by David Drake
“Of course. This will be possible. Now, I must say you about the scientist, Academician Igor Zotov, who has the know-how you will find most interesting.”
For the rest of the trip, Matsak gave Grainger background on Zotov and the city officials they were going to meet.
Zotov was an academician, a rank of scientist that had no US equivalent, one with multiple doctorates and professorships. Zotov was also state science prize winner, a prima donna, and someone whose continued financial support by the Ministry was not in doubt, according to Matsak. However, it would help Matsak continue Zotov’s funding if the US expressed interest in cooperating on some aspect of his work. Dollars were salvation to some of these project managers.
As they turned off the highway onto a forested access road and entered the closed city, Matsak refilled their glasses from the vodka bottle, drank deeply, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “As you now see, I can arrange anything. This is my great skill,” he declared expansively.
By then, Grainger thought he knew what to expect at Obninsk.
But he didn’t. First he saw lit high-rises. Then they were gone. Into view came an operational-sized rocket, painted red and spotlighted, poised in a central square. Then he noticed the buildings around it—yellow with white trim, columned in the classical style, and with lit windows. Then he saw what looked like an ancient football Scoreboard on stilts. It was displaying lit numbers that changed as he watched.
“What’s that, Sasha?” he asked, leaning forward to look closer. His shoulders rubbed the other man’s as Matsak looked, too.
“Oh, this?” Matsak said with a wave of his hand. “This is nothing. This is readout, metering the background radiation outside at this time. Obninsk is, after all, a closed city which does much Voyenna—soyuz—much space technology. Here too is being done all the research into the aftereffects of Chernobyl. Obninsk is the center of post-Chernobyl international commission—Russian delegation, of course.”
Grainger was shocked wide awake and nearly sober by Matsak’s flat admission of meaningful levels of radioactive contamination. Suddenly his antiradiation shot didn’t hurt at all. As a matter of fact, it felt good, warm, comforting.
Matsak’s driver headed straight for the most imposing of the columned buildings. There, under a portico, several men in suits and women in dresses were waiting in the irradiated cold to greet them. One man was short, stocky, with wild white hair and thick glasses. He wore an old wool coat with leather patches and mismatched shoes.
Before Matsak had made the introductions, Grainger already knew that this man had to be Academician Igor Zotov. The other two men were too smooth, too well dressed and well formed, to be intellectual dynamos or groundbreaking scientists. The women towered over Zotov on spiked heels. Their stockings had seams running up the backs of their calves.
Grainger bowed his head with each handshake the way his hosts did. “Mayor. Deputy. Thank you so much for inviting me. Academician Zotov, I’ve heard great things about your work.”
The little man took Grainger’s hand with a surprising strength and held on to it. There were several growths on Zotov’s face, round protrusions of fleshy tissue that were asymmetrically arranged: above his left eyebrow, in the crease to the right of his nose, under the left corner of his mouth. In Grainger’s time, such growths, whether caused by environmental, hereditary, or viral agents, would have been immediately removed. He tried to look Zotov in the eyes but the growths kept claiming his attention. They made it hard to look squarely at the little scientist. Uncomfortable, Grainger looked away.
Horny nails bit into his wrist. “Dr. Grainger, I am so happy to meet you,” said Zotov in painstakingly rehearsed English.
Nobody bothered to introduce the women formally. One was Marina and one was Tanya and one was Rita. Good enough. He couldn’t tell one from another.
The mayor, Kokoshin, was a Rasputin of a man. “Come this way, Dr. Grainger. We have prepared a small welcome in your honor.” Mayor Kokoshin, having assumed that Grainger was a doctor and exhausted his rote greeting, began talking to Matsak in Russian.
Beyond imposing carved doors, Grainger’s sneakers squeaked on parquet wooden floors. He was becoming used to the vast expanses of open space in Russian public buildings, the dim lights, the huge light fixtures, the intricate flooring, the low leather furniture, the mass-produced patterned runners that seemed to be everywhere. Double doors opened before them as if by magic, spilling out laughter, light, and music.
