Morrison nodded. "Yes. Yes. It is a kind of bravery. Still, there are a thousand crackpots in the history of science who clung all their lives to some ridiculous view against logic, against evidence, against their own self-interest. I may be just another one of them."
"In that case, you might be wrong, but you would still be brave. Do you think bravery is entirely a matter of physical daring?"
"I know it is not. There are all kinds of bravery and perhaps," he said bitterly, "every one of those kinds of bravery is a mark of insanity or, at any rate, folly."
"Surely you do not consider yourself a coward?"
"Why not? In some ways, I flatter myself by saying that I am sane."
"But mad in your stubborn views concerning neurophysics?"
"I would not be surprised."
"But surely you think your views are correct."
"Certainly, Dr. Boranova. That would be part of my madness, would it not?"
Boranova shook her head. "You are not a serious man. I've said that before. My countryman Shapirov thinks you're right - or, if not right, at least a genius."
"Next best thing, certainly. Part of his madness, too."
"Shapirov's opinion is very special."
"To you, I'm sure. - Look, lady, I am tired. I am so groggy, I don't know what I'm saying. I'm not sure all this is real. I hope it isn't. Let me just - just rest a little."
Boranova sighed and a look of concern entered her eyes. "Yes, of course, my poor friend. We wish you no harm. Please believe that."
Morrison let his head bow down on his chest. His eyes closed. Dimly, he felt himself pushed gently to one side and a pillow placed under his head.
Time passed. A dreamless time.
When he opened his eyes, he was still on the plane. There were no lights, but he knew without any doubt whatever that he was still on the plane.
He said, "Dr. Boranova?"
She replied instantly, "Yes, Dr. Morrison?"
"We're not being pursued?"
"Not at all. There are several of our own planes flying distant interference, but they have had nothing to do. Come, my friend, we want you and your government wants us to have you."
"And you still insist that you have miniaturization? That it is not madness? Or a hoax?"
"You will see for yourself. And you will see what a wonder it is, so that you will want to be part of it. You will demand to be part of it."
"And what will you be doing with it," asked Morrison thoughtfully, "assuming this is not an elaborate joke you are playing on me? Do you plan to make a weapon of it? Transport an army in a plane like this? Infiltrate each land with an invisible host? That sort of thing?"
"How revolting!" She cleared her throat as though she were tempted to spit with disgust. "Have we not enough land? Enough people? Enough resources? Have we not our large share of space? Are there not more important things to do with miniaturization? Can it be that you are so twisted and distorted that you do not see what it will mean as a research tool? Imagine the study of living systems that it will make possible; the study of crystal chemistry and solid-state systems; the construction of ultraminiaturized computers and devices of all sorts. Think further of what we might learn of physics if we can alter Planck's constant to suit ourselves. What might we not learn of cosmology?"
Morrison struggled to sit upright. He was still woozy, but there was an incipient dawn outside the plane windows and he could see Boranova very dimly.
He said, "Is that what you wish to do with it, then? Noble scientific endeavors?"
"What would your government do with it if you had it? Try to achieve a sudden military superiority and restore the bad old days?"
"No. Of course not."
"So that only you are noble and only we are terribly evil? Do you honestly believe that? - It may be, of course, that if miniaturization becomes sufficiently successful, the Soviet Union may achieve a lead in the development of a space-centered society. Think of transporting miniaturized material from one world to another, of sending a million colonists in a spaceship that would house only two or three human beings of normal size. Space will acquire a Soviet coloring, a Soviet tinge - not because the Soviet people will dominate and be masters, but because Soviet thought will have won in the battle of ideas. And what is wrong with that?"
Morrison shook his head in the dimness. "Then I certainly won't help you. Why should you expect me to? I won't fasten Soviet thought on the Universe. I prefer American thought and tradition."
"You think you do and I don't blame you for it. But we will persuade you. You will see."
"You won't."
Boranova said, "My dear friend Albert - if I may call you that. I have said that we will be admired for our progress. Do you think you will be immune? - But let us leave such discussions for another time."
She pointed out the plane window at the gray sea beneath, which was just becoming visible.
"We are now over the Mediterranean," she said, "and soon we will be over the Black Sea and then across the Volga to Malenkigrad - Smalltown, in English, eh? - and the sun will have risen when we land. That will be symbolic. A new day. New light. I predict you will be eager to help us establish this new day and I would not be surprised if you never wish to leave the Soviet Union again."
"Without your forcing me to stay?"
"We will fly you home freely if you ask us to - once you have helped us."
"I won't help you."
"You will."
"And I demand now that I be returned."
"Now doesn't count," said Boranova cheerfully.
And they flew the last several hundred kilometers to Malenkigrad.
Chapter 3. Malenkigrad
A pawn is the most important piece on the chessboard - to a pawn.
Francis Rodano was at his office early the next morning, which was Monday and the beginning of the week. That he had worked on Sunday was common enough not to surprise him. That he had slept at all during the night just completed did.
When he arrived, half an hour before the official start of the day, Jonathan Winthrop was already there. That did not surprise Rodano, either.
Winthrop walked into Rodano's office within two minutes of the latter's arrival. He leaned against the wall, the palms of his large hands hugging his elbows, his left leg crossing his right, so that the toe of his left shoe was digging into the carpet.
"You look worn-out, Frank," he said, his eyebrows hunching low over his dark eyes.
Rodano looked up at the other's shock of coarse gray hair, which routinely deprived him of any claim of his own to splendor of appearance, and said, "I feel worn-out, but I was hoping it didn't show." Rodano was very aware of having gone through the morning's rituals thoroughly and carefully and of having dressed with considerable judgment.
"It shows, though. Your face is the mirror of your soul. Some agent in the field you'd have made."
Rodano said, "We're not all made for the field."
"I know. And we're not all made for desk work, either." Winthrop rubbed his bulbous nose as though he were anxious to file it down to normal size. "I take it you're worried about your scientist, what's his name?"
"His name is Albert Jonas Morrison," said Rodano wearily. There was this pretense at the Department of not knowing Morrison's name, as though everyone was anxious to emphasize that the project wasn't theirs.
"Okay. I have no objection to your mentioning his name. I take it you're worried about him."
"Yes, I'm worried about him, along with a lot of other things. I wish I could see things more clearly."
"Who doesn't?" Winthrop sat down. "Look, there's no use worrying. You've handled this from the start, and I've been willing to let you do so because you're a good man. I'm perfectly satisfied you've done all you could to make this work because one thing about you is that you understand the Russkies."