Woke up around two in the morning. I know that on the 11th orbit, at 3:30, there’s a communication session where they’re supposed to tell us whether we’ll need an additional maneuver or not. Tolya is sleeping in the orbital module. I float over to see how he’s settled in — and he’s not there. Two spacesuits are hanging up to dry; what kind of apparition is this? It’s dark. I touch the spacesuit on the couch, and it turns out it’s Tolya inside — I burst out laughing. He’d crawled into his spacesuit because of the cold. I’d been sleeping in the descent module myself, alternately floating above the seat, strapping myself in, or wedging myself in along the 2-4 plane so as not to feel the hardness of the seats. I didn’t wake him, went back to the descent module and sat down to write my diary. The first thing that surprises me most is that I don’t feel anything unusual about what’s happening. I’m not marveling at the Earth, as if I fly every month. Tolya peers into the porthole every free minute, full of wonder: “Valya, look!” And I answer: “Come on, we’ll have plenty of time to look over the next six months.” Right now the main thing is the docking.

Tolya’s clearly got blood rushing to his head — it’s swollen, his hair is standing on end, and his mustache looks all ruffled. Feeling good, mood is good too. The main thing today is to dock, and after that we can live and work. My appetite is fine. I look over: Tolya is floating in the orbital module, eyes half-closed, shoulders hunched up, like Jesus, dozing. I say: “Tolya, eat something.” “No, I don’t want to,” he replies, and floats off to the descent module to nap before the maneuver. I hung the spacesuits up to dry and did my exercises in the company of humanoids. My spacesuit, inflated, was hanging upside down, and Tolya’s was sitting next to me — so the three of us worked out together.

Communication session. They told us there’d be an additional maneuver on the 12th orbit — meaning no sleep, and then docking after that, the hardest part. Good thing at least that we feel okay. We execute the maneuver independently, using parameters uploaded by the ground, since the engine burn occurs outside the communication zone. Everyone at Mission Control is nervous about this. We understand. The maneuver was executed cleanly. Next — approach. Our insertion orbit was 194 by 240 km; now, after the third impulse, we’re flying at an altitude I’ve never been to before. I looked through the porthole — we’re flying over the ocean, cumulus clouds below, and against their backdrop stretches a translucent veil of light clouds, like cobwebs, extending for up to 1,000 km. The first shift handed over their watch. We really enjoyed working with them; we’ll have to find out later who was on the comm link.

We’re tracking along the onboard computer’s prediction. Distance to the station: 457 km. The long-range radio detection system “Mera” locked on at a range of 250 km. Communication session — we report that the two-impulse maneuver has been executed, no “Mera” lock yet, going out of range. The “Mera” test ran, and immediately we got lock-on. The agreement between the prediction and “Mera” was perfect: range 27 km, closing speed 45 m/s. The short-range radio guidance system “Igla” came online; it achieved solid lock on the station, and from there the work was straightforward. We spotted the station through the lens-type screen at a range of 6 km — a glittering dot. Like a little star with the whiskers of its antennas, it was well lit by the Sun, and all its elements were clearly visible. Near the equator, we entered communication range with our tracking ships “Akademik Sergei Korolyov” and “Cosmonaut Vladimir Komarov.” We reported that everything was normal; we’re currently station-keeping near the station at 200 meters.

We were cleared for approach and docking. The station is visible against the backdrop of the Earth; the sea beneath it gives way to land, and mountains appear. Very beautiful. We dock. The panel shows a mechanical capture signal, and the docking probe begins to retract. We report: everything is normal. We quickly ran the leak checks on the transfer hatches, and into the station. We open the hatch of the transport ship, but it won’t budge. So I braced both feet against the frame, head-down — weightlessness allows this — and wrenched the hatch open.

When we entered the station, the first thing I said was: “Here’s our home.” What struck me was that I didn’t recognize the station — most likely because I’d entered it oriented in an unfamiliar way, with my feet stepping on the side panels. Weightlessness creates astonishing transformations. On Earth, we’re accustomed to perceiving everything around us in relation to the horizontal and vertical. A person walks on the ground, a tree grows — that’s vertical. The Earth’s horizon, a flat plain — that’s horizontal. On Earth, a person doesn’t walk upside down or lying on their side, but weightlessness allows it. When we study the station on the ground, we form a mental picture of its interior with an understanding of where up is and where down is — that is, where the ceiling is and where the floor is. But in space, that doesn’t matter. Here, within a single volume, you can see several different interiors depending on the person’s position. That is, as if from one furnished room you could imagine several different rooms. When we were getting ready to sleep — our sleeping places are on the ceiling (by Earth standards) — I floated up to my bunk, flipped over, and stood on it with my feet — that is, upside down by Earth standards. It’s unpleasant, but I looked along the length of the station and ordered myself to accept this new interior, as if internally reconfiguring my perception of the station relative to my position. Considering that where my feet are is the floor, and where my head is — the ceiling. And so I stood on the floor that had once been the ceiling.

Tolya floated over to me. I said: “Look what I’ve done — look ahead, what an interesting station, it looks completely different, even though we’re standing in a normal position.” He said: “That’s great. But now I’ll be sleeping above you.” “No,” I said, “you’ll also be sleeping on the floor, not the ceiling. Flip back over, and your bunk is below you again.” That’s how we came to terms with the unusual conditions inside the station.