At the time, and while no one had known exactly what was going on down there in the guts of the Perchorsk ravine, still it had been sufficient to kick-start the USA’s Space Defense Initiative into real being. And in small, powerful, very secretive circles throughout the Western world there had taken place a good many worried discussions about such things as APB (accelerated particle beam) “shields,” nuclear- or plasma-powered lasers, even about a theoretical “magma motor” which might tap the gravitational energies at Earth’s core.
Finally the firsthand report of a Western sympathizer had come leaking out of one of the logging camps east of Perchorsk. Trask had been privy to the contents of the document and remembered them to this day. Not the work of an educated man—indeed, that of a peasant in forced exile, a “relocated” ex-Ukrainian dissident—still, the wording had been vivid and evocative.
It had been a bright clear night, with the shimmer of aurora borealis like a pale shifting curtain in the northern sky. The observer, a lumberjack out hunting near the mountain pass, had been aware as always of the distant hum of giant turbines, transmitted through the earth from the Projekt some four kilometres away. But as the whine of the engines had wound itself up, the man had stopped and looked back through the evergreens—to see the rim of the Perchorsk ravine bathed in a wash of flickering light like pale fox fire!
Suddenly, it had seemed that the night held its breath … only to expel it in a great gasp or sigh. And as the whining of the turbines had climbed higher yet, a beam of pure white light had shot up from the ravine, turning night to day as it bounded into the sky! A pulse of light, which lasted just long enough to leave its afterimage burning on the eyeballs and then was gone. And in its wake—
—A bright clear night … until then. But as the weird white searchlight had blinked into and out of being and Perchorsk’s turbines fell abruptly silent, so a hot wind had blown down from the crags, and within the hour clouds had boiled up out of nowhere to rain a strange warm rain. Then, as if intensified by the rain, a smell of burning—an acrid, electrical burning, like ozone maybe?—had seemed to permeate the damp night air. But before that, indeed within minutes of the flash of light itself, there had been the sirens. Perchorsk’s sirens, like the voice of the ravine wailing its agonies. But in fact they were the agonies of men.
There had been an accident, a big one. And for the next fortnight … helicopters shuttling in and out, ambulances in the mountain passes, and men in radiation suits decontaminating the walls of the ravine. And the one whisper that got out as local Soviet authorities moved to shut down certain “fifth column elements” in the logging camps was this: blowback! The Perchorsk experiment had discharged itself into the sky, all right, but at the same time it had backfired into the underground complex that housed it. And like some fantastic, freewheeling incinerator—melting men and machinery alike—it had almost blown the lid off the place before burning itself out!
After that … Trask remembered several things which the Soviets had not been able to cover up: like the apparent mass migration of many of their top-flight doctors, mainly radiation specialists, from Moscow, Omsk, and Sverdlovsk, into the understaffed and ill-equipped frontier hospitals in Beresovo, Ukhta, and Izhma. No one had experienced much difficulty figuring out what that was all about: as well as all of the dead, they must have taken a good many badly injured men out of the ravine. Since then the experiment if not Perchorsk itself had been abandoned.
And so there had been only the one test firing, but one too many. The damage it caused had been permanent, and Turkur Tzonov was correct to liken Perchorsk to the Chernobyl Sarcophagus. Trask would go even further; in his mind both places had much in common with Pandora’s box: they each harboured plagues which, in their divers ways, might oh so easily have endangered and even doomed the world entire. And one of them—Perchorsk itself—might do so even now …
The jet-copter’s passengers sensed rather than felt its landing as the aircraft gentled to a touchdown on the dam wall. Just as surely, Trask’s thoughts also came back to earth. Looking out through windows already blurred by a thin sheath of ice formed from the mist of the dam’s cascade, he made out a figure in a white parka waiting in the safety margin beyond the lethal glimmer of the fan. Then the high-pitched whining of the rotors wound down to a reassuring whup, whup, whup, and the copilot came hunch-shouldered from the cockpit to let down a curving side panel into preformed steps.
