It had been several minutes since he’d shaken like a peanut inside its shell, thrust up from the circus floor by a massive uncoiling trunk. The pandemonium of life below seemed all but a dream or nightmare — which depended on the outcome, or on the feeling he had.
Gagarin couldn’t shake that feeling. He reached for the black button (not the red one) and expressed himself to mission control, pausing in the middle of his transmission.
“The feeling that what,” one asked coolly in response to his uncharacteristically vulnerable and choppy communication.
“The feeling that we’ve created this thing we don’t really know how to use.”