There must have been a hundred people in the banquet hall. White linen tablecloths were everywhere except on the head table, which sported a green baize cover. Bottles were set before every few plates. Glasses beside them held pinkish squares of slightly waxed paper to use as napkins. Food was laid out family style. And young girls were everywhere, in red tunics that came only to the tops of their thighs. Beneath the tunics were fishnet hose and knee-high boots. On their heads were tall Russian furred hats.
“You see,” Matsak said in his ear, “beautiful Russian dancers.”
The girls were huddled in a group, giggling, staring at Grainger, the alien being from the capitalist world.
Grainger was grateful when Mayor Kokoshin guided him through a massing crowd of scientists and local officials to the green-covered table. He was immedietely seated among those who’d greeted him. Zotov sat on Grainger’s right. Matsak claimed the seat on his left by putting his gift Marlboros on his plate. Loudspeakers played music, probably to make conversation safer.
Once seated, Grainger could see the far wall. It was decorated with latticed metalwork that at first looked merely decorative, but on examination revealed its nuclear theme. Atoms were described in artistic metal orbits, intertwining among hammered stars. The nuclear art wall was clearly to be used as a backdrop for tonight’s entertainment. Chairs and musical instruments were already in place before it.
Scientists began to file by, holding visit cards for him, claiming their precious introductions. Zotov gave Grainger a running commentary, whispering each name in turn and giving an opinion of each scientist’s value.
“Interesting,” he would say. “Not interesting.” “Perhaps you will think this work is of value.” “This one is a show scientist.”
Grainger was overwhelmed in the first five minutes.
Then the girls began to dance, kicking their long legs high to the music of a classical balalaika band that entered from the next room. Grainger had never before seen a bass balalaika. He’d never before seen fourteen-year-old girls dance, as if for their lives, with such manic energy. He began to feel helpless. These people needed a real visit from a real US government official who could open some doors for them. Not from him. He was here to close doors on them. Forever, if he could.
By the time the dancing was done, he’d drunk some of each wine handed him, plus vodka, cognac, and he didn’t know what else.
Zotov tapped Grainger’s knee to get his attention as the girls did their final splits on the floor and people started clapping.
The little scientist’s face was lined and wrinkled everywhere but around the three growths, which were smooth and pink as baby’s flesh. He grinned widely, showing teeth capped and filled with white metal. “So, American scientist, you are one of the first to visit our city of Obninsk. This is great privilege. Only those who qualify can obtain visit here, yes? Interested in my work, this is why you are coming here?” All Russian scientists might have some English by now, but Zotov was struggling to pronounce words he might never have heard, only read.
“Yes. I’m very interested in your work, Academician Zotov.”
“Since my work is of such international interest, you will call me Igor.” The Russian thrust his face so close that their foreheads nearly touched. A piece of octopus from the salad was caught between two of his metal-capped teeth. He’d eaten some of the pickled raw garlic that garnished it and his breath reeked.
“And I’m Tim.”
“Ummin … Tim. We say
in my field that the true boundary conditions of the universe are that the universe has nyet—no—boundary conditions. You understand this in so poor English?” Zotov’s eyes wrinkled in delight at sharing his joke. If it was a joke.
Grainger tried to think of an appropriate response. He would not move away from this old man, no matter how bad he smelled. “In my field we say that the universe ordered itself as it did in the first moments of creation in order to produce physicists.”
After Mayor Kokoshin had been called to translate this, Zotov roared with delight and pounded Grainger on the back. “So we do understand each other. Good. Tim Grainger, come close.” Zotov’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“What?” Grainger asked the scientist softly.
“Do you believe the traveling from other … dimensions is possible?”
“Da, da,” Grainger assured Zotov.
Now their foreheads were touching. Zotov said, “I have proofs. What would such proofs be worth in dollars?”
