"Vsego khoroshego," a voice whispered briefly. "Good luck." A hatch banged shut, and the weirdly garbed figure was alone in the tiny cabin, strapped tightly to a padded, sculptured couch. A low roar filtered through his bulbous plastic helmet; he tensed involuntarily as the couch began to vibrate violently. Seconds later, he was moving—at first sluggishly, then with breathtaking speed. For three taut hours, as sweating scientists clustered around tracking screens and feverishly processed telemetry data, Radio Moscow disinterestedly played ballet music. Then a sudden silence and the curt, dramatic announcement: "The...
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