Voyagers I (12 page)

“The Russians were on our side then.”

“They were on Stalin’s side. And Stalin decided that any scientist he could lay his hands on—even a young, starved, sick mathematical physicist—was going to stay in the Soviet Union and work for him, whether he wanted to or not.”

“They kept you in Russia?”

“In Siberia, actually. You boys had just set off your bloody atomic bomb, and Stalin was in an absolute sweat to catch up.”

“I thought they got their nuclear know-how from spies…”

“Nonsense! The only real secret about the atomic bomb was that it worked, that you could actually build one and it would explode satisfactorily. You gave that secret away at Hiroshima. Just as the biggest secret revealed by this alien spacecraft is that it exists—it came from somewhere other than Earth.”

“How long did they keep you inside Russia?”

“Years. Until Stalin died and his successors tried to ease tensions a bit. Even then, though, it wasn’t easy. They put me through hell and back before they let me go.”

“How come?”

Cavendish made a wry face. “The bloody KGB took it into their heads that I would make a marvelous espionage agent for them once I got back to England. I was treated to all sorts of brain-laundering techniques—and I do mean all sorts. That’s why I dread sleeping.”

His hands had started to shake.

“But you didn’t break,” Stoner said.

“Of course I broke! And I swore to them that I’d be a good Soviet spy for them. It took a lot to convince them, you know. They’re very thorough.”

Stoner just stared at him, waiting for more.

“Well, once I got home and my head cleared a bit, I went to British Military Intelligence and told them the entire story. They were delighted. MI told me that I could be a double agent, pretending to work for the Reds but actually working for the Crown.”

“Christ Almighty.”

“Quite. I didn’t want to work for any of them, but I’ve been doing both ever since. The reason I’m here, actually, is because both the KGB and British MI want me here.”

“You’re joking!”

“I wish I were. The Russkies have their own people puzzling over the radio pulses, but they don’t have a telescope in orbit that can give them data on the spacecraft. I’m supposed to funnel your Big Eye data to them.”

“Does the Navy know about this?”

“Your Navy? No. Neither does NATO, I believe. MI are curious about what you chaps are up to, you realize. Your Navy people haven’t shared their information fully with their NATO colleagues, as yet.”

“Cloak and dagger,” Stoner muttered.

“Indeed. In this business a man has no friends, you know. Absolutely none. Anyone could turn out to be your enemy. Anyone could turn out to be an assassin.”

“Assassin?” Stoner echoed. “You mean somebody might try to kill you?”

For the first time, Cavendish laughed. It was a thin, harsh, humorless sound. “Not me, dear boy. You. I’m merely a cog in the machine that both sides are working. If there’s an assassin lurking in the bush, he’s after your head, not mine.”

Stoner gaped at him. Slowly, he asked, “Are you trying to warn me, or…?”

The computer terminal suddenly erupted into clattering life. Stoner and Cavendish both bolted from their chairs by the fireplace and rushed into the dining room, where the typing unit was pounding away madly. Line after line of numbers sprouted on the long accordionfolded sheets of paper that passed through the machine’s roller.

“What is it?” Cavendish asked, the brandy snifter still in his fingers. “What’s it saying?”

“The latest fix on the spacecraft…” Stoner yanked the paper up so that he could read the first rows of figures at eye level without stooping over the chattering typewriter.

He gave a low whistle. “No wonder the computer had to chew on the data all night. The damned thing has changed its course.”

“What?”

“It’s accelerating.”

“Can’t be!”

“Look at this.” Stoner pointed to the numbers. “Here. And here again.”

Cavendish snapped impatiently, “It might as well be Sanskrit! I don’t know your language!”

“The spacecraft put on a burst of thrust,” Stoner explained. “Here and here.”

“It’s maneuvering? Changing course?”

“Yes.”

“Then there must be a crew on board!”

“Or a damned smart computer.”

“But where is it heading? What’s its new course?”

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Stoner bent over the typewriter. Just as abruptly as it had started a few moments earlier, it stopped.

“Well?”

Stoner stared at the final row of figures. He didn’t need to check a reference table. He had memorized that set of numbers weeks earlier, because he had feared, or hoped, or maybe dreamed that they would show up to face him, inevitably.