Damn, where was Matsak? “They are worth a great deal, if what I see is both convincing and … useful.”
“Then you will see what is useful,” said Zotov. “You believe in the unidentified object from … another … world … place?”
“UFOs?” Grainger’s heart sank. If this was a wild goose chase…
“I have the real proof. I have myself seen these things.”
“Up close and personal?” Grainger asked, straight-faced.
“I have films I take myself. I have the piece … the physical … evidences. And I am making the science of this traveling. The experiments. The improvements. The discoveries. The adding of Russian know-how. This is interesting for you?”
Before Grainger could answer, Zotov sat back, drained a small glass of vodka, and cracked it down on the table. His eyes were full of challenge.
“This is very interesting. I hope I can see it as soon as possible.” Grainger too sat back and drained a similar glass in front of him. He couldn’t believe any primitive, clear drink could pack such power. But he might as well get as drunk as his hosts. UFOs, yet. Alien encounters. Was this why he’d left Moscow? But still, what if Zotov had found something? Not a UFO that traveled through space, but one that traveled through time?
One of the scantily clad girls came around behind them, handing out full champagne glasses. She put a bottle of Georgian champagne in front of Zotov. Zotov lumbered to his feet, a glass of champagne raised high.
“To our guest, the Dr. Tun Grainger, senior science bureaucrat of the USA. May he see here the … brilliance … of Obninsk.” He repeated his toast in Russian, and everyone raised their glasses and drank deeply. Zotov’s English was getting better by the moment.
Then Mayor Kokoshin got to his feet and raised his glass in a second toast, entirely in Russian.
Soon enough, Grainger had been the subject of a half-dozen rounds. Now he must propose his own toast.
Before he knew it, he was on his feet, glass raised, saying, “To Russian scientists, the most hospitable in the world. May their hard-won freedom serve them well in their quest for knowledge. And to their daughters, most beautiful of all women.” He turned to the gaggle of teenage girls. “May all my grandchildren be Russians.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. He’d better go somewhere out of sight and use his phar-makit to sober up.
Every fourteen-year-old temptress in the room preened as Zotov translated the toast into Russian. The crowd broke into guffaws from the men and giggles from the women.
Somehow, Matsak reappeared abruptly, as if he’d always been sitting in the chair on Grainger’s left. “So sorry, a few phone calls. Ministry never sleeps. Now, if you would like it, you may make your phone call.”
It was clear he was supposed to get up and go with Matsak. He managed it, shouldering his gearbag with elaborate care. “I need the toilet, too.”
“This too I can arrange,” Matsak said dryly, “as I arranged your invitation here.” He seemed very pleased with himself, but there was tension underlying his approving smile.
The phone was behind a desk in the dimly lit anteroom. “I need that bathroom first.”
In the Russian bathroom, he was completely dumbfounded. He didn’t understand how to flush the toilet at first. He couldn’t find any toilet paper. He decided he was too drunk and dialed a dose on his pharmakit to sober himself up. Couldn’t talk to Nan Roebeck if he couldn’t find toilet paper in a bathroom. When he’d finished using the pharmakit, he still couldn’t find any toilet paper.
Outside, Matsak waited, his lanky frame full of suppressed energy. “So, the phone now. I have found the operator. Say me the number.”
A Russian woman had to put the call through for him. Mat-sak served as translator.
Eventually, the phone was handed to him. “Nan, how’s Chun?” he asked, using the code they’d devised.
“Doing fine. What’s up?” Roebeck’s voice was so immersed in static that it was hard to discern her words.
“I’m going to stay here overnight. I don’t think I can make dinner tomorrow after all. Remember the agreement we made in order to get this visit?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. For a moment he thought the connection was broken. Then her voice came to him amid even more static: “Of course. I should have realized. Well, do the best you can.”
“How about you? How’s it going?”