Signaling that they should watch their heads, Tzonov ushered Trask and Goodly down onto a rubber-clad surface and guided them through the rotor’s bluster towards the figure in the parka: a statuesque platinum blond whose looks were classically Scandinavian. Smiling a welcome, she handed parkas to the British espers and helped them shrug into them. Then, turning to the head of Soviet E-Branch, she hugged him, covered his shoulders with a wing of her own hugely oversized parka, and hurried him towards an open jeep where a driver sat waiting. Smiling blandly, pampered and proud of it, Tzonov offered no slightest resistance to any of this. Trask and Goodly exchanged covert glances, and the latter raised a querying, even wistful eyebrow which Trask answered with a shrug. There was nothing for it but to follow on behind Tzonov and his lady.
Trask took the seat alongside the driver, which left his precog colleague to cram himself into the back of the vehicle with Tzonov and the girl where they huddled like lovers. Quite obviously, they were lovers. Introductions would be out of the question over the throb of the jet-copter’s engine, the stuttering cough of its idling rotors, and the clatter of the jeep’s exhaust; Tzonov didn’t even attempt it but confined himself to hugging the girl and whispering something in her ear. Her answering laughter was whipped away by turbulence from the rotors as the jeep turned right off the dam wall onto a road dynamited from the face of the ravine.
A hundred and fifty yards up the precipitous road, the driver brought his vehicle to a halt on a level hardstanding and leaned on his horn until massive, motorized, steel-jawed doors under a frowning overhang rumbled open. It was the way into Perchorsk, the “throat” of the subterranean complex. And as a swath of light blazed out and the jeep drove through it into a brightly illumined interior, so the jaws closed again, shutting out the gaunt ravine from view. Finally the jeep’s motor was switched off and its row faded to an almost painful silence.
At last Trask and Goodly could hear themselves think, and now they must guard against others hearing them think. As they climbed out of the jeep, Tzonov said, “Welcome to the Perchorsk Projekt … or rather, to the system of passageways and caverns which once housed it. For now, of course, the Projekt exists in name only, and the complex houses something else entirely.”
From the jet-copter to this place—these outer environs of the Perchorsk complex—had taken no more than a minute and a half maximum, but Trask was glad for his parka. Likewise Ian Goodly; in such a short time, the bitter cold of the ravine had seemed to eat right into his bones. Both men rubbed their hands briskly and Trask turned to the girl. “We really ought to thank you for these excellent garments, Miss, er … ?”
“Dam!” She held out her hand and grinned mischievously. “No, not a swear word, just my name! Sigrid Dam—or Siggi, to my friends.” Like Tzonov’s, her accent was scarcely noticeable. What there was of it wasn’t Russian, but Trask believed he’d detected … what, a Swedish lilt? Or Danish? Possibly. The surname was Danish, certainly.
“Ben Trask.” He smiled. “And this is my colleague, Ian Goodly. I’m sure we’ll enjoy being your friends.”
As she shook hands with the gaunt, gloomy-seeming precog, Turkur Tzonov snapped his fingers, exchanged concerned glances with all three and exclaimed, “Ah! Unforgivable! What must you think of me, to forget the introductions? But … there was no opportunity. You must forgive me, my dear.” And turning more fully to his guests: “Siggi is … my constant companion.”
“A mutually stimulating friendship, I’m sure,” Trask said, and tried desperately to keep his thoughts to himself. But with a girl
like this (no, a woman like this, as he now saw), it was difficult not to envy his Russian counterpart.
Sigrid Dam was thirtyish, taller than average, and (Trask guessed) slim and athletic under that parka. The garment seemed cut for a giant and covered her like a poncho halfway down her thighs, yet still looked stylish on Siggi. But then, she would probably have the same effect on a potato sack. From the bottom of the parka down, her long tapering legs were clad in shimmering black ski pants, while beneath it she wore a matching black top. The wide bottoms of the pants formed bells over fur-lined calf boots.
Under expressive blond eyebrows, Siggi’s eyes were the deep blue of summer fjords; her mouth was perfectly shaped, if a little cold; her nose was just a fraction tip-tilted, hinting at a strong, even aggressive personality. All in all, and while her skin was marginally paler than Tzonov’s, the general impression Trask received was much the same: one of radiant good health. And yet … the picture was marred; something didn’t add up. Something about her eyes, maybe? Trask thought he knew what it was but would wait and see what developed.
