"Have you all had your appendixes removed?" he asked.

The grins faded. The cosmonaut beside him answered, "No. Is not necessary. We do not go to Mars."

"You’re not going?"

"We are instructors," Zavgorodny said over his shoulder. "We have already been turned down for the flight mission."

Jamie wanted to ask why, but thought better of it. This was not a pleasant topic of conversation.

"Your appendix?" the man on his left asked. He ran a finger across his throat.

Jamie nodded. "They took the stitches out yesterday." He realized it had actually been Friday in Bethesda and now it was Sunday, but it felt like yesterday.

"You are an American Indian?"

"Half Navaho."

"The other half?"

"Anglo," said Jamie. He saw the word meant nothing to the Russians. "White. English."

The man sitting up front beside Zavgorodny turned to face him. "When they took out your appendix — you had a medicine man with painted face to rattle gourds over you?"

All four of the Russians burst into uproarious laughter. The car swerved on the empty highway, Zavgorodny laughed so hard.

Jamie made himself grin back at them. "No. I had anesthesia, just as you would."

The Russians chattered among themselves. Jamie got a vision of jokes about Indians, maybe about a red man wanting to go to the red planet. There was no nastiness in it, he felt. Just four beer-drinking fliers having some fun with a new acquaintance.

Wish I understood Russian, he said to himself. Wish I knew what these four clowns are up to. Much fun.

Then he remembered that none of these men could even hope to get to Mars anymore. They had been relegated to the role of instructors. I’ve still got a chance to make the mission. Do they hold that against me? Just what in the hell are they planning to do?

Zavgorodny swung the car off the main highway and down a two-lane dirt road that paralleled a tall wire fence. Jamie could see, far in the distance, hangars and planes parked haphazardly. So we really are going to an airport, he realized.

They drove through an unguarded gate and out to a far corner of the sprawling airport where a single small hangar stood all by itself, like an outcast or an afterthought. A high-wing, twin-engine plane sat on squat tricycle landing gear on the concrete apron in front of the hangar. To Jamie it looked like a Russian version of a twin Otter, a plane he had flown in during his week’s stint in Alaska’s frigid Brooks Range.

"You like to fly?" Zavgorodny asked as they piled out of the car.

Jamie stretched his arms and back, glad to be no longer squeezed into the car’s back seat. It was not even nine o’clock yet, but the sunshine felt hot and good as it baked into his shoulders.

"I enjoy flying," he said. "I don’t have a pilot’s license, though. I’m not qualified…"

Zavgorodny laughed. "Good thing! We are four pilots. That is three too many."

The four cosmonauts were already wearing one-piece flight suits of faded, well-worn tan. Jamie had pulled on a white short-sleeved knit shirt and a pair of denims when they had roused him from his hotel bed. He followed the others into the sudden cool darkness of the hangar. It smelled of machine oil and gasoline. Two of the cosmonauts went clattering up a flight of metal stairs to an office perched on the catwalk above.

Zavgorodny beckoned Jamie to a long table where a row of parachute packs sat big and lumpy, with straps spread out like the limp arms of octopi.

"We must all wear parachutes," Zavgorodny said. "Regulations."

"To fly in that?" Jamie jabbed a thumb toward the plane.

"Yes. Military plane. Regulations. Must wear chutes."

"Where are we flying to?" Jamie asked.

Zavgorodny picked up one of the cumbersome chute packs and handed it to Jamie like a laborer passing a sack of cement.

"A surprise," the Russian said. "You will see."

"Much fun," said the other cosmonaut. He was already buckling the groin straps of his chute.

Much fun for who? Jamie asked silently. But he worked his arms through the shoulder straps of the chute and leaned over to pull the groin straps tight.

The other two came back down the metal steps, boots echoing in the nearly empty hangar. Jamie followed the quartet of cosmonauts out into the baking sunshine toward the piano. A wide metal hatch had been cut into its side. There were no stairs. When he hiked his foot up to the rim of the hatch, Jamie’s side twinged with pain. He grabbed the sides of the hatch and pulled himself inside the plane. Without help. Without wincing.

It was like an oven inside. Two rows of bucket seats, bare, unpadded. The two men who had been sitting in the back of the car with Jamie pushed past him and went to the cockpit. The pilot’s and co-pilot’s chairs were thick with padding; they looked comfortable.

Zavgorodny gestured Jamie to the seat directly behind the pilot. He sat himself in the opposite seat and pulled the safety harness across his shoulders and thighs. Jamie did the same, making certain the straps were tight. The parachute pack served as a sort of cushion, but it felt awkward to Jamie: like underwear that had gotten twisted.

The engines coughed, sputtered, then blasted into life. The plane shook like a palsied old man. As the propellers whirred to invisible blurs, Jamie heard all sorts of rattling noises, as if the plane was going to fall apart at any moment. Something creaked, something else moaned horribly. The plane lurched forward.

The two pilots had clamped earphones over their heads, but if they were in radio contact with the control tower, Jamie could not hear a word they spoke over the noise of the engines and the wind blowing through the cabin. The fourth cosmonaut was sitting behind Jamie. No one had shut the hatch. Jamie twisted around in his seat and realized that there was no door for the hatch; they were going to fly with it wide open.

The wind roared through as the plane hurtled down the runway, skidding slightly first one way and then the other.

Awfully long run for a plane this small, Jamie thought. He glanced across at Zavgorodny. The Russian grinned at him.

And then they were off the ground. Jamie saw the airport dwindling away out his window, the planes and buildings shrinking into toys. The land spread out, brown and dead-dry beneath the cloudless pale sky. The engines settled into a rumbling growl and the wind howled so loudly that Jamie had to lean across the aisle and shout into Zavgorodny’s ear:

"So where are we going?"

Zavgorodny shouted back, "To find Muzhestvo."

"Moo… what?"

"Muzhestvo!" the cosmonaut yelled louder.

"Where is it? How far away?"

The Russian laughed. "You will see."

They climbed steadily for what seemed like an hour. Can’t be much more than ten thousand feet, Jamie said to himself. It was difficult to judge vertical distances, but they would have to go on oxygen if they flew much beyond ten thousand feet, he knew. It was getting cold. Jamie wished he had brought a windbreaker. They should have told me to, he thought. They should have warned me.

The co-pilot looked back over his shoulder, staring directly at Jamie. He grinned, then put a hand over his mouth and hollered, "Hoo-hoo-hoo!" His version of an Indian war whoop. Jamie kept his face expressionless.

Suddenly the plane dipped and skidded leftward. Jamie was slammed against the curving skin of the fuselage and almost banged his head against the window. He stared out at the brown landscape beneath him, wrinkled with hills and a single sparkling lake far below, as the plane seemed to hang on its left wingtip and slowly, slowly revolve.

Then it dove and pulled upward, squeezing Jamie down into his seat. The plane climbed awkwardly, waddling in the air, then flipped over onto its back. Jamie felt all weight leaving him; he was hanging by his seat harness but he weighed practically nothing. It dived again and weight returned, heavy, crushing, as the plane hurtled toward those bare brown hills, engines screaming, wind whistling through the shaking, rattling cabin.