“About as expected. The same sort of thing you’re doing there, we’re doing here. I’m glad you called. I have to go out.”
Out. Predawn visits in secret to laboratories, no doubt. He doubted the women were getting the same treatment as he. But maybe that was just as well.
“Have fun,” he said.
“You, too,” Roebeck replied. “Das Vedanya.”
“Das Vedanya.”
When he handed the handset back to the woman, the little scientist Zotov had joined them in the anteroom. Zotov was talking to Matsak earnestly. The tall Ministry functionary and the small, disheveled scientist didn’t see Grainger approach until he was nearly upon them.
The two Russians noticed Grainger at the same time. Matsak held out a forestalling hand and continued talking to Zotov in rapid-fire Russian that Grainger couldn’t decipher. The tone was argumentative. Zotov was giving Matsak some sort of problem. The Russians went on arguing for long minutes. Grainger shifted from foot to foot. Good thing he’d sobered up. From the meeting room beyond, light and music spilled out under closed double doors.
While he waited, Grainger vainly tried to identify the muted music he could barely hear. Maybe Haydn. Maybe some Russian composer.
Finally, the argument ceased. Matsak turned on his heel, straight as the flag officer he’d been or still was. He said to Grainger, “Zotov says okay. You can see the technology right now. The others will not notice we have gone. They will be celebrating until they go to sleep. We must go quickly. Hurry.”
Zotov stomped away down a darkened hallway, not waiting to see if they’d follow.
Matsak motioned Grainger ahead of him. They followed Zotov through two corridors and down a flight of stairs. They hurried through an ill-lit, musty basement. At last they came to more stairs, leading to a subbasement. There Zotov fumbled for keys in his pocket. The scientist unlocked a door covered with chipped, peeling white paint.
Inside was a working laboratory. In that laboratory were three men in threadbare lab coats. Grainger had not met any of these men at the party upstairs. They were hunched over a rack of equipment such as Grainger had never seen before.
Huge dials, exposed wiring, makeshift housings. None of it seemed promising. Meters had German manufacturers’ names on them. Beyond the rude console was a wall with homely curtains drawn across its upper half.
Grainger moved around the console.
Zotov barked something at Matsak.
Matsak said, “So sorry. The Tim must sit here and the technology will be presented.”
Matsak tapped a plastic chair near the console.
Grainger said, “That’s fine with me.”
Matsak stood over him like a bodyguard.
Zotov muttered to his staff.
At last the little scientist seemed satisfied. A small black and white monitor was brought and set down on top of the console. The three technicians chattered, “Mouschka! Mouschkal” Eventually, the problem they were having with their computer mouse was solved and the display flickered alight.
The small monitor displayed a videotape, not a computer program. The tape was of an ongoing event in a town square. Above the square, something flickered into substantiality.
That something was oval, glowing with lights, and it settled onto the grassy square with an easy grace.
Grainger said, “What’s this?” A chill ran over him that probably wasn’t due to the mixture of alcohol, nicotine, and antitoxins in his body.
“Watch,” Matsak said.
Grainger wished the monitor was better. But he could see what was happening on the tape well enough. The door of the capsule opened and six hardsuited men carrying long tubes came out. Russian peasants were crowding around. The men pointed their tubes at several of the people: a young man, a teenage boy, a pregnant girl. The locals surged forward as the youngsters crumpled. The hardsuits weren’t from any time or place that Grainger was familiar with. Neither were the tube-shaped implements. Or the craft, although he was sure from the way it moved that it was a temporal capsule.
The men with the tubes aimed at the crowd. Broad, visible beams from their tubes swept over the frightened, angry people. More folk dropped to the ground. Three of the intruders from the craft ported their weapons and grabbed the youngsters they’d originally targeted. Slinging the inert bodies of the three Russians over their shoulders, the men disappeared inside the craft while their comrades covered them. Once those three were inside, the men providing cover began reen-tering the ship, one at a time. All very professional.