And meanwhile he wondered about Siggi’s relationship with Tzonov—their real relationship. That is, he wondered if it was real. In which case …
Just seeing this woman in the company of Turkur Tzonov (and despite that they were not opposites), Trask would easily understand their mutual attraction. In a world full of mainly mundane, unexceptional people, a pair such as this would naturally gravitate together. Why, they might easily be the leading role-players in a Hollywood epic from Trask’s youth: people too rare or beautiful to even exist—except among their contemporaries in a surreal, celluloid world apart.
Trask caught her looking at him … what, appreciatively? At which moment she blinked and said, “Anyway, it’s Turkur you must thank for the parkas. They were his idea. Your overcoats may be just the thing in London, but we’re fifteen to twenty degrees colder here!”
Goodly turned to Tzonov, and in his somewhat fluting voice said, “It’s all very considerate of you. You seem to have taken our welfare so much into account—and all so far in advance.” There was something in his wording which caused Trask to glance at him.
But Tzonov merely grinned. “Ah, yes, of course. Your penchant for the future, Mr. Goodly—er, Ian?” And then to his woman, by way of explanation: “Ian is a precog, Siggi.”
She clapped her hands. “But in that case … perhaps you had foreseen the provision of the parkas?”
Goodly shook his head, shrugged apologetically. “Far too specific,” he said.
“Anyway”—Turkur was enjoying this—“I didn’t arrange for the parkas until twenty minutes before we landed!”
And Trask thought (but to himself), Oh? When you were supposed to be sleeping? He’d known, of course, that Tzonov wasn’t asleep … but if not asleep, what then? Merely resting? Or had he been talking to Siggi Dam? Now Trask saw how everything fitted. Like the pale purple in the orbits of Siggi’s eyes, which betrayed her telepathy—but only to someone who knew his business. To most other men that slightly bruised look would only serve to complement her sensuality, might even be mistaken for a symptom of her dissipation lingering over after the excesses of a long night. Once again he was aware of her sharp glance, but this time she was frowning.
Goodly offered a rare if somewhat tortured smile. “And so Siggi’s a powerful telepath. I thought so. But such beauty and talent combined! It hardly seems fair! I suppose I should have foreseen it”—he looked at Tzonov—“that you two would be a perfect match.”
“Birds of a feather?” Tzonov answered his smile. “Aren’t we all?” And to Siggi, before anyone could say anything else: “My dear, will you see our guests to their rooms? It won’t be the Ritz, I’m afraid, but as Siggi pointed out this isn’t London. An hour or so on your own—time enough to clean up and rest a while after your journey?—and then I’ll collect you for a tour of the place.”
Trask nodded. “During which … will we get to see your visitor?”
“Certainly,” Tzonov answered. “And a lot more than that in the bargain. This is a fascinating place, Ben, with a fascinating history. But with all the good will and the glasnost in the world, it’s not the sort of place you get to see every day …”
A few minutes later, in the privacy of their “rooms”—a pair of steel-walled, interconnected cells, more like—Trask and Goodly conversed in lowered tones. Despite that in accommodations this austere it was difficult to see where bugs could be hidden, Goodly had already checked his own room. Using a tiny detector which doubled as a pocket calculator, he’d satisfied himself that the place was clean. Then he’d gone through into Trask’s—what, compartment?—to sit on his lumpy army bed and watch the other wet-shaving over a dented aluminum washbasin. As they talked, their glances met in the mirror over the basin.
Seeing the detector, Trask had just this moment pulled a wry face and given his head a shake, sending bubbles of shaving foam flying. “That’s not necessary,” he said. “I’d know it if something was other than it appears to be. It’s all as you see it: cheap and nasty but clean as can be. The same goes for our hosts, too: they’re squeaky clean—so far.”
Goodly raised an eyebrow. “You find no fault with their behaviour?”
Trask tidied up his short grey sideburns. “Not really. Do you? Ask yourself this: what welcome would we have given Tzonov if we’d known in advance that he was coming to London?”
Goodly shrugged. “Our best men would have been on the job from square one. With their science and sorcery, they’d be all over him!”
“Even if he was there to do us a favour?”
Goodly raised an eyebrow. “In which case we’d let him get it done, and then—”
“—We’d be all over him with our science and sorcery … yes, I agree. So maybe he’ll be more interested in us later.”
