Not fairy tales

Orange

«We’re screwed,» Gafarro lowered the spyglass and shook his head hopelessly.

Down below the castle walls, it was quiet now: his army had managed to beat off two attacks with almost no casualties. The attackers had not yet been able to get within a hundred yards of the moat surrounding the citadel, and each time they retreated. Now they were preparing to lay out one last trump card. And what one!

«No, sorcerer, not even you can handle it,» he glanced sadly at his advisor, who was looking around. «My kingdom will not stand. Where did they find him from? I thought they’d all been wiped out long ago, and here we are.»

The old mage didn’t seem to pay any attention to his words. He was staring intently and tirelessly into the horizon, where a new gray wave was beginning to creep on: the duke was determined to make another run. The enemy infantry, though badly shabby during the previous few days, was still astonishingly plentiful.

But that wasn’t too frightening: Krumland recruited his warriors from the rabble, with no regard for their strength or skill, as long as they could move forward and hold their weapons, and Barbeza’s potion would give them courage and spite. What a bitch! The witch really went over to the enemy. She must have brought that monster. Ugh!

Dorrenoi averted his eyes from the little flashes that ripped through the grayness of the dense morning fog. Damn you!

«I would not fall into despair, Your Majesty. There is always a way to fight.»

«But it’s a dragon!» Gafarro couldn’t hide his horror. «A stone-skinned, fire-breathing creature. What soldier could resist the flames, eh? The horses are snoring, you hear them? They smell that foul stench… Thank goodness it’s not flying.»

«Exactly!» the wizard held up his finger meaningfully. «It’s not flying. You noticed it too, my lord. So my eyes were right. Hmm. What else do you see?»

The king squinted at his companion with suspicion, but didn’t rant. He raised his spyglass and stared at the dark spot in the center of the approaching army.

«The dragon… not young, crawling slowly, but it seems to me that this does not affect his breathing: he’s puffing fire… Greenish, with a streak of yellow along his backbone… He’s about fifteen yards long. Oh, wait a minute… he’s got wings, but they’re tiny and rudimentary.»

The mage hummed so loudly that the king flinched and turned around abruptly.

«What?! Did you think of something?»

«Yes, I have a thought,» nodded Dorrenoi. «Tell me, Your Majesty, what is our food supply? Or rather, what fruit do we have?»

«From the fruit?!» the ruler’s eyebrows rose almost to the border of his hair. «You picked your time…» he paused, looking at the stern, serious face of his advisor, «well… if that’s what it takes… what do we have? Fruit… you know, not much. Except maybe five bags of apples. Dried plums, a dozen bundles. Grapes have all been crushed for brew. Hmm… There’s plenty of jam, though. Oh, here’s a couple more cases of oranges: they brought them just before the first attack and I forgot.»

The wizard smiled.

«Oranges, you say? Just in time. Oh, just in time! Get everything to the trebuchet!»

The king opened his mouth in amazement, twisted his head, glanced at the already discernible monster without the magnifying glasses, and turned to the wizard again.

«Are you out of your mind?! What oranges?»

«Bring it, I say! Don’t waste any time. We’ve got to get there before they get too close.»

After giving his orders in a few short phrases, Gafarro set the spyglass aside and sat down heavily on a sandbag, leaning against the battlements of the tower. Covering his face with his hands, he sighed sorrowfully.

«Take it easy, Your Majesty. Maybe the battle will be over in a few minutes, yeah,» Dorrenoi rubbed his hands together. «Listen to me… It’s important, vitally important, that as many oranges as possible hit the dragon, you hear. The more the better. How to do that is not up to me. You’re the best in the business. You can mix it with rocks, you can mix it as is… it doesn’t matter. It’s up to you. Just make sure you hit him before he gets within a hundred and thirty or a hundred and forty yards. He’s got a thirty-yard flame. And here already our soldiers are standing. That’s so they don’t get hooked, you know?»

The king’s eyes lit up with interest and, more importantly, hope.

«But what will this shelling do for us?»

«Uh, I’ll explain later. „If you’re not sure, don’t promise,“ as my teacher used to say, bless his bones. If it works, then it works.»

Gafarro stood up and clapped the mage on the shoulder.

«All right, I’ll trust your knowledge, my friend. Besides, what else can we do? So, you say, hit the dragon?»

«Yeah, in the muzzle, in the eyes – the best.»