“Where is the bloody thing heading?” Cavendish demanded.

“Here,” Stoner said.

Cavendish’s mouth fell open. “Here,” he finally managed. “You mean Earth?”

Stoner nodded. “It’s finished looking at Jupiter. Now it’s heading for Earth.”

The General Secretary stared gloomily out the window of his limousine at the gray snowy morning.

“You know,” he said in a low, heavy voice, “that I am dying.”

Georgi Borodinski gasped. “Comrade Secretary! You mustn’t say such a thing.”

The General Secretary turned awkwardly to face his aide. Both men were wrapped in heavy dark coats and fur hats, despite the limousine’s heating system.

With a halfhearted grin, the General Secretary asked, “Why not? It is the truth.”

“But still…”

“You’re afraid the car is bugged. My prospective heirs might get a little overanxious and try to put me out of misery?” He laughed: a dry, rasping sound.

Borodinski said nothing. By the standards of the Kremlin’s inner elite he was a youngish man, only slightly past fifty, his receding hair still dark, his flesh still firm. He had risen from the ranks of Party functionaries by steady hard work, unspectacular, uninspired, seemingly unambitious. But he had recognized his one chance for advancement twenty years earlier, and had attached himself with the dogged faithfulness of a loyal serf to the man who was now General Secretary of the Party and President of the Soviet Union.

Now Borodinski stood on the verge of becoming General Secretary himself—if he could survive the struggle that would inevitably follow the death of his master.

“Do you know why we are riding through the cold and snow, instead of staying warm and comfortable in my office?” asked the General Secretary.

“I think I do,” Borodinski answered.

Gesturing toward the driver on the other side of the bullet-proof glass partition, the Secretary explained, “A Tartar, from beyond Lake Baykal. He checks the car every day before I step into it. We are safe from eager ears.”

“Yes.”

“I must live like an ancient Roman Emperor, surrounded by my Palace Guard—all foreigners, barbarians, loyal to me personally and not to anyone or anything else. A fine state of affairs for the leader of a Marxist state, isn’t it?”

“Every great leader has enemies, Comrade Secretary. Within as well as without.”

The Secretary’s heavy brows inched upward. “But if everyone within the Kremlin is a good Marxist, why should I require such protection?”

Borodinski saw where he was heading. “They are not all good Marxists. Even some in the Presidium and the Inner Council have their…failings.”

The Secretary nodded grimly. “Now then,” he said, “about this latest offer from the American President…”

Puzzled by the abrupt shift in their conversation, Borodinski blurted, “But what has that to do with…?”

The General Secretary slapped the younger man’s knee and laughed heartily. “You don’t see it, eh? You still have a few things to learn about the art of ruling.”

His laughter turned into a wheezing cough. Borodinski sat still, waves of sadness and fear washing through him. And impatience. But he sat unmoving as his master slowly won his struggle to breathe normally.

“I was saying,” the General Secretary resumed, after wiping his lips and chin with a linen handkerchief, “the American President has made what appears to be another generous offer.”

Borodinski nodded. “They’ve invited us to send a team of scientists to their base in the Pacific. Kwajalein Atoll, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the Secretary said. “According to all available intelligence, the American offer seems genuine. Their President wants to use this—this alien spaceship—as a symbol to build stronger ties of co-operation between our two nations.”

“Despite everything they’ve done over the past few years?”

“Perhaps
because
of everything they’ve done over the past few years. They may have finally realized the futility of their so-called ‘get tough’ policies.”

Borodinski considered that possibility for a moment, then asked, “Will you accept their offer?”

Leaning closer to his aide, the Secretary asked, “What would you do?”

It was a test, Borodinski realized, a test to see if he was fit to take over his master’s position. He fought down the fear rising in his throat and kept his long-simmering ambition deep within his heart.

“There is strong opposition within the Presidium,” he said slowly. “The idea of co-operating with the capitalists can cause bitter resentment among our more conservative comrades.”

“The same comrades who insisted that we march into Afghanistan,” the Secretary muttered, “without thinking about how difficult it is to march out again.”

