The Fourth Rome (18 page)

“Of course. This will be possible. Now, I must say you about the scientist, Academician Igor Zotov, who has the know-how you
will find most interesting.”

For the rest of the trip, Matsak gave Grainger background on Zotov and the city officials they were going to meet.

Zotov was an academician, a rank of scientist that had no US equivalent, one with multiple doctorates and professorships.
Zotov was also state science prize winner, a prima donna, and someone whose continued financial support by the Ministry was
not in doubt, according to Matsak. However, it would help Matsak continue Zotov’s funding if the US expressed interest in
cooperating on some aspect of his work. Dollars were salvation to some of these project managers.

As they turned off the highway onto a forested access road and entered the closed city, Matsak refilled their glasses from
the vodka bottle, drank deeply, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “As you now see, I can arrange
anything.
This is my great skill,” he declared expansively.

By then, Grainger thought he knew what to expect at Obninsk.

But he didn’t. First he saw lit high-rises. Then they were gone. Into view came an operational-sized rocket, painted red and
spotlighted, poised in a central square. Then he noticed the buildings around it—yellow with white trim, columned in the classical
style, and with lit windows. Then he saw what looked like an ancient football Scoreboard on stilts. It was displaying lit
numbers that changed as he watched.

“What’s that, Sasha?” he asked, leaning forward to look closer. His shoulders rubbed the other man’s as Matsak looked, too.

“Oh, this?” Matsak said with a wave of his hand. “This is nothing. This is readout, metering the background radiation outside
at this time. Obninsk is, after all, a closed city which does much
Voyenna—soyuz
—much space technology. Here too is being done all the research into the aftereffects of Chernobyl. Obninsk is the center
of post-Chernobyl international commission—Russian delegation, of course.”

Grainger was shocked wide awake and nearly sober by Matsak’s flat admission of meaningful levels of radioactive contamination.
Suddenly his antiradiation shot didn’t hurt at all. As a matter of fact, it felt good, warm, comforting.

Matsak’s driver headed straight for the most imposing of the columned buildings. There, under a portico, several men in suits
and women in dresses were waiting in the irradiated cold to greet them. One man was short, stocky, with wild white hair and
thick glasses. He wore an old wool coat with leather patches and mismatched shoes.

Before Matsak had made the introductions, Grainger already knew that this man had to be Academician Igor Zotov. The other
two men were too smooth, too well dressed and well formed, to be intellectual dynamos or groundbreaking scientists. The women
towered over Zotov on spiked heels. Their stockings had seams running up the backs of their calves.

Grainger bowed his head with each handshake the way his hosts did. “Mayor. Deputy. Thank you so much for inviting me. Academician
Zotov, I’ve heard great things about your work.”

The little man took Grainger’s hand with a surprising strength and held on to it. There were several growths on Zotov’s face,
round protrusions of fleshy tissue that were asymmetrically arranged: above his left eyebrow, in the crease to the right of
his nose, under the left corner of his mouth. In Grainger’s time, such growths, whether caused by environmental, hereditary,
or viral agents, would have been immediately removed. He tried to look Zotov in the eyes but the growths kept claiming his
attention. They made it hard to look squarely at the little scientist. Uncomfortable, Grainger looked away.

Horny nails bit into his wrist. “Dr. Grainger, I am so happy to meet you,” said Zotov in painstakingly rehearsed English.

Nobody bothered to introduce the women formally. One was Marina and one was Tanya and one was Rita. Good enough. He couldn’t
tell one from another.

The mayor, Kokoshin, was a Rasputin of a man. “Come this way, Dr. Grainger. We have prepared a small welcome in your honor.”
Mayor Kokoshin, having assumed that Grainger was a doctor and exhausted his rote greeting, began talking to Matsak in Russian.

Beyond imposing carved doors, Grainger’s sneakers squeaked on parquet wooden floors. He was becoming used to the vast expanses
of open space in Russian public buildings, the dim lights, the huge light fixtures, the intricate flooring, the low leather
furniture, the mass-produced patterned runners that seemed to be everywhere. Double doors opened before them as if by magic,
spilling out laughter, light, and music.

