Watson, Ian - Novel 11 (8 page)

 
          
CommanderAntonAstrov
was astonished to
see a fly drifting midway in the observation pod of the
K.E. Tsiolkovsky.
He rubbed his eyes in disbelief, but the fly was
still there. It buzzed impotently, and turned round and round in circles. How
in the name of all that was wonderful had a fly got on board the ship? It
eclipsed a star as he watched.

 
          
A common house fly
! Not a bluebottle or a horsefly or
anything exotic like a tsetse
fly
. . . Just a common
house fly. It
was astonishing
enough in itself.

 
          
Really,
he ought to catch it sharpish and snuff it out. Yet sentiment overwhelmed him.
That wretched little fly was a tiny living portion of the earthly biosphere—and
it was about to leave solar space for ever and for ever. As such, it seemed
uniquely precious.

 
          
‘I’ve
got myself a pet at last!’ he thought in amazement. ‘A pet fly, of all things!’

 
          
Bringing
out a little plastic box of space-sickness gum, he emptied the contents
carefully back into his zippered pocket and secured them. A gentle push, and a
few seconds later he caught the fly in the box with all the neatness of a deep
orbit station receiving the docking of a supply craft. He shut the lid. The
insect could gain some purchase now.
The box zizz-zizzed in
his fingers as the fly flopped and somersaulted, wings vibrating feverishly.

 
          
“Little pet,’’ he addressed the box, “I name thee Pandora.’’
He tucked it into a smaller zippered pocket.
“Mustn’t forget
that it’s you in there!
Butterflies in the tummy are one thing—but a
fly? That’s another matter . . .’’

           
A moment later his continuing
trajectory carried him up against the thick radiation-proof
plasticrystal—stronger than steel— which formed the transparent hull of the
pod. Gripping the nearest hand-hold, he hung just a few centimetres away from
hard vacuum and gazed at the three-quarters-lit Earth. It was a fine day over
the
Indian Ocean
and much of
Asia
. What little he could see of the
Soviet Union
was up near the visual North Pole.

 
          
They’ll
think I’m nuts, talking to a fly when we’re about to set off for the stars! But
it’s this sort of thing that makes a man, a man . . .

 
          
‘And
a woman, a woman,’ he reflected. For his Astrogator, Sasha Sorina, had just
poked her flaxen curls up through the hatch from the Control Room. Her blue
eyes regarded him coolly: those same eyes which would soon pick out a suitable
star with a habitable world orbiting it a couple of hundred or couple of
thousand light years towards the antapex of the Sun’s motion— Right Ascension
90°, Declination 34° South—far beyond the stars composing the visible
constellation of Columba . . .

 
          
How
far, of course, depended on how many times they would have to jump through the
Flux before they found themselves close enough to a suitable new sun.

 
          
“We’re
nearly ready, Commander. I thought I heard you calling.’’

 
          
“No,
no. I was just wondering aloud whether they’ll ever build a second Flux-ship .
. .’’ The less said to her about pet flies, the better.

 
          
“‘They’?’’

 
          
“I
mean,
us.
The
Soviet Union
.
It’s so altruistic, isn’t it? Sending out a
colony when you can never receive any news of it.’’

 
          
Sasha
was beautiful, but she was very literal-minded. “But wouldn’t there be a
paradox of cause and effect, if they
could
hear from us? We jump one hundred years back through time, and this puts us a
hundred light years downstream of the Sun’s motion round the Galaxy. Anything
less,
and a radio message could reach the Earth before we
even set off!’’

           
“What bothers me,” remarked Anton
flippantly, “is what exactly happens if we don’t find a suitable star? Shall we
just keep on jumping back along the Earth’s world-line? If we go far enough
we’ll circle the Galaxy, and catch up with Earth a couple of hundred thousand
years ago—and we’ll colonise it in desperation!’’

 
          
“And
become our own ancestors?’’ Sasha looked affronted.

 
          
‘And
my pet fly, the ancestor of a mighty dynasty of flies . . .’

 
          
“The
Universe doesn’t allow such things. The Principle of Cosmic Censorship
absolutely forbids subversion of cause and effect. We’ll find our star, never
fear! Humanity will colonise the cosmos.’’

 
          
“A
little bit of the cosmos, anyway . . . Hmm, it’s a pity the Flux-Field has a
one-track mind. If we could go anywhere we pleased—’’

 
          
“But
the Principle of World-Line Constancy strongly dictates—’’

 
          
“Sure
it does. Just wishing, that’s all.”

 
          
“It’s
a far nobler use
we’re
putting the
Flux to, than those mad Americans.”

 
          
Captain
America
’s Shield: she was right, there . . .

 
          
The
official reason for the Flux-Shield, which could be switched on at a moment’s
notice to blanket America, was that if any giant meteor or comet-head came
zooming in on collision course with US territory, the Shield would bat it on
its way—zipping it ten years into the past and ten light years in the direction
of Columba, a piece of symbolism which no doubt appealed to those in power in
District Columbia . . .