“They have caused us many difficulties, true,” said Borodinski.

“And,” the General Secretary pointed out, “there is strong pressure within the Presidium that we accept the American offer.”

Borodinski nodded and stroked his pointed, Lenin-style goatee. “I have learned that the United Nations is also interested in the American program. And they will certainly bring the Chinese in with them.”

“Then we would be left out in the cold if we refused to co-operate, wouldn’t we?”

“But if we do co-operate, it will infuriate some of the most powerful members of the Presidium. Not to mention the Red Army.”

The General Secretary gave him a smirking grin. “A nice little problem, isn’t it? How would you handle it?”

Borodinski sank into silent thought. The limousine drove on through the snowy gray silence of morning, well beyond the buildings and houses of sprawling Moscow, far beyond the range of rooftop directional microphones and laser snoopers that can record conversations from the vibrations that spoken words make on the windows of a moving automobile.

Finally Borodinski said, “I think we have no alternative but to accept the American offer. Otherwise we will fall behind them and the others. They could obtain enormous amounts of information from this spaceship…” He had more to say, but the pleased expression on the General Secretary’s face told him it was time to stop talking.

“A good, honest, straightforward decision.” The old man patted his knee. “Now allow me to give you a lesson in politics to go with it.”

Borodinski sat up a little straighter.

“I am a dying man, comrade. The doctors have confirmed it. Everyone in the Politburo and the Presidium knows it. This is a dangerous time for me—and for you.”

Borodinski nodded, not trusting his voice to reply.

The Secretary closed his eyes for a moment. Then, “You pointed out, quite correctly, that if we accept the Americans’ offer of co-operation it will infuriate some of our most conservative comrades. It might well enrage them to the point where they might try to—well, hasten my demise.”

“They’d never dare!”

“Oh yes they would,” the Secretary assured him with a grim smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time a ruler in the Kremlin was hurried to his grave. And it hasn’t happened only to the Tsars, either.”

Borodinski made his face look shocked.

“But, comrade,” the Secretary went on, “suppose we prepare a little snare for these hotheads, a little trap to catch them in treasonable activities, eh? Then we can clear the Kremlin of the troublemakers and I can live out my remaining days in peace, knowing that I’m safe from traitors and assassins.”

Borodinski stroked his pointed little beard again. “Then the decision to join the Americans in studying the alien spaceship…”

“Is the bait for our trap, naturally.”

“That’s…brilliant! Absolutely brilliant. No wonder you have been our leader for all these years.”

The Secretary allowed himself a brief smile. “There is something else, as well.”

“Yes?”

“If we are to make contact with another race of intelligent creatures, I want it to be in my lifetime. In fact, it would be the crowning achievement of my career if the Soviet Union could make this contact
alone
, without the help of the West.”

“But how…?”

“This is what we shall do.” The General Secretary leaned closer to his aide, close enough so that Borodinski could smell the odor of medicine on the old man’s breath.

“I am listening,” he said.

“We will send a small team of scientists to this island. They will work with the Americans. Among them will be a few of our intelligence people, of course. Links to us. To
me
.”

“I see. Of course.”

“While the scientists study this spacecraft, we will be preparing one or more of our biggest rocket boosters for flights to meet this alien ship as it approaches us.”

“Ahhh, now I see…”

“Our scientists on Kwajalein will have the responsibility of keeping us fully informed. If and when the proper moment arrives, we will send cosmonauts to greet the alien ship.” He paused, took a deep, wheezing breath. “Or…”

“Or?” Borodinski asked.

“Or we will blow the alien out of the sky with a hydrogen bomb missile, if necessary.”

Borodinski felt a shock wave go through him.

The General Secretary’s face was grave. “That is the one thing that the scientists don’t understand. This alien intruder might be hostile. We must be prepared to defend ourselves.”

“But…it’s only one little ship.”

“No, comrade.” The General Secretary shook his head. “It is only the
first
ship.”

“Where?” Markov asked, blinking.

“Kwajalein,” said Maria. “It’s an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, they told me.”

