Who's on First (29 page)

The cable was clearly intended for Viktor.

Blackford, stretched out on the couch, was catching up on the newsmagazines at the moment the telephone rang. Her voice this time was effusively hospitable. “Viktor had a letter from Vadim. Ever since, we have been waiting for your message. To hell with the Swedish authorities. Can you come to dinner?”

“Of course. But shouldn't we meet at a restaurant? For privacy?”

“Viktor's family are out of town. The house is empty. Come to us at seven.”

Blackford showered, dressed in his tweed suit, and resolved to walk toward the waterfront before hailing a taxi. Would he ever, he wondered, overcome the pedigreed suspiciousness? Here he was, in a neutral area of the world, after three weeks of desultory cruising in Swedish waters. The probability that he was being followed approached zero. Still, he was going to Viktor; and therefore he would be careful. Even at the risk of being objectively ridiculous. Who, after all, would know that he was being ridiculous? His evasive action was a matter between him and a psychiatrist to fret over, when the moment came to consult a psychiatrist, if that moment came.

And so, well down the avenue, he flagged a cab.

The house on Malmo Street was substantial. Blackford knew nothing of the business of Viktor's brother-in-law. But clearly he was well established. The house stood back from the street behind a grilled iron fence that seemed to surround the whole property and, though of moderate dimensions, was massively constructed, the Swedish ocher-colored stone rising up the three stories to the gabled roof. The gate was open and Blackford crossed the little lawn, went up the stone steps, and rang the doorbell. It was opened by Tamara. She was dressed in a silk shirt over which she wore a fine, light, cream-colored sweater, the mother-of-pearl buttons unfastened, and a midnight-blue pleated skirt. Her hair, streaked with white, was neatly braided in the Scandinavian fashion, twined around her head. Blackford extended his hand. She took it and then, with both hands, drew his head to her, and kissed him lightly on the forehead.

She took him then by the hand, and led him into the living room, where the fire was lit. Opposite sat Viktor. Blackford had dreaded the prospect of looking at Viktor's face. He was agreeably surprised, but Viktor noticed the hesitation.

“Come, Julian.” He bent over so that the light from the table lamp starkly illuminated his features. “You may examine my face. Everyone else has done so in the past few weeks. You will find it is not all that easy to mutilate a graduate of Vorkuta.”

Plainly Viktor was pleased with the work done in Stockholm by the facial surgeon, and Blackford found it necessary to deduce which of the two eyes was glass—from the evanescing little scar-grid that surrounded the eye area that had been operated on (the two eyes turned in unison). Viktor had let his hair grow out, and though it was very nearly white, it was there, thick and raffish in contrast to the close-cropped Viktor Kapitsa of Chantilly. Viktor had grown a beard, whether for cosmetic or other reasons Blackford did not know. Viktor stood up without suggestion of effort. But when he walked over toward the bureau to fetch a drink, there was a limp.

Tamara addressed her husband in Russian. After a moment's hesitation he stopped, and turned; and went back to the sofa, sitting down. “Tamara insists on serving us. What will you have?”

“What are you having?”

“We are both so happy to see you, we have brought up my sister's French champagne. Do you like champagne?”

“I will drink champagne with you and Tamara anytime.”

Viktor smiled and nodded toward Tamara. To Blackford he said:

“Let me say it once, and then not repeat it. I know that Vadim, my beloved Vadim, put you in a most difficult position. I am sure you do not want to talk about it, and I am in no position to make professional judgments. As a human being, I thank you for saving me and Tamara.”

Blackford's eyes swelled, and he managed with difficulty to acknowledge the toast and, after Viktor and Tamara had drunk, raised his own glass, deferentially. On the last days of his solitary cruise he had come to realize that in fact he needed no help from Viktor in analyzing his own problem.
That
deck, that terrible mix of duties, compulsions, affections, only he could shuffle into coherence. He had come to Stockholm, he realized as he held the course to Gotland, laboring to keep the spinnaker filled, to feast his eyes on one concrete accomplishment—Viktor alive: an accomplishment for which he had paid a professional price of incalculable scale. He wanted to convince himself that he had done—not the
right
thing (such terminology was extrinsic, he increasingly realized, to the trade he practiced) but to convince himself that he had done something he was not
ashamed
to have done. All that this required, he finally apprehended aboard the
Hjordis,
was to see him, Viktor—them, Viktor and Tamara—together; alive; mending—free. The fireplace crackled, and the champagne was poured yet again. Suddenly Blackford remembered the cable. He reached into his pocket.

