The assessors said it from the start: I follow orders well. That’s not to say that I always think the orders are sensible, but I’m a peaceable sort, and I tend to trust those who are better educated than me. The assessors said I was phlegmatic, which I didn’t fully understand, but took to mean that they didn’t find me quarrelsome. The phlegmatic temperament, they said, is dependable, polite, and affectionate–the kind of personality you would wish for in a best friend. It is also associated with the cold and wet, and the season of winter—perhaps that explains why I thrived, in my childhood, on the cold wet streets of Moscow.
The recruitment process was unusual. Normally the ones chosen for these kinds of missions are highly trained, beautiful and intelligent, with impeccable breeding. I had none of those qualities. I had been orphaned young and had never known my family; my lineage was murky, and my brown hair and dark eyes did nothing to illuminate it. I was smart enough to survive, but not enough to rise above my station. And I was not beautiful, merely likeable. None of these deficiencies disturbed me—I had very few expectations of myself. When they asked if I wanted to join the project, I said yes only to be helpful. I did not dream of the sky, or the stars. My world was small--I dreamed of cooked meals, and a warm home. I dreamed of a family.
They never really explained the details to me. The whole industry was very secretive at the time, of course; they didn’t want anything leaking. But I was trained extensively. The sterile smell of the lab got in my nose, at first, and made me sneeze, but by the second month I barely noticed it. My heart rate, blood pressure, temperature and oxygen saturation were measured five times a day. A nutritionist came and recommended a special diet—a kind of gel that allegedly gave me all the fluid and nutrients I required. It tasted terrible, but I still ate it—turning your nose up at food is a loser’s game.
As part of my training, I spent weeks by myself in a small compartment. They changed the air pressure at random and blasted loud noises into the tiny speakers at the back of the pod. It
wasn’t pleasant, but I’m good at following orders: I kept calm, I closed my eyes, I pretended I was sitting in front of a warm hearth, chasing sleep.
Things were rushed. I didn’t know it at the time, but I noticed that the scientists seemed strained. They tried not to show it, but I’m good at picking up on that sort of thing. I learned that they wanted launch day to be the anniversary of the Bolshevik revolution. This didn’t seem to me to be a good reason to rush things, but I’m not the poetic sort. A feverish haste had infected the scientists. The whole country was stretched, eager, reckless.
People stopped meeting my eyes; I sensed they knew something frightening. One of the engineers invited me home one evening. His wife was kind and cooked me a delicious meal. I played with his children all evening, loving them immediately, and when night fell they hugged and kissed me over and over, and their father had to tell them many times to go to bed. Vladimir continued to greet me warmly, when I met him at his work, but I saw discomfort in the lines of his old hairless face. I heard he wrote a book many years later. He said I was quiet and charming, and that he wanted to do something nice for me: I had so little time left to live.
They chose me over Albina. She had just had children, and when they came to visit the lab— clumsy and falling over each other, getting under foot—the scientists cooed and fussed. Sometimes I wondered why I was the first choice—if Albina was prettier, or more likeable than me, or if the scientists simply pitied her children. Regardless, Albina was still the backup, and we both underwent surgery. They shaved us hairless, and embedded medical devices under our skin.
On my last day in the world, my friend Sonya snuck me a plate of cooked chicken breast, wonderfully tender. After weeks of the nutritional supplement, it was like tasting heaven. Sonya kissed me, and wept, and wished me bon voyage. Then I entered the chamber and was all alone.
It was not so bad, at first. I am not one of those who must always be in the company of others. I prefer to be amongst friends, of course, but I can tolerate aloneness. The compartment was uncomfortably small; there was no room to sit or lie down. I wore a strange white suit, and was locked into a harness that allowed for no more than an inch of movement.
Always, on the streets of Moscow, there had been people. They were not always friendly, but I could watch them, and sometimes they would talk to me kindly, or offer me some food. Now, in this cold metal chamber, I had been exiled. The world of the living said: “Stay.” They said: “Play dead.” I didn’t think this was sensible, but I am good at following orders. The door closed, and my heart beat on.
I had a window, but the first thing I felt was the noise. It was enormous, louder than anything else. I knew suddenly that there was a monster in the compartment with me, just outside of my peripheral vision. It banged on the walls, screaming and howling. It frightened me. Then there was a bright blue light, and still that huge noise, and I could hear the drumline of my heart in my sensitive ears. The window was full of sky. Then a wall of dark shadow came up and slammed into the window, a monstrous fast shadow, and it rolled across the whole compartment—it struck me like a drunk man in the street.
This is the universe, which humans had read so much about but hadn’t yet felt: a spinning, hurtling, mess of a thing. Perhaps if they had been where I was, suspended motionless in the vault, the view would have meant something to them. Perhaps they would have looked on and wondered at the splendor. But I did not wish for splendour. I wished I could be with Sonya, and that she would kiss me on the nose again. I wished Vladimir’s children would hug me and bury their little warm hands in my fur.
It is very hot, in this small metal vault, and the sky has gone dark. I can see the ghost of someone in the black window. She has big black eyes, a long snout and floppy ears. I do not
recognise her; I think that someone is keeping pace with the rocket, racing after me, a friend to keep me company. Her eyes are like dark windows; I wonder who she is, and what she is thinking. Then the vault and the harness and me, all together, we turn, and the light swarms in, and my friend disappears, and far beneath me is a bright blue ball. I see only shades of blue and yellow, the sky and sun are like everything else to me. But I would like to play with the ball, I would like to chase it, and bat it back and forwards between my paws. I feel breathless, and too warm.
They told people I died peacefully in my sleep. They put me on stamps, they built a statue, they named a crater on the moon Laika, which means barker. These seem to me to be human rewards for human accomplishments; I do not understand them. It is night time, and the heat I feel is from the hearth in Vladimir’s house. I lie beside it; I close my eyes.
Did you know that there were seventeen others? Perhaps they also saw me in the window, when the dark shadow flooded in. They, like me, died in pursuit of the stars—whatever it is that stars are. But I was the first, and the only one without even the slightest string of hope. The humans regretted it, I think. Perhaps I haunted them.
They told people I died peacefully in my sleep. They put me on stamps, they built a statue, they named a crater on the moon Laika, which means barker. These seem to me to be human rewards for human accomplishments; I do not understand them. It is night time, and the heat I feel is from the hearth in Vladimir’s house. I lie beside it; I close my eyes.
Did you know that there were seventeen others? Perhaps they also saw me in the window, when the dark shadow flooded in. They, like me, died in pursuit of the stars—whatever it is that stars are. But I was the first, and the only one without even the slightest string of hope. The humans regretted it, I think. Perhaps I haunted them