Watson, Ian - Novel 11 (14 page)

 
          
And still the
white-out wrapped the
Retreat . . .

 
          
“Oh,
and let’s not forget how Konstantin Fucking Tsiolkovsky is bound to invent the
Geiger counter just as soon as he gets to Tunguska! Do I really have to be the
amanuensis of this rot? Why don’t we just collar a couple of bottles and all
get pissed?’’

 
          
“I
do sympathise,’’ Felix said to Sergey, “but why don’t you look at it this way:
suppose we were to scrap the original scheme for the film—?’’

 
          
“Are
you as barmy as he is?’’

 
          
“Half a tick!
Just listen. Suppose we made a different film—
namely
, this other film which Mikhail is
handing us on a plate. It could be highly original, very imaginative! It would
put our names on the map: as Soviet artists of the first calibre.’’

 
          
“It
could just as easily land us all in jail—if some Physics boffin in
Academgorodok or Krasnoyarsk, unquote, happens to be scribbling secret
equations for ‘time-flux’ travel!’’

 
          
“Oh,
I hardly think that’s very likely. Don’t forget, too: this new film would be
anti-imperialist—the Americans only use their time technology for military
purposes.
Whereas
we
use it to colonise the cosmos.
Then their Shield buggers up everyone’s
hopes of the stars and causes the Tunguska explosion instead. It could be a
rather cutting parable.’’ Felix turned to Kirilenko. “What d’you think, Victor
Alexeyevich?’’

 
          
Kirilenko
was appalled. “But this would present the split- hypnosis technique in entirely
the wrong light! It would show the subject splitting into two separate fantasy
personae! No, no.’’ “So what do you suggest? We scrap the whole project—after running
our Chekhov Look-Alike Contest? We’d be a laughing stock. I say we should make
the
very best
of what’s happened—and
we’ll knock everyone sideways with it.”

 
          
“I
think we ought to get pissed,” said Sergey. “Perhaps we’ll see our way out
through the bottom of a glass, or six.
In
vodka veritasl
—or is that your sort of line, Petrov?”

 
          
Mikhail
ignored him. He was glancing from the cotton wool outside the window to Sonya,
and back, as though to prompt her.

 
          
“And
what’s the climax of this new film, pray?”

 
          
“I’ve
no doubt Mikhail will tell us presently.
As soon as he finds
out himself.”

 
          
“Don’t
suppose the old story matters very much! Pretty stupid idea, really!
Kind of simple-minded, eh?
What sort of blockhead could ever
have dreamed it up?”

 
          
“Please!”
said
Felix. “This’ll be an experimental film . . . and
it’ll be a thoroughly committed one into the bargain.” “Committed? It’s us lot
who ought to be committed—to the nearest nut-house!” Sergey glared at
Kirilenko. “Oops, the nuthouse is here already.” He jumped up. “I refuse to
have any more to do with this farcical distortion of an honest project—into
sheer fantasy. I’m walking out, in fact.
Right now.”

 
          
“But
you can’t,” Mikhail said softly.

 
          
“Oh,
so now he’s the bloody script-writer and security man and everyone else!”

 
          
Sonya
hesitated,
then
nodded to Mikhail. “Yes, go on: tell
them.”

 
          
Mikhail
spoke in a jolly way. “Well, I’m sorry to spoil your weekend, Sergey old son,
but it’s physically impossible to get
away
from this place. When we went out for our little walk a while back, Sonya
and I tried to go down the hill—and we found ourselves right back here where we
started. I might add
,
we were walking in a perfectly
straight line, too!”

 
          
“What,
cuddling and smooching and you had time to watch where you were walking?”

           
Sonya started up, as though to slap
him. “I suggest,”
she
said icily, “you try it
yourself, Mr Pig.”

 
          
“Oh,
I shall.” Sergey hauled out of his pocket the keys to the Film Unit’s battered
old Volga, garaged round the back of the building.

 
          
“You’ll
end up in a ditch,” said Felix. “And where does that leave the rest of us, if
you run off with the car?”

 
          
“I’m
sure you’ll amuse yourselves adequately—”

 
          
“Sergey,
I
won’t
be bullied. We need to
explore this other option—let’s keep an open mind, eh? We could revert to your
idea later on.”

 
          
Sergey
jingled the keys.
“Nothing doing.”

 
          
Felix
pursed his lips.
“How very egocentric.”

 
          
“Quite
the prima donna,” Sonya gladly added.

 
          
“Okay.
Look, damn it: I’ve been challenged, haven’t I?” Sergey flushed. “So I’ll drive
down the hill, and I’ll find somewhere to report our phone out of order. Then
I’ll drive straight back up here again, right? I swear to you, either I get out
of this madhouse fora breather—or I hit the bottle!
Preferably
on top of Mikhail’s skull.
In fact, if I don’t leave this minute I’m
going to throw up.”

 
          
“Perhaps
a little hypnosis could help you?” Kirilenko pointed placatingly at the dusty
sofa.

