by Ian Watson
“If the Professor says Mr Petrov’s okay… That seems sensible. I mean, we don’t want any more trouble—we’ve got enough on our plate as it is.”
Kirilenko bandaged Mikhail’s head tightly. Sergey strode over to Osip and thrust the pistol at him. Hastily Osip fumbled it away out of sight.
“We can say he slipped on the ice,” said the caretaker. “Cracked his noddle, he did. That’s simple enough.”
Shortly, Mikhail opened his eyes and moaned. Felix bent over him. “You had a little accident, Mike.”
“Uh?”
“An accident.”
“Eh? What? Did I?”
“You did.”
“Don’t remember a thing—what’s all this blood?”
“It’s yours, dear boy. By the way, can you tell me: what is the last thing you remember?”
“Uh? Oh, I was thumbing through The Apple Orchard”
“And an apple fell down on his noddle—as on Isaac Newton’s.”
“Hush, Sergey! Now, Mike, tell me: what is The Apple Orchard!”
“Eh? What a thing to ask a wounded trooper.” Mikhail began struggling to sit up. Kirilenko restrained him. Mikhail lay back on the parquet, squinting up. “Well, last time I was around it was a certain comedy by old Anton Pavlovich—”
“Mmm. And how about The Cherry Orchard?”
“Dunno. Old Antosha wrote an Apple Orchard. Well, he did, an’ all! What are you lot staring at me for? I ain’t never heard of any Cherry Orchard.”
“You aren’t by any chance having us on, dear boy?”
“About what? Look, my head’s hurting.”
“My poor baby,” crooned Sonya. She stroked Mikhail’s cheek.
“I repeat: you aren’t having us on about The Apple Orchard!”
“Of course I ain’t having you on, you daft bugger. What am I lying on the floor for?”
“A meteor banged you on the grey matter,” said Sergey. “What did you think? Happens all the time.”
Sonya cradled Mikhail. “My poor baby shot himself—don’t mock him.”
“Shot? Myself? What with?”
“With a gun.”
“Where is it, then? Show me!”
However, Osip had already ambled, crab-like, out of the library to conceal the evidence …
“Never mind about that,” said Felix. “How about Uncle Vanya?”
“Eh? I haven’t got any Uncle Vanya.”
“Written by the well-known Mr A. P. Chekhov.”
“Ah, you mean Uncle Ivan? Why not call a thing by its proper name? What is this, anyway: a drama quiz in a loony bin? You beat somebody over the head, and ask them stupid questions while they’re lying half-witted.” Reaching up, Mikhail caught hold of Kirilenko’s lapel. “Is this another one of your fabulous new psycho-techniques?”
Firmly Kirilenko removed Mikhail’s hand. “It is not. I assure you.”
“And how about Commander Anton Astrov?” pursued Felix.
“Uh?”
“Of the time-ship Tsiolkovsky.”
“I give up! You’re all barmy. God, I feel dizzy.” Mikhail shut his eyes tight.
“And why are we in this building, Mike—can you tell me that?”
Mikhail opened his left eye a crack. “Could it be to play charades?”
“Please be serious.”
“Well, we’re here to rough out the plot for a film, ain’t we?”
“Yes? Carry on.”
“Called Chekhov’s Journey.”
“And what’s it about?”
“It’s about Chekhov’s bloody journey, what else? It’s about his sodding Tunguska Expedition. Now, if the interrogation’s quite over, can I please get up? I’ll feel a lot safer up on my feet than with you lot all leering down at me.”
Sonya grasped his arm, and Kirilenko took his other arm. Together they helped Mikhail up, and over to the nearest chair. His eyes watered. His bandaged head lolled against the antimacassar.
“If only you knew,” murmured Sonya. “If only you knew.”
“If only I knew what?”
“If I told you it wouldn’t help your headache much.”
Kirilenko collected up the First Aid box and his blood-stained hanky. After a moment’s hesitation, he stuffed these into an empty space in one of the bookcases, directly following on the last volume of the Collected Works of M. M. Gorky. From somewhere outside came a faint thumping sound: Osip must be trying to hack a hole in the frozen ground with a pick or a chopping hoe, to bury the pistol …
“If only… If only I’d never come here,” said Kirilenko. “But I did. So now we’ve collided with another world …”
Misunderstanding him, Mikhail rubbed his bandages ruefully. “Just as the past collided with the future, at the time of the Revolution! Or was it with my skull—eh, Sergey? Ah well: onward into the future, say I! A future of hope and happiness!” He cupped a hand behind his ear. “Hark, do I hear the jingle of the harness bells? Or is it my head that’s ringing?”
