small jets that are continuously using fuel. One urgent task for Oleg is to start a rotation of the spacecraft that will create a stable position where the solar panels are constantly exposed to sunlight and generate electricity for us. At the night side of the Earth we use batteries that were charged on the day side. I’ve seen this done during our combined crew simulation, and now Fyodor takes a peek through his window to indicate to Oleg where the Sun is approximately. Oleg is using his command periscope visor that has a central frosted screen, with a dark filter installed, and some peripheral wide-angle segments to look for the Sun while pushing the small joystick on his hand controller in the general direction indicated by Fyodor. The strangest thing is that we do not have any indication—any noise or vibration—that the attitude jets are firing, except for short flashes of a green light on the control panel. Soon we pick up a bright glow in the periphery of the visor, and then the image of the Sun, about the size of a dime (10 mm), appears brilliantly on the frosted glass! Oleg adroitly maneuvers the controls until the image is centered. Now we need to turn so that the solar panels are perpendicular to this direction and then start a permanent rotation in the yaw axis to become stable. With a timed pulse of the small-attitude jets, Oleg sets up the required 3 minutes per revolution speed—fast enough for stabilization, but not too fast to make us sick. As it is, it means that there is a tiny gravity in the spacecraft that is pulling us ever so slightly in what used to be the “up” direction on the ground.

Now we are set up for housekeeping. We start the drying process for the space suits. This is always good for pictures—the empty suits are placed in the side seats and the ventilation air is used to dry them. The gloves need an extra treatment, and they are stretched onto these funny hand-like plastic tubings. This takes a long time, and we are getting cold as Oleg finally finds and unpacks the flight suits that we can put on. I learn a new word, унтята (”oontyata”), for the fur-lined soft leather booties, which I have used already in the survival course and are incredibly cozy. I resolve to get some for my home as soon as I can. Oleg also distributes a small apple juice container for everyone. This will be our dinner. I do not have much appetite, but enjoy the juice. It tastes just like on the ground. Fyodor shows us how to blow beautiful amber-like juice spheres through the straws which than can be swallowed up from the air.

I am getting used to the environment. To stay out of my crewmates’ hair, I find myself a great niche on the ceiling of the living compartment. Here the microgravity caused by our rotation actually keeps me in place if I do not move much, and I am also next to the feeble light fixture that helps me with making these notes. Next to me is the optical-quality forward-looking window for backup manual docking. I find that I can look outside a few minutes at a time; otherwise, I get a little dizzy.

The view from here is incredible. The blue of the sea is beautiful. Stars are not visible because a lot of light is reflected from parts of the spacecraft. After the terminator—as we pass into the shadow of the night—the stars come out but I still get a glimpse of the blue arc of the atmosphere reflected in the radar dish outside the window acting like a rearview mirror in a car. In the darkness I see lights from some metropolitan areas surrounded by bright dots—the Middle East with the gas flares. Later I see a lot of lighting illuminating very large areas of cloud.

Because of the rotation of the spacecraft, not only there is no “up” or “down,” but the view of the Earth is constantly changing. In the day side from the front window it feels like doing acrobatics on a jet—starting a loop and seeing the surface rotate below you. Think about a giant Ferris wheel rolling high over the landscape, and we are in a descending gondola. In fact, with 3 minutes per revolution at our orbital speed, we are moving forward 900 miles over the landscape. A wheel with a 150-mile radius would have about that much circumference, and we are about 150 miles high. Now this is just a coincidence, because our rotation rate was determined for other reasons—for example, so as not to make us sick—but the coincidence, I think, helps create a powerful illusion in the brain that we are rolling along.