From behind a narrow door in the wall, a panting soldier ran out, carrying a crate of sweetsmelling orange fruits like the sun. He was followed by another.

«Here, Your Majesty, your wisdom, is all there is.»

«Over there,» the king waved toward the two tall trebuchets that occupied most of the third tier below the observation tower. «Mix it with the gravel. I’ll be right back,» he glanced around. «May your wiles work, wizard,» and he hurried toward the stairway that led straight down.

Dorrenoi, grunting and barely moving his legs – knees, be damned – headed out the same way, but bypassing the inner galleries and passageways. When he finally reached the vast and terrifyingly large, crane-like, overgrown killing machines, they were all ready. It was just a matter of waiting until the target was at a calculated distance.

These few minutes passed in silence, only to the anxious sighs reverberating in the back of their heads.

The monster was very close: even the carved scales on its thick flanks could be seen. The smell was nasty: rotten, musty, and lifeless, and it made the horses in the vanguard roar and sprang to their feet. Nauseating. Well, on the plus side, they hadn’t all eaten in twenty-four hours.

Around the monster, the Duke of Krumland’s mercenaries and bandits stomped in close lines. Pitchforks, spears, and axes were what this filthy rabble carried as weapons. Yes, their combat was not intended to be noble, so…

But the instigator himself is nowhere to be seen. He probably keeps his witch to himself, too.

Ugh, what a mess! What a mess!

The dragon panted, releasing a jet of swampy yellow fire from its ajar mouth: two hundred yards away from the ranks of the palace and the kingdom’s defenders, ready to attack. A little more… and a little more…

The trebuchets surged forward, sending a small citrus cloud that seemed incapable of even tickling the skin of the creature crawling at them.

A few small stones hit the enemy fighters, bruising them and causing them to laugh maliciously. But they could not make fun of the weakness of the blow.

The oranges clattered against the dragon’s hard shell, scattering in bits. The acrid, fragrant juice tickled the beast’s eyes and nostrils. He shook his head, hissed, puffing gray smoke, and then suddenly reared up and spun, sneezing and coughing like a man on fire.

Each «Aa-pchhhh’ was accompanied by a burst of flame, wiping out all those who, by an evil stroke of fate, happened to be in the vicinity. The heart-rending screams of the burning people, the shrieks, the hubbub, and the jostling of those who tried to dodge and escape from the fiery death filled the clearing.

The duke’s army was spreading like worn fabric, ripping in the most inopportune places. Panic washed over the rebels.

The dragon, still sneezing and wiggling and tearing at its throat with its forelegs, darted back toward the lake a few miles away.

A few almost demonstrative raids by the king’s cavalry completed the job: a wide swath of land was strewn with corpses, and the rest fled in terror.

Sniffing at the strangely pleasant smell of roast meat in the air, despite its actual origin, Gafarro stepped away from the trebuchet and approached the mage.

«How?! What kind of magic did you stuff them with if such a small thing could turn a real dragon into a fugitive? Oranges… who would have guessed…»

Dorrenoi averted his eyes. He looked up at the king with embarrassment and explained:

«You see, Your Majesty, long ago, even before I entered Your Majesty’s service, I had to do all sorts of things to survive, you know, to get food. I was a healer, in general. I lived there, in Ilfania, almost at the border of the Marshlands. Whoever came to me for medical help, yeah. He was young then. A teenager, in fact. Did me no harm, either. I helped him as much as I could, so I know…»

«What do you know? Who did you help? Speak clearly…»

«So, who… the dragon, yes. He can’t stand citrus fruits. He’s been allergic since childhood.»

Thing called spring

Once there was a thing called spring…

Spring is here!

Why doesn’t my heart go dancing?

Spring is here!

Why isn’t the waltz entrancing?

No desire, no ambition leads me

Maybe it’s because nobody needs me?

Frank Sinatra

The monumental bulk of the Tengwang Pavilion stands out clearly against the background of the river at this sunset time.

The lanterns circling the tower are about to flash, echoing the color of the brick-red walls and the emerald-green roofs. Actually, the pavilion could be called a pagoda, but it lacks the usual elegance of these traditional structures. However, it makes a remarkable impression: yes, it is new, but something so ancient, some spirit of place, no doubt, lives in these stones. And surrounded by dozens, hundreds of skyscrapers, each year more and more squeezing their arms – both on this coast and on the opposite one – scratching the clouds with their claws, the Tengwang can seem like a pillar, piercing and linking the past and the present.