“I’ve had horses up to here.” Sergey made a throat-slitting gesture. “A taxi’ll suit me fine … What am I thinking of? We’ve still got the Volga.” He pulled out the car keys and stared at them, then bit the ignition key in the manner of a peasant testing a coin for counterfeit.
“Remember,” said Felix, “the street names might have changed.”
“So what? I don’t doubt they’ll still be the same streets. It’ll be the same old world as ever—give or take the odd cherry orchard … Does anything ever really change?”
“My goodness,” said Mikhail, “you’ve certainly changed your tune! You sound just like one of Anton’s people. Poor burnt-out Sergey, all passion spent—and now you’re exhausted. In fact,” and Mikhail began to chuckle, “you sound rather like Sidorov! Possessed by an event too big for him, which nobody else even noticed till Anton came along… Surely a simple little film script isn’t such a challenge to a professional writer?” Tears ran down Mikhail’s cheeks: tears of laughter, and the strain brought a tiny, fresh spot of blood to the surface, to stain his bandage.
“Aren’t you the lucky one?” cried Sergey bitterly. “Shall we tell him, folks?”
“Careful!” Kirilenko interposed. “Mikhail’s our guide now. He’s our lifeline—our interpreter, should we need one. He knows where he is. He belongs.”
Mikhail carried on chortling. “You people are really too much. You’re as crazy as coots!”
Like the pulse of his blood and the beat of his heart, the faint thumping continued from outside as Osip hacked away remorselessly at the soil, which was as hard as iron.
After a while the noise stopped. Perhaps Osip had realized that the last place to hide something was under a freshly chopped-up heap of soil, near the road.
If you've enjoyed this book and would like to read more great SF, you'll find literally thousands of classic Science Fiction & Fantasy titles through the SF Gateway.
For the new home of Science Fiction & Fantasy …
For the most comprehensive collection of classic SF on the internet …
Visit the SF Gateway.
www.sfgateway.com
Also by Ian Watson
Novels
Under Heaven's Bridge (1981) (with Michael Bishop)
Black Current
1. The Book of the River (1984)
2. The Book of the Stars (1984)
3. The Book of Being (1985)
Mana
1. Lucky's Harvest (1993)
2. The Fallen Moon (1994)
Other Novels
The Embedding (1973)
The Jonah Kit (1975)
Orgasmachine (2010)
The Martian Inca (1977)
Alien Embassy (1977, 2006)
Miracle Visitors (1978)
God's World (1979)
The Gardens of Delight (1980, 2007)
Deathhunter (1981)
Chekhov's Journey (1983)
Converts (1984)
Queenmagic, Kingmagic (1986, 2009
)
The Power (1987)
The Fire Worm (1988)
Whores of Babylon (1988, 2004)
Meat (1988)
The Flies of Memory (1990)
Hard Questions (1996)
Oracle (1997)
Mockymen (2000, 2004)
Collections
The Very Slow Time Machine (1979)
Sunstroke: And Other Stories (1982)
Slow Birds: And Other Stories (1985)
Evil Water: And Other Stories (1987)
Salvage Rites: And Other Stories (1989)
Stalin's Teardrops: And Other Stories (1991)
The Coming of Vertumnus: And Other Stories (1994)
The Great Escape (2002)
The Butterflies of Memory (2005)
The Beloved of My Beloved (2009) (and Roberto Quaglia)
The Book of Ian Watson (1985)
Dedication
For Brian Stableford
Ian Watson (1943 – )
Ian Watson was born in England in 1943 and graduated from Balliol College, Oxford, with a first class Honours degree in English Literature. He lectured in English in Tanzania (1965-1967) and Tokyo (1967-1970) before beginning to publish SF with "Roof Garden Under Saturn" for the influential New Worlds magazine in 1969. He became a full-time writer in 1976, following the success of his debut novel The Embedding. His work has been frequently shortlisted for the Hugo and Nebula Awards and he has won the BSFA Award twice. From 1990 to 1991 he worked full-time with Stanley Kubrick on story development for the movie A.I. Artificial Intelligence, directed after Kubrick's death by Steven Spielberg; for which he is acknowledged in the credits for Screen Story. Ian Watson lives in Northamptonshire, England.
Copyright
A Gollancz eBook
Copyright © Ian Watson 1983
All rights reserved.
The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author
of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This eBook first published in Great Britain in 2011 by
Gollancz
The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Orion House
5 Upper Saint Martin’s Lane
London, WC2H 9EA
An Hachette UK Company
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 0 575 11462 3
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
www.orionbooks.co.uk