It is nearing the end of a very long day. I have to do one of the daily experiments for the European Space Agency. So I fill in my first back-pain questionnaire: I did have some back pain as we walked to the rocket, probably because of the stooped posture, but I did not have any since. Then we are setting up for sleep. We hang two sleeping bags in the living compartment with the heads “down” so that the tiny gravity is toward our feet. Oleg, being commander, has to sleep in the capsule. Inspired by the extra time and the drinks I make the six-feet-long trip to the АСУ (”ASU,” the acronym for the toilet), hook my feet into the loops on the floor, throw the appropriate switches, and find that I’ve successfully adapted to space conditions. The fans and filters make a reassuring burbling sound as the urine is separated from the carrier air. It is all very dignified, and there is no smell at all. I use the wet and dry wipes to clean up and then dispose of the wipes in the correct rubberized bag that we placed here in the earlier housekeeping period. Being the last, I have to turn off the light and find my way to my sleeping bag in the darkness—which is upside down and one sleeping bag away from the “ASU.” That I am able to do this in the dark is a sign that I start to really feel at home here. I slowly float into the bag and zip up. This is going to be my first night in space. As I settle down, close my eyes and enjoy the floating feeling, I see from time to time the flashes of light that I’ve heard about—these are cosmic rays that excite our retina. They are really pinpoints of white with some duration—longer than I would have imagined from the word “flash.” Some are even tiny dashes as big as a “-” sign is in a book. It is Sunday, 6 a.m. Moscow time (9 a.m. Baikonur time), and we have to wake up in six hours. I am very tired, and I slumber off into a dreamless sleep.

I feel a lifting force like a helicopter taking off with maximum power. The rusty machine tool noise, the rumble, and the vibration continue about even—this is also the same as on a helicopter. It is only in the movies where the noise varies with the speed; in reality, the noise is rather constant whether the helicopter or rocket is about to take off and as it gains speed. I know that I am in a special position in the midst of what on the outside must be brilliant and loud night fireworks. But the engines are far below, their shock waves are traveling to the side, and my ears are shielded from the engine noise by the launch shroud, by the skin and insulation of the capsule, by the helmet, and by my headphones. So I can hear Oleg’s reports clearly, and the hissing of the ventilation air in the space suit is still audible. I feel the pressure from the acceleration. It is nothing out of this world, not more than the first gear in a Corvette (or Lamborghini, if you prefer). The difference is that here there is no running out of the gear; the acceleration keeps up and even increases as the fuel burns off. Simple math shows that if you could keep a Corvette in first gear accelerating for 500 seconds, it would take you to orbit, except that its engine would be revving at the end at 500,000 revolutions per minute (assuming that it takes 5 seconds for it to get to 5,000 rpm).

Shortly, we are passing through the speed of sound. Just as the first Hungarian cosmonaut, Bertalan Farkas, vividly described to me, we can hear the stem of the supersonic shockwave moving down on the shroud like a bunch of crazed drummers marching by—the position of the stem being a function of our gradually increasing speed. I’ve been supersonic many times before, but I am starting to realize that we are starting to go faster than I’ve ever gone before and still with a long time to go.

Next the TV lights come up again. I am trying to observe the separation of the escape tower at T plus 113 seconds. As I look at my fine watch, it shows 11 seconds elapsed and the hand does not move. It takes me a while to realize that it stopped because it was not wound up since I got it from Mr. Sevastiyanov yesterday—it is a mechanical watch, a relic of another era. There was no checklist item to wind up the watch. I never feel the escape tower, but at T plus 118 seconds the four side boosters that constitute the first stage are thrown off in the middle of my confusion. We are all thrown forward by the shut down of the side engines and the throttling back of the center engines; there is a definite “clink” that reminds me of my childhood when traveling by train, and as the rail cars were shunted, the bumpers made this sound. The acceleration quickly comes back and the side-to-side swaying increases because now we are a slenderer vehicle that needs to steer more aggressively to keep on the straight and narrow. At T plus 157 seconds the launch shroud is jettisoned with a very noticeable metallic banging and clinking noise that indicates a lot of explosive cutting charges at work. The detached pieces will impact about 350 statute miles downrange. Unfortunately, there is no change in the lighting of the cabin. I know that my window is looking at space now, but we are still in Earth’s shadow, and it is pitch black outside just as it was pitch black inside the shroud. As I am belted in, it is impossible to look at my window, and it is practically impossible to look at the opposite window as well. But the event is significant. If we can drop off the shroud, it means that we are already out of the atmosphere; we are in space. All we need is more speed, and we will be in orbit as well.