Goodly nodded and said, “I’m sure he will.” And after a moment, “You know he wasn’t sleeping in the chopper.”
“Tzonov?” Trask dried his face. “No, he’d simply chosen to withdraw. Turkur Tzonov has a talent, Ian, one which he’s used to using. But with us he can’t, not and expect our cooperation. So in the close confines of the jet-copter he opted out, backed off, and chose to ‘sleep’ right through the flight. That way he wouldn’t be tempted to look at us—or look into us—face to face. It seems he genuinely needs our help and doesn’t want to scare us off. Well, and it isn’t without precedent. There was a time when the Opposition’s top man worked alongside ours on the Bodescu affair, too.”
“That was before Tzonov’s time,” Goodly pointed out. “And it was a disaster! Our Branches don’t work well together.”
Trask put on his shirt. “Is that what you foresee: a disaster?”
Goodly looked more gaunt and morose than ever. “Ben, you know as well as anyone that I’m frightened of my talent. Most precogs are. The future has an uncanny knack of doing what we expect but not how we expect it. I read it sparingly, and not too far ahead, because … well, like Turkur Tzonov’s motives, it’s not to be trusted. No, I don’t foresee a disaster—not yet anyway—but it won’t be a joyride either.”
Trask studied his grave face. “So, can we simply say that you’re … uneasy?”
Goodly nodded. “Uneasy, yes. Look at it this way: my knowledge of the future springs from the past and the present. With me it’s a sort of unconscious extrapolation, where I ‘remember’ what’s still to come like you remember your dreams: with fuzzy edges and lacking in fine detail. But despite that a dream will rapidly fade, if it’s a good one it can set you up for the rest of the day; where by the same token a nightmare will only upset you and make you irritable. Well, that’s how I feel right now: itchy and irritable. Now keep that in mind and concentrate on what we know of Tzonov, his psychological profile.”
Trask said, musingly, “I know something about his physical profile: we should have known about this Siggi Dam! She wasn’t in his file and so has to be a recent conquest.”
/> Goodly shook his head and said, “Yes, but I’m not talking about her. I’m talking about Tzonov’s mind, the way he thinks. He’s proud, dedicated, and a bad loser. That’s the thread that connects his past, present, and future. It’s what steered him to where he is now: head of Russia’s E-Branch. And it’s what makes me itchy.”
Trask couldn’t see where this was leading. “Explain?”
“Proud,” Goodly pressed. “Of himself, of his abilities, and definitely of his country, despite its Humpty Dumpty act: that it fell so badly apart the rest of us have scarcely been able to put it together again. Proud and dedicated: to his talent, his job, and to the security of Mother Russia. Proud, dedicated, and a very poor loser, who knows the entire history of his organization from Gregor Borowitz, Dragosani, and the Château Bronnitsy, right up to the present moment in every minute detail. Knows all of its triumphs and especially its tragedies … and knows who to blame for most of them!”
“Harry Keogh?”
Goodly shook his head, then changed his mind and nodded. “If not Harry, the ones he was working for,” he said. “Namely, us. E-Branch.”
“Revenge? He intends to use us, then punish us?”
Goodly shrugged. “He’s a true son of Mother Russia, this Turkur Tzonov. He can’t bear it that she’s the world’s sick old lady. He bears a grudge against everyone who had a hand in her decline, despite that the actual breakdown was no one’s fault but her own. And so in his own field, he’ll do whatever he can to even up the score.”
“But not until afterwards,” Trask said.
“Eh?”
“After he’s used us—and only then if he can get clean away with it. You’re right, of course. I notice it whenever he uses the word ‘glasnost,’ meaning openness: the fact that it’s the one word that doesn’t ring true. But we know he’s looking for a position in the party’s Demokratik Politburo and so follows Premier Gustav Turchin’s line—but only because he has to, not because he’s a true believer in world unity. Oh, Turkur Tzonov’s no one-man resurgence of old-style hard-line Communism, no, but he is ambitious. And you’re probably right that his ambitions extend to the entire USSR. Or what used to be the USSR. He would like to see Russia out there in the race again, with himself in the driving seat, and he’d relish the opportunity to run over a few toes and settle some old scores on his way up the main drag. Which, to put it another way, is like saying he’s … what, a patriot?”