“Viktor. There was a cable waiting for me at my mother's house in London—the only address I left in Washington. It's got to be from Vadim to you. Vadim obviously didn't want to send any cryptography directly to this address. But no one in his right mind would attempt to harass my mother,” Blackford smiled as he extended the note pad, “though no doubt M1-5's cryptoanalysts are out in force.”

Viktor put on his eyeglasses and studied the numbers. He smiled, as he drew on his fabled memory, and pulled out a pencil. He read out the message in Russian. And then translated it: “
VIKTOR: FOTO REVEALS ROCKET MOVED TO LAUNCHING PAD OCTOBER 3 VADIM
.”

“That means,” Viktor said with a sigh, laying down his cigar, “they are ready to fire at any moment. It would appear to mean that the purchased American machine has succeeded in activating the transistors.” He looked up, with a twinkle in his eye, and raised his forefinger mischievously to his lips:

“I've got a secret!” he smiled.

Blackford laughed. “Oh no! Here we go again.”

“When they fire the PS—that is how they designate it at Tyura Tam—they plan to let it circle the globe a full twenty-four hours before making an announcement. This is to make certain it is in stable condition before giving it publicity. And
I
”—he spoke now in little-boy whispers—“know the frequencies PS will transmit on—20.005 and 40.002 megacycles—wavelength 1.5 and 7.5.”

Viktor rose and went to a large shortwave radio perched near the window. “When I am through listening to the broadcasts on this radio, I have customarily left the dial at 20.005. From now on I will do that—but
also
leave on the power.” He flicked on the switch, and there was crackling of static until he squelched down the noise.

Viktor returned to his chair. Thereafter the evening flowed like the champagne: It was as if the three had grown up together. No subject was too personal to touch on. Viktor spoke of one of his scientific companions, Mirtov, who had gone a month ago to the hospital at Tyura Tam—
demanding
to see Viktor, walking right by administrators, doctors, nurses, sitting down finally by Viktor's bedside with a box of sweets and a book he had purchased in Paris. Viktor laughed: “If they had done anything to Mirtov, Korolev himself would quit! And that would be the end of the project!”

Blackford asked, over coffee and brandy, why the same reasoning did not apply to Viktor.

“My offenses were too egregious. And my theoretical contributions to the PS were done, although they could have kept me very busy indeed, because I feel great energy now, and my scientific resources are not exhausted, no, not by any means. When you return to America, Julian, you may tell that to your friends. I am happy when I am working. I am happy when I am in Russia. But now that I will not be in Russia again, I will be happy working elsewhere, and now there will be extrascientific satisfactions we will take from our work—am I correct, Tamara?” She nodded. They were holding hands on the sofa, and were holding hands still when, two hours later, they bade Blackford good night, and a bon voyage, having told him Viktor would, in the next month or two, be in touch with Vadim to make arrangements for emigrating to the United States. Blackford left the house but did not ask for a taxi. He wanted to walk home, to float home in the cold air, warmed aloft by high spirits. He could not remember when last he felt better. It was after midnight before he reached the hotel. In bed, he fell quickly asleep.

At 4:32 in the morning the telephone rang. It was Tamara. “Julian, come quickly!”

Blackford's voice was panicked. “Is Viktor all right?”

“Yes, yes, but come!”

“All right. I'll be right there.”

He jiggled the receiver, and got finally the sleepy voice at Reception. He demanded a taxi. “
Immediately
. This is an emergency.”

In less than five minutes, wearing sailing sweater and corduroy pants, Blackford was at the hotel entrance. He gave the address to the waiting taxi and fifteen minutes later bounded out through the gate up to the big oaken door and rang.