As the fuel in this stage burns off, the acceleration increases, but never to the extent that we have gotten used to during training. Oleg reaches up and makes the mascot on the string swing, which the cat does, but quicker than normal because of the acceleration! I suggest that next time the TV lights come up he should do it again as a signal and then we all join hands for a picture opportunity. This happens like clockwork, and I hope the ground gets a good idea that we are feeling really well and Oleg’s radio reports (”состояние экипажа хорошое” or “state of the crew is good”) are not just perfunctory.

At T plus 287 seconds the dropping of the second stage and the separation of the third stage give us a little hint of the coming weightlessness. The video is on as we are thrown forward against the belts, probably due to our flexing against the g-forces just before shutdown. The mascot goes flying all over, there are the now newly familiar bangs and clinks, and we are weightless for an instant. But promptly with the ignition of the third stage engines, the noise of a rustier and smaller machine tool gets going as we are pushed back into our seats. The dropped second stage will impact 950 statute miles (1500 km) downrange in east Kazakhstan.

As the third stage continues its four-minute burn and the g’s start slowly climbing to the final 3.5 times normal weight, I start to breathe with my stomach muscles as we practiced. I also have time to reflect on what is happening. I am in a spacecraft going faster and higher than any airplane, even the venerable X-15, has ever gone. I am gaining close to a hundred miles per hour more speed every second. I hear the ventilation fans, the far-away screaming of the pumps, feel the fine vibration. I feel super. I am a cosmonaut.

At T plus 525 seconds, almost nine minutes after launch, the “main command” (главный команд) is given and the third stage shuts down. It first feels very much like the previous staging with being thrown against the seat belts. I say, “Whoa.” The feeling of falling forward that I was warned about does not materialize at all. In four seconds there is the almost imperceptible separation from the third stage. Oleg’s plush mascot starts to float. We are in weightlessness. I let go of my pencil and it floats on its string. The feeling is not yet dramatic because we are still belted in tight. I am still making effort; for example, I am squeezing my book with the usual force to hold it. I have to force myself to let go of the book, but then it starts turning by itself, so then I start learning to hold it gingerly with the least effort.

Baikonur congratulates us on the radio for being in orbit and gives us to Moscow center, which will control our orbital flight.

Oleg and Fyodor are very busy. They check the deployment of the various antennas and the solar arrays. They ask me to look and see if I see the array through the window, but I cannot see anything yet, even with the belts loosened a little bit. We are going through a 15-minute leak check of the spacecraft before we will be allowed to open the visors and then another 15 minutes before we can take off the gloves—the reasoning is that visors can be resealed quickly and reliably, but when gloves are put on, they are not reliable until they can be checked. We check the extension of the docking “probe” that will fit into the station’s receiving cone two days from now. I am continually amazed at how well Oleg and Fyodor are working together; they are continually ahead of curve: when ground asks them for a report, they always already have all the data. The ground is particularly interested about my well-being, and Oleg repeatedly has to reassure them that I am fine, which is a gross understatement. I start to feel bloated in the head due to the shifting of blood and fluids to the upper part of my body. It is not a pleasant feeling, of course, but it is almost identical to what we have been practicing for the last week, so it is not strange and it does not make me nauseous. But intellectually, weightlessness is still confusing, my head feels heavy, extending my hands feels hard—is it the fabric of the space suit that I work against, or are the different muscles in my arm working against each other? And I still squeeze the few objects within my grasp with too much force.