The rain that had fallen since this morning had washed everything away, making the colors more vivid. The wide stone staircase leading up to the pavilion now looked more like a rock than a human creation.

Two young men – obviously out-of-towners, tourists – stop right at the Yin-Yang symbol – the Great Limit sign – take their eyes off their smartphone screens, and look up.

«Hmm, there it is. Well, not bad, huh? We didn’t go here for nothing.»

«Impressive. It’s not a small thing,» the guy sips his iced tea from his cup, smacks his lips. «You know, it’s not bad. I don’t really like herbs, but it’s nice and refreshing.»

His buddy sips his drink too, nods.

«Yeah, it is good. Well, shall we go?» he waves his hand in the direction of the rise.

«Soon, give me a couple of minutes. Let me catch my breath: you’ve been dragging me around all day… didn’t even take a taxi.

«Taxi… You’re such a sissy. We never even left the neighborhood. And dragging… like I made you do it.»

«All right, all right, it’s about work, I agree. But it’s time to rest now, isn’t it? So, what’s the hurry? This tower isn’t going anywhere,» he looks at the Tengwang again. «Look, what’s that up there?»

At the corner of the curved roof, remotely resembling a dragon’s spine, stood a strange figure. It wasn’t easy to make out the silhouette in the twilight: not human, but certainly someone alive.

«Wait a minute, I think that’s one of them. He’s going to jump, look! Oh, that’ll be a sight to see! Come on! Jump!»

***

He is standing on the very edge.

In general, the weather today is windless, but not here, not up there. However, the wind is a friend, one of the few: violent, uncontrollable, necessary.

Now any gust threatens to rip him off the roof. Rip him off, throw, spin… no, not now… a little more later…

Down below, behind him, a dark ribbon of river winds, lazily rolling its still-cool waters into the distance: a few weeks, and the heat will take over. A heat from which he must get away. Is it worth it?

For what now?

Why should he go back to his homeland now? Alone… without her…

What’s driving him back?!

Spring…it’s all her, part of the eternal cycle of this world. The law of the universe, if you will. A law demanding and inexorable, embedded in the very depths of the subconscious. To go back…

He thought they would go home together. Together from this seemingly benevolent place to which they were strangers.

Aliens. Incomers.

Scarlet faces, scarlet feet, white covers.

They are different.

No, they haven’t been harassed here for a long time. They’re even protected. People take care of them, you could say. But people care more about themselves and their well-being.

What about them? They’re not from around here. Valuable, but different.

They will never understand each other. And people are stronger. Stronger, more insolent, more demanding.

And they take the water. They limit themselves, but still inexorably take away space for life. Not here, but there, just to the north – here he came by chance, circling and circling, and here – but the city will soon approach there as well. It would come and take new lives, as it had taken his beloved. Would kill others as it had killed her.

No, no one hunts them on purpose: the local governments have long forbidden such things. But man stains everything around him with his presence: everything he has created can bring death. Many things are not her weapons at all, but almost every grain can suddenly summon this cold, empty-eyed lady.

Simple fuel for people’s boats is poison for the likes of him.

Dirty death. Accidental death.

They were found too late.

He called out to people, calling desperately, trying to lead them to her, dying in that muddy puddle, but people didn’t understand. They shouted in admiration, pointed their fingers at him, smiled, wished each other happiness. As if he had come to them to show off. As if they couldn’t hear the hopelessness and grief in his cry.

People sat in their cells scattered over the ground, stacked one on another, formed the tall ant towers like the ones across the river. People sat there thinking only of themselves.

Sometimes they remembered creatures like him, too.

Not everyone: only the most understanding or those who could benefit most from it.

Then they decided to surround the strangers with care.

For now, all care is the bracelet draped around his leg. Yes, they had put a tag on him – trying not to hurt him, but still against his will – a tag that could be used to track his life.

But what does it matter to him?

His sweetheart also had a tag, a shiny little thing wrapped around her shin.

Did it help when the wearer was convulsing? That’s right.

They also gave him a name. A strange name, similar to their own.

Heng Chun. The Permanent Spring. The Eternal Spring.

Hah!

There is nothing eternal in this world, only the stars that light up in the blackness of the nights.

But they are there, far away, leading with their radiance to home – that’s all.