 
          
“Fuck
off with your hypnosis.” Sergey wrenched the doors open, and fled.

 
          
Kirilenko
went over to close the doors. “I do seem to recall that having me here was
his
idea in the first place
. .

 
          
“How
can I apologize properly?”

 
          
Kirilenko
shrugged Felix’s excuses away. “I think Sergey’s notion of having a stiff drink
wasn’t a bad one at all.” He wandered across to the window, but there was
nothing whatever to be seen from it.

 
          
“First rate idea!
Mike, tell Osip to dig out a bottle and
some glasses, will you?”

 
          
Mikhail
chuckled. “Won’t it look as though we’re having a party to celebrate his
absence?”

 
 
          
“Who
cares?” Sonya said. “Besides, he’s going to need a stiff drink as soon as he
gets back.”

 
          
“He
will?” asked Kirilenko.

 
          
“Because he isn’t going to be able to drive down that hill.
Because right now it
isn’t
there.”

 
          
“Now,
now, Sonya, you know full well that the mind plays tricks on itself when
there’s reduced sensory input. Why, the very basis of hypnosis—”

 
          
Kirilenko
didn’t finish, nor did Mikhail even reach the doors on his errand—for these
burst open, and in
stumbled
Osip, grey with fright.

 
          
He
headed for Felix. “I have to talk to you, Comrade!” “What’s wrong, man? The car
hasn’t crashed already, has it?”
“Car, what car?
I
managed to phone out, that’s what’s wrong. See, I been testing the phone every
now and then.”

 
          
“I
bet you have,” said Mikhail. “Who did you get: yourself?” Osip stared round,
uncomprehending. “I dialled . . . somebody I know. But the guy on the other end
was a total stranger. ‘Who gave you this number?’ he wants to know. And: ‘What
you calling me for, on a Sunday?’ ‘Eh, Comrade,’
says
I, reasonable-like, ‘it’s only Saturday afternoon.’ So he starts in threatening
and heaping abuse and calling me a saboteur and a silly joker—and next he says
OGPU’ll sort out the likes of me. I ask you: OGPU! That’s years and years ago.”

 
          
Muffled
by double glazing and the fog, they heard the engine of the Volga revving,
choke full out . . .

 
          
“You sure, Osip?”

 
          
“Sure
as eggs
is eggs
, Mr Levin. He said OGPU.”

 
          
“He
was having you on.”

 
          
“Not
on that number, he wasn’t.”

 
          
They
heard the car drive off very slowly; perhaps there was a faint glow from its
headlights, perhaps not.

 
          
“Dear
old Osip.” Mikhail draped an arm about the caretaker, almost affectionately.
“Join the club.”

 
          
“What
club’s that, then? What’s going on here? You two used the phone! You called our
own number—I saw you! What did you do that for?”

 
          
“To
see if it would ring. It did.”

 
          
“Is
that true?” Kirilenko asked Sonya. “You mean you phoned the same phone you were
using—and you got it? That’s impossible.”

 
          
“And
Osip phoned out,” she said, “and he got somebody years and years ago, long
before the KGB
were
even dreamed of. I think we can
all avoid asking Osip
why
he was
phoning his favourite number.”

 
          
“Yup,”
said Mikhail. “We’re all in the same boat now. We’re riding out the time-storm.”

 
          
“What
the devil are you two talking about?” Felix cried.

 
          
“Well,
it’s what Sonya and I discovered on our little stroll together . . .” Mikhail
cupped a hand behind his ear. “Aha, and here he comes driving back, I do
believe! Now, won’t he be surprised?”

 
          
“Oughtn’t
it to be getting dark?” Kirilenko consulted his watch. “Heavens, it ought to be
black dark! Ah—our lights must be illuminating the fog.
Weird
effect.”

 
          
“No
night, nor day,” murmured Sonya. “Not any more—time’s gone away ...”

 
          
Somewhere
around the corner, outside, a car engine roared and died.

 
          
“You
know,” said Mikhail to her, “that means there isn’t any secret funny business
going on in Physics labs. The centre of this thing’s right here. It’s in this
building. It’s us—it’s what we’re doing.”

 
          
Feet
came running down the hallway; Sergey appeared in the door. His eyes bulged, as
if he’d met a ghost in a graveyard.

 
          
“It
won’t go down—”

 
          
“What
won’t, the Volga?”

 
          
“The
bloody hill won’t go down! It isn’t there—I nearly drove into this building!
Had to jump on the brakes, I did.”

 
          
Mikhail
grinned. “You couldn’t by any chance have skidded round in a full circle? No, I
suppose not. . .” He relented. “Sorry,
old man—excuse
my mockery! Osip, be a good chap and fetch us a bottle of vodka? We all need a
drink. You do, too—come and join us.”

 
          
“How
come I couldn’t drive away?’’ bleated Sergey.

 
          
“Ain’t
anywhere to drive
to.
There ain’t anything out there at the moment. We can’t leave till it’s all
over.’’

 
          
Sergey
subsided into an armchair.