I am vaguely aware of our passing into daytime over the Pacific, but I have not yet gotten any glimpse of Earth from space, first because it is hard to move my head in the helmet, second because we are busy with the procedures, and third because we were cautioned against looking at it so that we do not get space sick, so we have the Velcro sunshades up. I smile thinking how books are obsessed about the first view of the beautiful Earth, when in reality, the Earth is like Medusa: it can make you sick if you just look at it. In any case, we see a change in the light as the sun hits the shades.

With first the visor opened and then with the gloves off and loosening the belts slightly, I am getting more comfortable, and I have time to look around a little bit. I make my notes of my first impressions in the margins of the flight data file. I steal a few peeks through my window, folding back the Velcro curtain a little bit—Fyodor suggested that I use the mirror on my hand first; it is less disturbing that way. In any case, it is very unusual. Because of our rotation, the Earth seems to be going by fast in front of my window, and then the window turns to the black sky. I see that the Earth is very blue, majestic, with a lot of white clouds. At the edge one can see the layers of the atmosphere in different shades of azure, blue, and violet. But even the short glimpse gives me a mental signal that I had better stop. But the signal is not frightening; it is very much like the feeling I had in the rotating chair practice. Yesterday during my last practice, I tolerated this sensation for 13 minutes without getting sick, so now I stop just out of caution, not because I am about to get sick. A few minutes later I peek again and see a beautiful sunset with some of the layers turning red and the blues getting darker. This is, so to speak, “from the side,” since the real sunset would be in the direction of our axis of rotation that happens to be 90 degrees from the line between the two windows. It is clear that I will have a lot to look at during the coming days.

As we complete the first revolution, we get into communication range of the Russian ground stations and we get a lot of updates for the ballistic information for emergency returns for the next couple of orbits. This is all dutifully recorded by pencil in the relevant forms.

Around 11 p.m. Moscow time (2 hours 30 minutes into the flight), we open the hatch into the living compartment and start getting out of our seats. Oleg goes first, rising and turning out of his chair through the hatch and out of sight. While I am intellectually prepared for this, and I saw people flying about during the weightless practices on board airplanes, I am astounded almost to tears of joy by the sight of Oleg doing in a few seconds what was always a difficult and slow climb up into the living compartment. I hope it is not impolite to say, especially on what is now Easter Sunday, that this vision reminded me of Grünewald’s famous painting in Issenheim of Christ’s ascension, where the untwisting shroud gives this impression of graceful flight that is possible in our world only in weightlessness. Fyodor, having been to space once before, is kind of blasé about it.

Oleg passes down the small Canon camera that we had in the living compartment, so we make the first few photos in the capsule. By the time I get out of the seat and float up—I cannot vouch for my gracefulness—Oleg is out of his space suit and helps me take mine off. The process is very easy, but I find it hard to keep my feet in the two loops on the floor of the living compartment. I am fighting some force with my feet—is it the suit or is it an illusion? The unpleasant sensations are all there since I am moving about for the first time, but they never reach a level where I would have to stop, thanks to the training, and thanks to not stressing my vestibular system earlier when I did not have to. Fyodor comes up third. I grab the carrying handles on the back of his suit and hold it tight while Oleg opens the front and Fyodor kind of floats out of his suit.

We are now in our long underwear also without our medical belts, which go back into their packages. Contrary to what I expected, my underwear is completely dry. In the ground simulations it always got sweaty, sometimes even to soaking wet. Now we are not changing them; instead, the next thing Oleg wants us to do is to put on the “Braslet” adjustable tourniquets. I’ve practiced this during simulations so I can do it well—it is not simple because it is form fitting on each thigh, so everything has to be oriented right, after which I can tighten the elastic to the highest setting. The purpose is to reduce the fluid shift from the legs to the upper torso. It works quite quickly, and I can feel the heavy feel and bloating in my head getting better. This is also our first opportunity to urinate after the bus stop. I find it difficult to get started; the urge in weightlessness is just not quite the same. We try out the water dispenser; it works well both for freshening up and for drinking a bit. The water can be simply sprayed into the mouth and then swallowed. But we have to hurry and get back into our seats in the capsule, which is very quick given that we are in weightlessness and in our underwear instead of the bulky space suits.

