Earth Station, Can You Read Me?

Dear Secretary Gorbachev,

Now that glasnost allows us to be open about these things, I must tell you that space travel is not the great adventure it's supposed to be. Lift-off on Sept. 29 was excruciating. My pulse raced to 200 beats a minute, and I ran a temperature. Incredibly, my partner Dryoma seems to have slept through the launch.

Accommodations on this twelve-day flight are terrible. We are both strapped in so tightly we can hardly budge. Our every twitch is monitored by electrode caps on our heads. I tried to be good but after five days, I had had enough. Tugging about with my shoulders, I wrenched my left arm free of its restraint. I tore off my nameplate. I don't know why but I enjoyed it. I must have ripped off something else in the process, because now my food supply tube seems to be stuck. Fortunately, the juice dispenser still works. Barring a bumpy re-entry, I should survive the trip.

I'm sure the scientists at the flight center in Moscow have rigged up a model containing another rhesus monkey with a free left arm -- all to see what mischief I'm capable of. They needn't worry. I will do nothing to embarrass the motherland. Besides, I can't leave my seat. I cannot reach any levers. Nor can I leave my chamber to visit the fish and the mice on board for experiments. What this biosatellite needs is some of your perestroika -- you know, restructuring. Space flight might then be more fun than a barrel of monkeys. Sincerely yours, Yerosha