There must have been a hundred people in the banquet hall. White linen tablecloths were everywhere except on the head table,
which sported a green baize cover. Bottles were set before every few plates. Glasses beside them held pinkish squares of slightly
waxed paper to use as napkins. Food was laid out family style. And young girls were everywhere, in red tunics that came only
to the tops of their thighs. Beneath the tunics were fishnet hose and knee-high boots. On their heads were tall Russian furred
hats.

“You see,” Matsak said in his ear, “beautiful Russian dancers.”

The girls were huddled in a group, giggling, staring at Grainger, the alien being from the capitalist world.

Grainger was grateful when Mayor Kokoshin guided him through a massing crowd of scientists and local officials to the green-covered
table. He was immedietely seated among those who’d greeted him. Zotov sat on Grainger’s right. Matsak claimed the seat on
his left by putting his gift Marlboros on his plate. Loudspeakers played music, probably to make conversation safer.

Once seated, Grainger could see the far wall. It was decorated with latticed metalwork that at first looked merely decorative,
but on examination revealed its nuclear theme. Atoms were described in artistic metal orbits, intertwining among hammered
stars. The nuclear art wall was clearly to be used as a backdrop for tonight’s entertainment. Chairs and musical instruments
were already in place before it.

Scientists began to file by, holding visit cards for him, claiming their precious introductions. Zotov gave Grainger a running
commentary, whispering each name in turn and giving an opinion of each scientist’s value.

“Interesting,” he would say. “Not interesting.” “Perhaps you will think this work is of value.” “This one is a show scientist.”

Grainger was overwhelmed in the first five minutes.

Then the girls began to dance, kicking their long legs high to the music of a classical balalaika band that entered from the
next room. Grainger had never before seen a bass balalaika. He’d never before seen fourteen-year-old girls dance, as if for
their lives, with such manic energy. He began to feel helpless. These people needed a real visit from a real US government
official who could open some doors for them. Not from him. He was here to close doors on them. Forever, if he could.

By the time the dancing was done, he’d drunk some of each wine handed him, plus vodka, cognac, and he didn’t know what else.

Zotov tapped Grainger’s knee to get his attention as the girls did their final splits on the floor and people started clapping.

The little scientist’s face was lined and wrinkled everywhere but around the three growths, which were smooth and pink as
baby’s flesh. He grinned widely, showing teeth capped and filled with white metal. “So, American scientist, you are one of
the first to visit our city of Obninsk. This is great privilege. Only those who qualify can obtain visit here, yes? Interested
in my work, this is why you are coming here?” All Russian scientists might have some English by now, but Zotov was struggling
to pronounce words he might never have heard, only read.

“Yes. I’m very interested in your work, Academician Zotov.”

“Since my work is of such international interest, you will call me Igor.” The Russian thrust his face so close that their
foreheads nearly touched. A piece of octopus from the salad was caught between two of his metal-capped teeth. He’d eaten some
of the pickled raw garlic that garnished it and his breath reeked.

“And I’m Tim.”

“Ummin … Tim. We say in my field that the true boundary conditions of the universe are that the universe has
nyet
—no—boundary conditions. You understand this in so poor English?” Zotov’s eyes wrinkled in delight at sharing his joke. If
it was a joke.

Grainger tried to think of an appropriate response. He would not move away from this old man, no matter how bad he smelled.
“In my field we say that the universe ordered itself as it did in the first moments of creation in order to produce physicists.”

After Mayor Kokoshin had been called to translate this, Zotov roared with delight and pounded Grainger on the back. “So we
do understand each other. Good. Tim Grainger, come close.” Zotov’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“What?” Grainger asked the scientist softly.

“Do you believe the traveling from other … dimensions is possible?”

“Da, da,”
Grainger assured Zotov.

Now their foreheads were touching. Zotov said, “I have proofs. What would such proofs be worth in dollars?”

Damn, where was Matsak? “They are worth a great deal, if what I see is both convincing and … useful.”

“Then you will see what is useful,” said Zotov. “You believe in the unidentified object from … another … world … place?”

“UFOs?” Grainger’s heart sank. If this was a wild goose chase…

“I have the real proof. I have myself seen these things.”