And there is no spring in his soul.

Her breath is all around… everywhere… everywhere…

Everything is blooming, everything is alive… Only it is as if he died inside on that shore, where she let out her last breath.

One step, one more step, and then crash down.

No, that’s something only they, the humans, can do. And they are horrified by it. And they marvel at it!

See, and now they’re looking up at him with all their eyes.

They’re watching, discussing something, gesticulating wildly. Waiting.

Yeah, it’s like they’re waiting for something…

The wind brings unlocal music. That is, their music, human music, just not typical of this place: jagged, rough, sharp-cutting with the edges of the words.

He doesn’t understand the meaning, but the rhythm is hammered into every bone in him.

…Und der Mob fängt an zu toben

Sie wollen seine Innereien

Und schreien

Spring*

A piercing cold and scalding heat. The blood roars. Painful and… cleansing. As if spring had washed over him with rain.

He shifts from foot to foot, swaying, then freezes again on the ridge of green-painted wood. The bow-curved corner of the roof is designed to prevent demons from sneaking into the house, to make them roll down this arc like a springboard and fly off into the sky, falling apart. Now the words roll down the curve.

Jetzt fängt der Mann zu weinen an

Fragt sich was hab ich getan

Ich wollte nur zur Aussicht gehen

Und in den Abendhimmel sehen

Und sie schreien

Spring**

Down below, people are waving and shouting something. Hundreds of sparks are flashed by the cameras: they are trying to capture him. Why? Or maybe it’s not about him? Maybe it’s the building, burrowed into the ground like a giant tree, that catches their attention. Maybe no one notices him at all.

He looks around, looking at the rugged silhouette of the city, illuminated by the setting sun. It looks like the forest he encountered on his way back home. It is distantly similar, because the forest is much larger, more majestic, because the forest spreads so wide that at times it seems insurmountable.

And now he doesn’t even want to overcome it.

Although… it’s all his own. Maybe he could find solace there.

Many people there almost worship them like gods. They call them sacred. They celebrate approaching happiness if they see them.

There are no cities there that look like a bunch of needles poking into the sky. Everything and everyone are closer to nature there, at least if you get to the right place.

So why did they come here? What called them to this distant land?

They came for warmth and sustenance. They came because they are used to coming. Because they didn’t know how to change, didn’t know how to seize new territory like humans. They came to the only place they knew.

On the shore of a beautiful lake they found their shelter, as they had always found it. The place was still there. Worse was the food.

That’s why the two of them went on their way. That’s why they came here: to the city, to the man.

That’s why she died.

Randomness: life is a chain of accidents.

Regularity: people trying to help in small things do not notice how they hurt in big things.

They cried when they found her. Dead. They cried. But do tears change anything?

Their fault.

Their fault!

Why does this world put up with what they do to it?!

The same song cuts through the crowd’s clamor again.

…tausend Sonnen brennen nur für dich…

Spring

Erlöse dich***

He’ll have to go, even if it’s without her.

Make their usual way for both of them. To worship the flourishing of that land as bequeathed by their nature.

It’s time. It’s time.

He opens towards the wind, clinging to its flow.

The fall… and the rise.

He makes a sharp turn and crosses the river and heads north, away from the city, into the night that engulfs its silhouette.

***

«Will he jump or not? Do you think he will?» the guy tosses the empty cup into the trash. «It should come out beautifully, I think.»

«I guess. They’re rare around here. I mean, in the city. Usually they stick to the park, the lakes. They say it’s good luck to see one. Have you heard of it?»

He nods.

«Yes. It’s full of these symbols: posters, magnets, stamps,» he points the camera phone again at the green and red lights illuminated on the pavilion, the silhouette standing almost motionless on this man-made cliff. «They are weird, really: the proportions, the colors.»

«But beautiful,» objected his buddy. «White always looks great.»

«It’s a pity he’s alone. I think they usually travel in pairs. I’d love to see them dance! Oh! Look, look! He jumped!»

Above their heads, spreading its snowy wings, the Siberian Crane plummets from the roof and, with a long cooing sound that resonates throughout the neighborhood, flies north to catch up with the spring coming to its homeland.

