All the felt-tip pens have run out; there’s nothing to write with. Something about these days — work with Mission Control is going smoothly. They’ve become more cooperative, striving to show initiative, helping and backing us up without waiting for a question. We’re performing repair and replacement of the S-190 transmitter, the command radio link through which Mission Control sends commands to the onboard systems. We did the job quickly and well, although it wasn’t easy — there are about 30 different connectors, power and high-frequency, and access to the unit’s mounting is difficult. The thing is, the station was built on a tight schedule without consideration for long-term use; only the equipment’s rated lifespan was factored in. Practice has shown, however, that a station’s life can be extended 2-3 times, but that requires replacement of individual instruments, units, and equipment, and on the early stations that was poorly thought through. But we had the entire second half of the day free. That’s what flight experience does for you. You know how to approach things, what tool to grab, how to remove fasteners more conveniently and quickly, how to untie cable harnesses. After lunch we shot one cassette (60 meters of film) of repair work and watering the garden. You’ve got to film it — you can’t recreate it on the ground. Tolya and I are chatting cheerfully, as if we haven’t been flying for half a year.

My Polyot watch floated away again. When I do my physical training, I take it off because my wrists sweat. After the workout I peeked under the elastic band, and it wasn’t there. Now I don’t know what to do. You wake up at night with no idea what time it is, not like on Earth where you can judge by the light in the window. Here the concept of “night” is arbitrary for us, since while we sleep we pass through day and night four times.