“We’re being sent there? Why?” Markov glanced around the familiar surroundings of their living room: the bookcases, the comfortable chairs, the old brass reading lamp that he had rescued from his mother’s house, the sturdy tree just outside the window.

“First, they send me to the research center out in the middle of the wilderness and now…where did you say it is?”

“Kwajalein,” Maria repeated firmly. She was still in her uniform, but she held two big paper bags of groceries in her arms. She hadn’t even bothered to put them down before telling her husband the news.

“No,” Markov protested, his head buzzing. He groped for one of the chairs and sank into it, leaving his wife standing there with the groceries. “I can’t go there. I’m not a traveler, Maria Kirtchatovska, you must make them understand that. I want to stay here, at home…”

“Ha,” she said. It was not a laugh.

He looked up at her.

Stamping the snow off her boots as she walked, Maria headed for the kitchen.

“You want to stay home,” she mimicked in a high, singsong voice. “You didn’t stay home last night. You weren’t even here when I left for the office this morning.”

“I wasn’t on a tropical island, either,” he called after her.

“Where were you?”

“In my office. Working late. I slept on the couch there, rather than walking all the way back here through the snow. The buses stop running after midnight, you know.”

“Sleeping on your couch,” Maria groused, from the kitchen. “With whom?”

“With a volume of Armenian folk tales that I must translate before the end of the semester!” he snapped. “Your superiors demand weeks of my time, but they don’t hire anyone to do my work for me.”

She came to the kitchen doorway, a small sack of onions in her hands. “You were with some slut all night. I phoned your office when I got home.”

Markov made himself smile at her. “Really, Maria, you can’t trap me that easily. I was in the office all night. You did not phone.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

“I was really there, Maria,” he said. “Alone.”

“You expect me to believe you?”

“Of course. Have I ever lied to you, my dear?”

Her face contorted into a frustration that went beyond words. She disappeared back into the kitchen. Markov could hear pantry doors opening, canned goods banging onto the shelves.

She’ll break something, he thought.

With a sigh, he got up from the chair and went to the kitchen.

“Kwajalein?” he asked.

She was on tiptoe, shoving jars of pickled beets into the cabinet over the gas range. Over her shoulder, she grunted, “Kwajalein. Yes.”

“Here, let me.” He squeezed past her in the narrow space between the range and the refrigerator, and took a pair of cans to put away on the topmost shelves.

“Not those!” Maria snatched the cans from him. “They go here.”

He watched her put them where she wanted them, then accepted two other cans from her and stacked them neatly on the highest shelf, asking:

“Why do I have to go to Kwajalein? Why can’t I stay here at home?”

“Bulacheff specifically asked for you. The Academy is sending an elite team of scientists to join the Americans in studying the alien spaceship.”

“Is Bulacheff going too?”

“No.”

“I thought not.”

“But you are.”

Markov leaned his lanky frame against the pantry doors. “But I have nothing to contribute to their studies! Haven’t we been through all this once already?”

“The American astronaut, Stoner, will be there.”

“Ah. My correspondent.”

“Exactly. He knows you, by reputation. That is why Bulacheff picked you to join the others.”

“I should never have written that book,” Markov muttered.

“You are an internationally recognized expert in extraterrestrial languages…”

“Which is to say, nothing,” he said.

“And you will be a part of the Soviet team of scientists that is going to Kwajalein to work with the Americans in studying this alien visitor.”

Markov shook his head sadly. “All I want, Maria, is to remain here in Moscow. At home. With you.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “On that score, you can rest comfortably. I will be going to Kwajalein with you.”

“You’re going!” He felt shocked.

“Of course. You are far too important to be allowed outside the Soviet Union unprotected.”

“Oh, come now, Maria,” he said, “are your superiors so frightened that I might defect to the West? I’m not a flighty ballet dancer, you know.”

“It’s for your own safety.”

“Of course.”

“Of course!” she snapped. “Don’t you think I care about your safety?”

He patted his shirt pockets, searching for a pack of cigarettes. “I think you care about the trouble it would make for you if I defected.”

“And all you care about is finding some young slut to pursue!”

He stood up straight. “Maria Kirtchatovska, I told you that I was alone in my office last night.”