“Up close and personal?” Grainger asked, straight-faced.

“I have films I take myself. I have the piece … the physical … evidences. And I am making the science of this traveling. The
experiments. The improvements. The discoveries. The adding of Russian know-how. This is interesting for you?”

Before Grainger could answer, Zotov sat back, drained a small glass of vodka, and cracked it down on the table. His eyes were
full of challenge.

“This is very interesting. I hope I can see it as soon as possible.” Grainger too sat back and drained a similar glass in
front of him. He couldn’t believe any primitive, clear drink could pack such power. But he might as well get as drunk as his
hosts. UFOs, yet. Alien encounters. Was this why he’d left Moscow? But still, what if Zotov had found something? Not a UFO
that traveled through space, but one that traveled through time?

One of the scantily clad girls came around behind them, handing out full champagne glasses. She put a bottle of Georgian champagne
in front of Zotov. Zotov lumbered to his feet, a glass of champagne raised high.

“To our guest, the Dr. Tun Grainger, senior science bureaucrat of the USA. May he see here the … brilliance … of Obninsk.”
He repeated his toast in Russian, and everyone raised their glasses and drank deeply. Zotov’s English was getting better by
the moment.

Then Mayor Kokoshin got to his feet and raised his glass in a second toast, entirely in Russian.

Soon enough, Grainger had been the subject of a half-dozen rounds. Now he must propose his own toast.

Before he knew it, he was on his feet, glass raised, saying, “To Russian scientists, the most hospitable in the world. May
their hard-won freedom serve them well in their quest for knowledge. And to their daughters, most beautiful of all women.”
He turned to the gaggle of teenage girls. “May all my grandchildren be Russians.” He couldn’t believe he’d said that. He’d
better go somewhere out of sight and use his phar-makit to sober up.

Every fourteen-year-old temptress in the room preened as Zotov translated the toast into Russian. The crowd broke into guffaws
from the men and giggles from the women.

Somehow, Matsak reappeared abruptly, as if he’d always been sitting in the chair on Grainger’s left. “So sorry, a few phone
calls. Ministry never sleeps. Now, if you would like it, you may make your phone call.”

It was clear he was supposed to get up and go with Matsak. He managed it, shouldering his gearbag with elaborate care. “I
need the toilet, too.”

“This too I can arrange,” Matsak said dryly, “as I arranged your invitation here.” He seemed very pleased with himself, but
there was tension underlying his approving smile.

The phone was behind a desk in the dimly lit anteroom. “I need that bathroom first.”

In the Russian bathroom, he was completely dumbfounded. He didn’t understand how to flush the toilet at first. He couldn’t
find any toilet paper. He decided he was too drunk and dialed a dose on his pharmakit to sober himself up. Couldn’t talk to
Nan Roebeck if he couldn’t find toilet paper in a bathroom. When he’d finished using the pharmakit, he still couldn’t find
any toilet paper.

Outside, Matsak waited, his lanky frame full of suppressed energy. “So, the phone now. I have found the operator. Say me the
number.”

A Russian woman had to put the call through for him. Mat-sak served as translator.

Eventually, the phone was handed to him. “Nan, how’s Chun?” he asked, using the code they’d devised.

“Doing fine. What’s up?” Roebeck’s voice was so immersed in static that it was hard to discern her words.

“I’m going to stay here overnight. I don’t think I can make dinner tomorrow after all. Remember the agreement we made in order
to get this visit?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. For a moment he thought the connection was broken. Then her voice came to
him amid even more static: “Of course. I should have realized. Well, do the best you can.”

“How about you? How’s it going?”

“About as expected. The same sort of thing you’re doing there, we’re doing here. I’m glad you called. I have to go out.”

Out. Predawn visits in secret to laboratories, no doubt. He doubted the women were getting the same treatment as he. But maybe
that was just as well.

“Have fun,” he said.

“You, too,” Roebeck replied.
“Das Vedanya.”

“Das Vedanya.”

When he handed the handset back to the woman, the little scientist Zotov had joined them in the anteroom. Zotov was talking
to Matsak earnestly. The tall Ministry functionary and the small, disheveled scientist didn’t see Grainger approach until
he was nearly upon them.