* Here is an approximate translation. With great gratitude and respect:

 
* Rammstein, Spring
The crowd begins to rage,
They want his insides.
And they shout.
Jump
 
 
** Rammstein, Spring
The man begins to cry
He asks: «What did I do?»
I just wanted to look at the view
And the evening sky.
And they shout.
Jump
 
 
*** Rammstein, Spring
…a thousand suns burn only for you…
Jump
Spare yourself
 

Down

Two pairs of eyes watched through the narrow pupil of the porthole as the thin cable unfolded in the darkness, stretching more and more, almost indistinguishable against the ghostly blue glow of Earth’s atmosphere. The graphite-gray strand emerging from the A-11 airlock had already gained full length, and the platform attached from below must have already reached the South American stratospheric port, flying a dozen kilometers above the planet’s surface. So, it would be no more than an hour or two before we descended.

«Has the guy changed his mind? Still want to risk it?» an elderly trembling voice cut through the quiet hum of the thirty-third compartment’s walkway zone.

«No. You can’t talk him out of it once he’s made up his mind,» the respondent said, not hiding a bit of regret. «You know… that’s why he’s here, if you think about it.»

«Yeah… What if… what if he makes it? After all, they do work on those costumes, Ars.»

His friend shrugged his shoulders. His cheekbone face, riddled with a mesh of wrinkles – the evidence of a tumultuous life – twisted into a grimace of doubt.

«Well, so far, none of them have been successful with that option. And anyway… Tell me, Charlie, how many people have gone back down? In your memory? Not just like that, almost directly, but through other experiments? How many have won their freedom?»

The old man scratched his bald head, sighed, and hunched over more than usual.

«Two…»

«Yeah! And how many people have tried? Two dozen? Three? Five? I’ve lost count.»

«Actually, this guy seems to be on his game.»

«Yep… But I don’t understand why he’s so eager to go back. What’s pulling him there? I mean, he’s struggled with this new system himself.»

«And he’s got it, isn’t he?» Ars grinned wryly, «no one chip here. Consider it the freedom he wanted.»

«Freedom?!» his interlocutor rounded his eyes, smiled, and laughed, clucking. «Freedom… oh, I can’t… Here on the „Daisy“? Hey! Freedom!»

Continuing to cheer, Charlie took a dozen steps to the right, bumped into a silvery wall, turned around, shuffling in an attempt to imitate running, and moved back. Another thirty steps and another obstacle in the way. The laughter broke off. The old man slammed his palm on the metal surface:

«Here it is, our freedom. Thirty meters across, and that’s it. Is this cage better than that one?»

***

The Experimental Correctional Station, or, to put it simply, the orbital prison, has been circling the Earth for almost half a century.

The inmates affectionately and ironically called it «Daisy» because of its resemblance to a multi-petal flower. The visual resemblance, however, was the end of the story.

The multilayered disk with its petal compartments was spinning nonstop around the control module sphere, which also served as an intake and distribution point for new arrivals. However, the West Space Elevator’s delivery pods came no more than once a week, or even less frequently, so the central sector was not under much strain. The fully automated system coped with its task perfectly.

The most dangerous criminals on the planet were kept here: maniacs, terrorists, and also political opponents who were not successful but posed a threat. «The risk of undermining social foundations, the welfare of the population,» as they called it, those who managed to exile their enemies who created obstacles on their way to power here. Or perhaps the prisoners here were indeed monsters?

They kept three of them per unit and never all of them were seated at the same time. Old-timers and newcomers were regularly swapped places: one by one they were transferred to other cells or to newly-joined cells. Occasionally, prisoners were given the opportunity to communicate not only with their cellmates, but also with other residents of the prison through the internal communication system, but few became buddies or even friends in such an environment. The majority suffered from loneliness.

And the owners of the station turned it to their advantage.

Maintaining a prison in orbit was not cheap, even with stably operating space elevators and available energy. Therefore, the ECS became a base for experiments: they were always well paid, especially the extreme ones. And where to find test subjects for this, if not among criminals? A longstanding practice, in general.

And if you turn everything into a show… A show, with stakes on the outcome of each experience. A show with stakes on someone else’s life. Will the subject survive chemical blood modification? Will the subject remain sane after exposure to infrasound? Will the bones withstand the wave blows? Will a person be able to descend into the atmosphere without a capsule, only in a spacesuit?

The ECS program has long rivaled the profitability of the best casinos on Earth: the chances of winning are so slim – prisoners almost always go to waste – but the sweeter the desired prize.

