 planet? Guidance, it was decided, must be automatic. However, if the cosmonaut’s sanity and devotion to the Motherland could be demonstrated, and if he needed to assume command, a six-digit keypad was provided to unlock Vostok’s navigation system, disengage it from the automatic controls, and allow him to fly the ship. The three-digit combination for the keypad would be radioed to Gagarin if ground staff considered him sane enough to take over. Yet the logic was questionable: What would happen if Vostok lost attitude control or its radio went dead and communications were impossible? Instead, a face-saving measure was adopted, whereby the three-digit code would be kept in a sealed envelope aboard the spacecraft, ready for the cosmonaut to open if needed. Gagarin’s ability to open the envelope, type in the numbers, and activate the keypad would supposedly “prove” that he had not lost his mind and was fully aware of his actions.
“It was a dangerous comedy,” Ivanovsky recalled later, “part of the silly secrecy we had in those days.” The envelope, though, had to be placed somewhere within easy reach, should he need to get to it in an emergency, and a mentally unstable Gagarin could easily have opened it if he really wanted to do so. Mark Gallai, whose role included supervising the training of the Vostok cosmonauts, agreed, pointing out that all were qualified military pilots with experience of flying high-altitude, nighttime missions. The chance of them going mad was considerably less likely than suffering a radio failure. Consequently, betraying an official state secret and theoretically putting himself at risk of a lengthy prison spell, Ivanovsky told Gagarin the three digits: 1-2-5. To his surprise, the cosmonaut smiled and replied that his commander, Nikolai Kamanin, had already given him the combination!
Assisted by the chief of rocket troops, Vladimir Shapovalov, and two launch pad staff members, the next task for Ivanovsky and Gallai was to seal Gagarin inside his capsule for liftoff. At this point, a problem reared its head. A series of electrical contacts encircling Vostok’s hatch should have registered a signal—known as “KP-3″—to Sergei Korolev and his control team in the nearby blockhouse, informing them that it was secure. Furthermore, the signal was supposed to confirm that explosive charges around the hatch could jettison it at a millisecond’s notice in the event of an emergency and enable Gagarin to eject. On the gantry, the contacts seemed fine and the enormous hatch—which “weighed about a hundred kilos and was a meter wide,” according to Ivanovsky—was manhandled into place and the laborious process of screwing its 30 bolts began. No sooner had they finished, the launch pad’s telephone rang. No KP-3 signal had been received, barked Korolev, and he demanded that they unscrew and remove the hatch. After more fiddling, it was done. This time, thankfully, the KP-3 signal came back clearly.
It was now less than 40 minutes away from the projected 9:07 a.m. Moscow Time launch. Ivanovsky, Gallai, and the remaining personnel left the pad for the nearest control bunker. Vladimir Suvorov, determined to seize the most important photo opportunity of his career, stayed out in the open and would record some of the 20th century’s most remarkable imagery as the first man headed into space. Elsewhere, Gherman Titov was midway through stripping off his own space suit and his neckpiece was halfway over his head when the attending technicians disappeared to watch the launch. Meanwhile, alone in his tiny capsule, the young Soviet Air Force senior lieutenant, who had celebrated his 27th birthday and the birth of his second daughter a few weeks earlier, appeared calm, clear, and confident in his communication with Sergei Korolev.
Finally, at 8:51 a.m., Korolev gruffly announced that it was time for Gagarin to seal his gloves and close his helmet visor. With steady rhythm, Korolev barked out in turn: “Launch key to ‘go’ position … Air purging … Idle run,” and, finally, at 9:07 a.m., “Ignition!” The gantry’s hold-down arms sprang clea