We are in the elevator, the three crew members and one technician. We need to arrange ourselves a little before the door can be closed; it is so tight. As the elevator rises I peek out to get various glimpses of the rocket, the platforms, technicians on some of the platforms, the condensation clouds, the floodlights nearby. We arrive at the top and the door opens on the other side. We are in a very small steel room completely enclosed with very simple lighting over an alcove with a couple of steps. The place is noisy with hissing air, reverberations, and motors buzzing. On the wall are some pipes, valves, and pressure indicators like in a steam locomotive. Oleg says, “наддув,” pointing at the valves, reminding me of the extra pressure that will be put into the living compartment once we are inside our seats and all the hatches are sealed. I see Fyodor sitting down on the steps and being prepared for the entry into the living compartment; then he disappears behind the hatches. Next it is my turn. I sit down on the steps. The technician pulls off my parade boots. He pulls off my parade gloves. Takes my space suit gloves, which he carried in a plastic shopping bag, properly folds them, and stuffs them into the lower pockets on my leg. Unplugs my portable ventilator. Removes the plastic protective covers from the comm and medical cables, and stuffs the cables into the upper part of the upper pocket on my right leg. He motions for me to get going. I turn around and crawl through the familiar square hatch on the shroud and the round hatch on the living compartment. One technician is inside. Fyodor is already “downstairs” in the capsule and invites me down. With the technician’s help, I slowly and carefully squeeze myself over the open hatch, into the central seat. Then I move my legs first and finally my body to my seat on the right. Fyodor is calming me, telling me to take it easy. There is no sense in getting sweaty at this stage when my suit ventilation is not connected yet. He helps me plug in the hoses and starts the ventilation and then, kneeling across Oleg’s seat, helps with all the other connections and belts. Everything mates perfectly, just as during the two fit-check sessions. I am surprised how dark my seat is. I won’t be able to read the checklist well. During the fit-checks the spacecraft was not powered, so we had a portable light in the capsule, and in the simulator there was an extra light on my side, so I never saw this configuration before. As promised, my flight manual is tucked in a niche. I will have to hold it through the flight because there is absolutely no room in the “bookshelf” on my right.

Having finished his closeout duties in the living compartment, momentarily Oleg also comes down, very professionally checks me over, and closes the hatch above. He carefully hangs his son’s plush toy mascot on the hatch handle—this mascot is going to be our informal G meter indicating when weightlessness comes. It is a black cat, but I prefer to think of it as a lion. Fyodor also has a mascot, a plush dog that he has had since graduation from college. This will be the second spaceflight for both of them. Oleg finally wiggles into his seat and plugs himself in. Now that we have all moved in, we do the first comm check, and as Fyodor and Oleg go through the litany of commands and checks, I can reflect on how comfortable all this is, and how it is partly familiar and partly novel. Just as a new car has a peculiar exciting aroma, a fully powered-up new spacecraft also has a special clean smell, better than in the simulators and different from the fit-checks where air was piped in. The noises are very interesting, much more complex than in the simulator and maybe even a little quieter. There is a deep rumble of many motors and gyros and remote pumps. There is also a slight vibration and from time to time what feels like a swaying motion. I nudge Oleg and he nods: ветер, it’s the wind.

The bright TV lights come up from time to time. We smile and wave to the cameras when we can.

We do the UHF comm checks on the backup channel. I check in as Pulsar-3. I appreciate Oleg’s earlier explanation during a press conference how Pulsar is a great name because it denotes precision and reliability in an astronomical setting.