“Come in, come in!” Tamara whispered. She led him into the dark living room, lit by a single lamp. There at the far end of the room, sitting in silence, was Viktor. But there were sounds. Sibilant, clear, self-confident staccato sounds in three very rapid bursts, split-second pause, and repeat, pause, repeat.
Beep-beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep
.

They all listened for minutes in silence before Viktor spoke.

“I had the radio at my bedside. It woke us at 4:15. It is one hour later at Tyura Tam. The launch must have been at approximately 4:05 local time.” Viktor looked at his watch. “In a few minutes we will not hear it. In a half hour we will hear it again. The planetary revolution will take one hour and thirty-five minutes. This, Julian, is the most important moment in scientific history since the discovery of flight.” He uttered those words without entirely concealing a certain progenitive pride.

Blackford paused, instinctively and genuinely deferential to the epochal deed. But then he said: “Viktor. I must go quickly to the hotel. The least I can do under the circumstances is alert Washington.”

“Use my telephone.”

“No. I'd be acting officially, the call might be monitored, and you might get into trouble with the Swedes. I told the taxi to wait. Thank you for calling me.” He found himself embracing Viktor and kissing Tamara. “I'll see you again” were his last words.

At his hotel room he roused the operator and gave her the home telephone number of Anthony Trust in New York. The call went through without interruption. At a few minutes after midnight Trust was still awake.

“It's Black.”

“Well, and what pleasure dome are you calling in from, my friend?”

Anthony had obviously been drinking.

“
Listen, and listen hard, okay?
”

Anthony's reply came as after an ice-cold shower.

“I'm listening.”

“
Who is on first,
” Blackford spoke slowly, emphatically.

Trust's guttural reaction revealed he hadn't forgotten the code. But Blackford, in his excitement, elaborated. “It's up and functioning.” And then to business. “Got a pencil? Two zero point zero zero five and four zero point zero zero two megs. This is a twenty-four-hour … twenty-three-hour … beat, for whatever it's worth.”

A husky voice replied: “Well, it's worth whatever a doctor is worth who alerts you you have twenty-three hours to live. Where are you calling from?”

“Never mind. Over and out. Good night.”

Twelve hours later aboard the overnight flight (Stockholm–Gander–New York–Washington) Blackford looked out over the darkening North Sea. He wondered idly whether, at that moment, the
Sputnik
was at its apogee of 947 kilometers (Viktor's fine-tuned declaration), or at its perigee of 228 kilometers. Either way, he comforted himself, it would not be bumping into SAS's four-propped Constellation. It would, he shut his eyes to perform the arithmetic, take the Swedish airliner eleven hours to travel a distance the
Sputnik
would travel in—twelve minutes.

I'll be damned.

Tomorrow in Washington would be chaotic. Tomorrow,
everywhere
would be chaotic. Just think, Oakes, you might have been born Japanese, in which case you'd have had an easy out: You'd commit hara-kiri!

Another thing, Oakes—you might have been Russian. In which case
they'd
have performed the hara-kiri on
you!

Or is hara-kiri a transitive verb?

He beckoned the stewardess for another drink.

Can someone
perform
hara-kiri on someone else? Surely not; it must be a … reflexive verb? Or is it a verb at all? A simple noun, surely? He might, when taken to the office of the Director, interrupt him to ask whether he happened to know the answer to that question.

Blacky wondered what it would be like when he stepped forward to confess: “It wasn't only Vadim who knew. I also knew.”

Beep-beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep
.

What does it say? Is there a symbolic meaning in that defiant cluster of sounds which, beginning tomorrow, will electrify, serenade, importune, threaten—the whole world? Is there a cryptographic key?

Blackford tilted his seat back, and slowly closed his eyes. His mind wandered.

His lips gradually parted: and soon there was a silent triumphant smile.

His fantasy enthralled him. He pinched it in all its erogenous zones. It
sang
out with pleasure! (He beckoned the stewardess for another drink.) Yes. The next day, after his auto-da-fe in the Director's office, he would say: “But sir, you may not have heard! CIA-Stockholm
has broken the Russian code!
That
Sputnik,
gamboling about the universe like a young gazelle,
is out of control!!
Russian scientists are
working
f-e-v-e-r-i-s-h-l-y to force it to change its signal before its meaning is
DISCOVERED
!!