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It cannot be said that our very first day in the Soviet Union turned out to be an ordinary one.

On that cold, but bright, April day we were guests of your government in the reviewing stand of Red Square to witness the poeple's celebration for Yuri Gagarin and later on that day we attended the somewhat more exclusive reception for him in one of the impressive palaces of the Kremlin.

If we thus spent our very first day in the midst of a large number of your people honoring a new hero and a great national achievement, our last day, to us at least, was equally impressive and very moving, even though the crowds were absent and there was almost complete silence.

We stood under a gigantic tree in the rolling country just outside of Moscow looking at silent flowers on the grave of a Russian poet and writer who cherished the love for his country to the point of foregoing the highest international honor.

The grave, about half-way between his home and the blue turrets of a small church, rose above the forms and spaces of gently undisciplined pastures of green, the sounds of birds, the silence of other graves and the casual paths through small forests.

Just yesterday we had met and talked with a living writer, a contemporary of the dead poet, who is known for his ability of manipulating his ideas and his craft more advantageously.

But today we were aware of only two men.

One had taken a flight into uncharted space, in the service of science, to return as a living hero.

The other had assumed the right to explore the equally uncharted space of the human spirit.

The flowers on his grave attested to the fact that he as well was somebody's hero.