Ground tells us that there is an update to the launch timing. There goes my prediction that we will launch on the second. In fact, the update is only a 5-second delay to account for the newest measurements of the orbit of our target, the space station. The better we match its orbit, the less fuel we need to use for the rendezvous. At orbital speeds, 5 seconds adds up to a 25-mile (40-km) error in position, which would be correctable but not without extra fuel use. With the starting time changed, we need to change all the other timings of key events: the third stage shutdown, and the times of the course-correction burns. All three of us dutifully go through about 10 different pages in the manual where we erase the old times that were penciled in and write in the new ones. The computers were updated automatically. The low-tech pencil notes are just backup for us to be able to follow and check what is happening. We also write down with pencil in a specific form and read back to ground a set of 30 key parameters, such as the pressure inside the capsule and inside the living compartment, the fuel on board, the voltage of the batteries, and so on. Clearly these are present on the computer screens on the ground, but propriety demands that they be checked and recorded by pilots in their own hands or in their own voices.

There is a special period where the ground takes a readout of the medical parameters. We are warned to be calm and relax. First I cannot decide whether this makes me nervous or not, but I feel so fine and positive that I simply do not care. Yet when the period is over and the checklist continues, I feel as if I overcame a major hurdle.

At some point we transfer to internal power. Our independence is increasing by leaps and bounds.

In this next quiet period, as we are waiting for the rotation of the Earth to turn Baikonur under the orbital plane of the space station at the appointed time, ground asks us if we want to hear some music entertainment. All three of us are for it, so they pipe in pop music through the radio. It is not Russian, and I think of how the West has won not only the Moon race, but the victory in pop culture has also been complete. Fyodor recognizes one of the songs by its first bars and announces that it must be for me. It turns out to be “Money” from Abba (as opposed to the Chuck Berry classic that has been so well covered by the Beatles and the Rolling Stones). I say I did not know this song because when it was a hit in the ’80s I was very busy making money, and I am only half joking.

Time to do the final leak check for the space suit. I get my “comfort gloves” from the bottom part of the top pocket on my left leg—no mistakes about where they are like in an earlier simulation. I get my pressure gloves from the leg pockets and put them on with three clicks on each connecting ring. I am ready when Oleg’s command comes to close the outflow valve, and close the helmet visor. I declare that ventilation is still in order—a checklist item—and then the pressure starts from the oxygen line. As usual, I check in last with the target pressure of .35 atmospheres—we figured my consistent last place in the order was because I was the lightest by body weight in the crew—and the test is completed well within the norm for the whole crew. One more important checkpoint passed. We open the valve and then the visor, but henceforth we must not take off the pressure gloves. I soon realize that the chin strap for my headphones is loose and that I cannot do much about it in my seated position with my gloves on. It will just have to do; I am going to fly with the straps as they are, and I stop worrying about it.

At the “5 minutes readiness” mark, we close the helmet visors and tighten the seat belts, or as the checklist calls it, the “restraining system.” The escape rockets are armed. Now there is nothing for me to do but to be comfortable and observe what is going to be a unique experience. I spread out in my form-fitting seat liner, wiggle my head and my legs, and turn to the next page in my checklist where the events from start to orbit are listed. I feel a deep sense of satisfaction, comfort, and calmness. Time is racing ahead. The famous countdown—ten, nine, etc.—is less significant than it seems. Well before it reaches zero, lots of interesting things start to happen, and then the process becomes the focus of my attention, not the count. There is increased sway as the umbilical tower is withdrawn. There is more noise from below like a bunch of rusty machine tools starting up—these must be the steam generators for the turbopumps all running on hydrogen peroxide. The sideways vibration increases quite a bit like on a multiengine turboprop airplane. There is also a ferocious deep rumble. At this point I press the top button on my beautiful Omega Speedomaster space-qualified watch that I just got yesterday. This, I hope, will help me follow the time schedule on my lap, which is unfortunately calibrated in seconds after launch rather than seconds and minutes, as the watch is going to show, but never mind.