20:17 UTC 20 July 1969

Dimitri looked across the plain. He was twenty kilometers southwest of Sabine D. According to the reports it would be just northeast of a 400 meter crater named West. The positioning satellites chirped their songs and told him that he was almost there.

There was West. A large though nondescript hole, like thousands of others he had seen before. And over there, the field of boulders. In his imagination they were as big as houses, but now he could see that they weren’t much larger than a Zim or a Fiat.

Then he saw it. Like a spider kneeling on its side. The gold leaf still glistening in the harsh sunlight. One leg had landed on a bolder and the one opposite collapsed, tipping the whole thing over.

History told him one of them was still inside, a leg broken in the crash. But the other made it outside and planted the flag. He found him laying with his back against a rock. Gold visor still down obscuring his face. The name Aldrin on his suit. The first man on the moon.

He placed the plaque and saluted.

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