 
          
But likewise with any Soviet satellite or missile platform
overflying
US
territory.
With a flick of the wrist these, too, could
be knocked right out of the stadium. Any war, now, would simply leave Earth’s
path through space ten billion billion kilometres hindwards littered with
missiles and satellites and Soviet personnel staring glumly out at the
interstellar void—like a trail of beer cans bobbing far to the rear of the
liner, Earth.

           
Sasha drifted to Anton’s side;
together they peered along the ship. All supply ferries had departed some hours
ago, leaving the
K. E. Tsiolkovsky
alone in deep orbit a safe distance beyond the reach of Captain
America
’s Shield—should any malicious soul in
Cheyenne
feel tempted to send them on their way,
untimely. Why should anyone do so? Why, out of sheer irritation. Since there
was no reason at all why a starship should be streamlined, their ship was built
in the shape of a huge Hammer and Sickle.

 
          
The
hammer shaft contained the fusion reactor jets capable of carrying them up to
half a light year, once Sasha decided they were close enough to a friendly star
system. The sickle shaft contained storage bays, and the polished blade of the
sickle itself was a huge sweep of solar power cells. At the geometrical centre
of the ship, where both shafts intersected, was the Flux-Drive. And up here in
the head of the hammer were the crew quarters and control section; directly
beneath this a thousand hypnotised colonists lay in yogic trance in rack upon
rack, their body functions ticking over at a hundredth of the normal metabolic
rate.

 
          
How
very provoking to the Americans to see the Hammer and Sickle thus floating in
space! But in another hour or so it would disappear forever, to become the
little moon of another world. The onboard shuttles would descend ten times
over, till the moon was empty. Thereafter the celestial Hammer and Sickle would
shine down forever more upon New Earth as an orbiting monument, the only
possible link—a symbolic one—with the USSR.

 
          
Being
alone with Sasha Sorina, with only the stars staring in, Anton Astrov thought
of kissing her impetuously to celebrate. But she might slap him for
impertinence. It wouldn’t do to start the greatest voyage of all time with a
red handprint on one’s cheek.

 
          
On
the morning
when Countess Zelenina
called on Anton at the Staraya Rossiya Hotel on Blagoryeshtchenskaya, he was
suffering a recurrence of one of his old enemies: migraine.

 
          
It
was only a mild attack as yet, compared with previous bouts, but he took it as
a warning sign. Was it possible that all his old familiar foes—which he thought
he had abandoned on the Siberian plain, somewhere between Omsk and Tomsk—were
even now hastening to catch up with him? Were his haemorrhoids rolling along
the Road within striking distance of
Krasnoyarsk
? Was his gastritis likewise oozing this
way? All because he had dallied in one place too long?

 
          
At
the bedroom door Anton begged to excuse himself, but the Countess practically
forced her way into the room. He yielded, and called to a passing maid to order
tea.

 
          
Lydia
Zelenina was a tall slim woman with a fine oval face. Her hair was chestnut,
and her eyes dark and bold, their lashes thickly ‘seductive’. At thirty-two she
was a widow, whose husband—a rich local merchant—had perished from cholera
three summers earlier, leaving her with two young daughters and a large town
house, as well as income from forestry, lumber mills and tanneries.
Unfortunately she tended to smoke and drink; this marred her somewhat in
Anton’s eyes.

 
          
Today
she was attired eccentrically—in riding boots, a black brocaded gown, and
(considering that it was the height of summer) an impossibly hot fur hat the
size of a rook’s nest. She looked as though she had set out for a ball, to be
held immediately after a funeral, but suspected she might have to escape from a
wolf pack
en route.

 
          
Her
noble grandfather had been exiled to
Krasnoyarsk
back in ’25 for taking part in the
Decembrist plot. Accompanied by his loyal wife, together they had become part
of the kernel of civilizing forces which eventually made this town a decent
place to live in.
Lydia
inherited a penchant for conspiring, in the shape of organising social
events, and for wild deeds . . .

 
          
When
tea arrived, she lit a cigarette. Mostly she held it far from her lips, puffing
only a couple of defiant billows into the air. After a while she crossed her
legs with a flourish, to display to best effect her smartly tooled boots which
were so much more finely cut than Anton’s own tormentors.

 
          
He
regarded her through his pince-nez in silence. At last she crushed out her
cigarette amidst the stubs of Anton’s own roll-ups.

 
          
“Mon
cher
Anton
Pavlovich, I’m sure there are secrets hidden in your silence—secrets which no
one will ever know!”

 
          
‘‘If
that’s so, Countess, they must be a secret from me too . . .” Actually, he had
been thinking about gastritis.

 
          
She
disregarded his wry smile. ‘‘No, I mean it: just as surely as there’s a secret
locked in the silent heart of the taiga!
En
tout
cas
, that’s why I’m here.
Voyez
: we aren’t all illiterates in
Siberia
. I propose that we should raise funds for
your coming expedition by means of a benefit performance of your delicious
farce,
The Bear.”

