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had been vehemently opposed to Khrushchev’s de-Stalinization program. For the foreign minister, there were external considerations. Fear of Stalin had been the glue that cemented the Eastern Bloc. After his death, rumblings of discontent had begun to ripple throughout the captive states of central Europe, particularly in Poland and Hungary. In Yugoslavia, Marshal Josip Broz Tito had become downright disrespectful, and Molotov had been furious that Khrushchev had not punished him. It set a bad precedent to be seen as so soft. And now that Khrushchev had denounced Stalin’s reign of terror, the Poles and Hungarians might also grow bolder. Khrushchev’s speech could be taken as a sign of weakness throughout the Soviet dominions, a reflection of waning resolve, a cue to rise up. Khrushchev, the novice, didn’t understand any of these things; he had no comprehension of the forces he might have unleashed. His pigheaded ignorance could bring down the whole empire.

Molotov, of course, said none of this publicly. He was too seasoned a Kremlin intriguer to make that mistake. Publicly he recanted his opposition to appeasing Tito, saying, “I consider the Presidium has correctly pointed out the error of my position,” and joined Kaganovich in praising Khrushchev on his insightful initiatives. “Comrade Khrushchev carries out his work . . . intensively, steadfastly, actively and enterprisingly, as befits a Leninist Bolshevik,” he had said only a few months earlier. But privately, Kaganovich and Molotov were already whispering in Bulganin’s malevolent ear. Now was not yet the time. Like the butcher Beria before him, the cattle salesman would get his comeuppance soon enough. With luck he might not even live to see the R-7 fly.

• • •

“I would like you to know about still another project,” Korolev said quickly, as the Presidium delegation was about to leave. For the first time a hint of hesitation had crept into the Chief Designer’s normally self-confident tone, and his words had gushed out in a torrent of pent-up anxiety.

Korolev “led us to a stand occupying a modest place in the corner,” Sergei Khrushchev recalled. “A model of some kind of apparatus lay on the stand. It looked unusual, to put it mildly. A flying machine should have a smooth surface, flowing shapes and clean-cut angles. But this one had some type of rods protruding on all sides and paneling swollen by projections.”

What is it? the Presidium members asked. A satellite, said Korolev. He paused for effect, gauging his guests’ reaction. There was none. Instead, they stared blankly at the meaningless object. Korolev must have sensed the disinterest, for he launched into an impassioned speech. From time immemorial, he said, growing animated and uncharacteristically emotional, man has dreamed of escaping the bonds of gravity, of breaking free of the earth’s atmosphere and exploring the cosmos. Until now the dream of the space pioneers—and here Korolev spoke glowingly of the nineteenth-century Russian rocket visionary Konstantin Tsiolkowsky—had belonged to the realm of theory or science fiction because no man-made object could generate sufficient velocity to break the gravity barrier. The R-7, though, was almost fast enough. With a little tinkering and a few minor adjustments, it could make that age-old dream possible.

Once again, Korolev paused and looked at his guests. The Presidium members seemed unmoved. So what? their expressionless faces seemed to say. What did any of this have to do with the development of an intercontinental ballistic missile that could keep the Soviet Union safe from American attack? How could the two even compare in national importance? Korolev was wasting their time with this romantic nonsense. The Chief Designer had been getting this sort of blasé reaction for two years now, ever since his proposal for a satellite project had begun wending its way slowly up the Soviet bureaucracy from one skeptical committee to the next. Decrees had been signed advocating the “artificial moon” as far back as May 1954, but without a champion on the Presidium to lend