Only in recent years, it has become increasingly difficult to understand the true meaning of the station’s existence: the isolation of scoundrels from society plus scientific achievements or, all the same, the spectacle.

Well, anyway, he’s already made up his mind. He can be a lab rat, a clown, a buffoon for a while, if the final result is what they promise. If he wins.

Christophe heard bursts of laughter behind the thin bulkhead of his room: the old buddies managed to have fun even here in the cage.

At first, when he just arrived here, the other people, the other inhabitants of this enclosed piece of space, seemed a boon. You might say they helped him get used to it. But now the cellmates only got in the way. For three days now – since the announcement of his participation in the descent experiment – they had dissuaded him as best they could. They assured him that it was a lost cause, that no one could manage it, that there was too much unpredictability in the case.

By the devil, he’ll manage to get through the suit and make it all the way down. He’ll go all the way and come back down. And then… then we’ll see.

Yes, everyone on Earth considers him a monster, perhaps even his former comrades-in-arms, his friends. But he would explain it to them, prove it to them. He was right, no matter what. It was worth it.

It was worth it!

***

In the experimental sector A, work was in full swing.

Preparing for the descent. The experience was to be the seventy-third, unless a participant dropped out at the last minute. This was the year that about half of the applicants withdrew from the experiment before launch. Fear, and justifiably so.

Flying down from the station to the stratospheric port, without pods or anything like that, just in a spacesuit – it was scary for her too. Of course, there was a rope, but it was rather for the cameras – so that the participant of the experience did not fly out of sight. And this thin string is not too reliable: even thick webs of space-lift systems sometimes break, but here is only a triple tape of the twentieth order.

Eight to ten hours total, if the wearable engines work properly. Eight to ten hours of uncertainty and stress for the participant. All for the purpose of testing a new suit. Or was it for the show?

A successful descent will give the prisoner his freedom, so one can understand his motives. But why return someone so dangerous to Earth? Take this one, the current one…

A middle-aged woman in a thick, light-colored jumpsuit was scrutinizing the file on the holoscreen.

«Christophe Jes. Thirty-two years old. White.

Born in Spain. Parents unknown.

Boarding School…

School…

Technical University… Included among the most promising graduates.

«Cyclone» Corporation, Development Department

Dismissal. Participation in protests against the new intrachip.

Video: «The installation of the sixth generation of Cyclone subdural chip is to enslave you! Your habitual assistant will become your controller, your overseer, your judge and executioner! Don’t switch to upgraded programs! Refuse to modify for your children! Our designs are stolen and corrected.

The possibility of total external control is real, and you may even suffer physically: reactions to stimulation are not well studied. There are victims in experimental groups who are hidden from you.

Get rid of the chip…»

First detentions. Litigation with «Cyclone» Corporation and the International Modification Agency.

Involvement in the explosion at the «Cyclone» plant in Monterey. Destruction of three million intrachips. Casualties: thirty killed (five terrorists), fifteen wounded. Damage…»

Yeah, and this guy could end up on the outside, back downstairs! How can you give such a guy a chance? So many people have suffered, died, and he calls them «accidental, but justified victims»! Does trying to save millions – supposedly save millions – justify the death of even one person? «The factory workers were involved…they knew who they were working for…the costs…It’s hard to conduct such an operation without getting dirty.» Jes’s words came up again and again in her brain, making her wrinkle in pain.

Is it possible to return such madman?

But it’s not up to her to decide. The corporation expects a super-successful edition of the show: the culprit has managed to become recognizable in the farthest corners of the Earth. The stakes almost broke the record of the biomodeling experience before last (ugh, creepy critter came out then).

The woman turned off the projection, turned around. Through the half-glass door of the A-11 airlock she could clearly see the manipulators being operated by her assistants. Metal arms, hoses and visors were completing the final assembly of the descent suit, checking seams, joints, fuel cells, and oxygen cylinders.

In ten minutes, the prisoner will be brought in. In twenty, he will enter outer space and slowly fly toward his desired freedom.

But it’s not up to her, is it?

***

It took him minutes to get into his spacesuit, but it seemed unbearably long. However, he was too impatient, and there were still ten hours of one-on-one time with the space. But when every moment brings you closer to Earth, it is difficult to remain calm.

His heart was pounding more than usual, but Christophe managed to pull himself together: the art of meditation was doing its job even now, when silence and solitude were out of the question.