 
          
Anton
could have groaned aloud. That stupid piece of vaudeville, hacked out for provincial
clowns to laugh their silly heads off at!

 
          
On
the other hand, he
had
been living
off the proceeds of its wretched nonsense for the best part of last year . . .

 
          
‘‘I
would be delighted to take the role of the widow Popova, myself.”

 
          
Oh
yes.
Undoubtedly.
(?a
va sans dire.
And which of her suitors would she nominate for the
part of the ‘Bear’, Smirnov? With whom did she wish to conduct a flaming row in
public? And challenge to a duel? And wave a revolver at? Ah yes: with her eyes sparkling
and her face a-flush—gunpowder and fireworks popping off at every word! And
which of her rivals, amongst the ticket holders in the audience, would she
glare at whilst issuing her challenge? Had Countess Zelenina perhaps found a
packet of her
own
former husband’s
billets-doux
locked up in some drawer
after his death, exactly as Popova had?

 
          
“I
think we shall stage it at the Governor’s residence. He was a good friend of
Zelenin’s . . .
Mais ecoutez
, there’s
more: I’m quite a rich woman—I’m sure I may speak frankly!—and I would be more
than happy to pay a substantial donation towards the cost of mounting the
Tunguska Expedition, provided that—”

 
          
“Provided
what?’’

 
          
“Provided that I go along.’’

 
          
“Eh?”

 
          
“I
want to accompany the expedition. I shan’t hold you back. I don’t expect any
comfort. I anticipate danger and privation. Oh Anton Pavlovich, I’m so sick of
frittering my life away on petty excitements.
Dances or a
duck shoot—what nonsense!’’

 
          
“I
hardly think you fully understand—’’

 
          
“Women
regularly go through childbirth,
mon ami.
I don’t think you know how much toughness and courage it requires of us!’’

 
          
‘No,’
thought Anton, ‘and you haven’t seen what it’s like when it goes wrong . . .’

 
          
“I
doubt if a man could endure it!’’

 
          
“Fortunately,
we don’t often have to, Countess . . . But it wasn’t your stamina I was
questioning. If I might be blunt: one woman, alone in the wilderness with a
band of men?’’

 
          
“Oh,
you’re worried about my reputation?’’ She fluttered her eyelashes. “Or are you
worried about
yoursT
’

 
          
‘Good
God,’ he thought, ‘she’s making a pitch at me. Be careful, Antosha, old son! On
the other hand, don’t rebuff her—that’s dodgy, too. A woman spurned, and all
that!’

 
          
He
spoke jocularly. “I’ve heard tell there are giant
rats
out in the taiga.’’

           
“You know perfectly well that’s just
a tall story. And quite unworthy of
Doctor
Chekhov, the explorer of
Tunguska
!
I’m completely serious.’’

 
          
‘Yes,
you are. That’s the trouble . . .’

 
          
“I
do hope, Countess, that you won’t challenge me to a duel if I greet your
proposal with a certain degree of—’’

 
          
“
Ecoutez:
I can shoot straight. I can
ride.’’

 
          
“What,
on pack horses? We’ll be walking most of the time.’’ “I’d
advise
you to take a sledge or two.’’

 
          
“That’s
assuming we ever do set off . . .’’

 
          
“You
will, with my assistance.’’ Lighting another cigarette, she waved it around as
though the whole matter was signed, sealed and delivered.

 
          
“If
you’ll permit me to say so, Countess, you aren’t qualified scientifically.
To make observations, for example . . .’’

 
          
“Oh,
as to that, I happen to own a camera—and you won’t find
its
like anywhere east of the Urals. It’s the latest type, imported from
Germany
. No more fussing on with heavy glass
plates—this one uses roll-film.’’

 
          
“What’s
that? What’s roll-film?’’ he asked, unguardedly.
Lydia
smiled in triumph. “See? You do need a
photographic expert. You hadn’t even thought of that! What’s more, I don’t see
why you need go on spending money in this dreadful hotel.
Quel ennuil
It must be so confining. I should count myself privileged
if you were to accept the hospitality of my own home.’’ She wagged a finger at
him.
“With
no
obligations to be on show to casual visitors—or pay any attention whatsoever to
my darling daughters.
You wouldn’t be bothered at all. You needn’t even be
present at rehearsals of
The Bear.
Though, if you like, I
could
initiate
you into the mysteries of a roll-film camera.” She winked.
“Click!”—as
though snapping his photograph.

 
          
Anton
shifted about uncomfortably in his seat, and as he did so he felt a brief pang
in his bum.

 
          
He
had to admit it: he’d been stuck in this hotel far too long.
Writing
letters to all and sundry.
Squeezing out articles
about the taiga and the Tunguska Mystery.
The room wasn’t exactly
luxurious . . .

 
          
Lydia
leapt up and clapped her hands, knocking
ash on to the threadbare carpet. “I take it that’s settled! What are you
waiting for? Get your bags packed,
mon
ami.”