He said, "Is this all we wear?"
"Yes," said Boranova. "We work in a clean, quiet environment at even temperature and, with throwaway clothes, we can't expect much in the way of fashion or expense. Indeed, barring a certain understandable reluctance, we could easily work in the nude. But enough - come."
And now at last they stepped into what Morrison recognized at once as the main body of the Grotto. It stretched away before him - between and beyond ornate pillars to a distance he couldn't make out.
He could recognize none of the equipment. How could he? He was entirely a theoretician and when he worked in his own field, he used computerized devices that he had designed and modified himself. For a moment, he felt a stab of nostalgia for his laboratory at the university, for his books, for the smell of the animal cages, even for the stupid obstinacy of his colleagues.
There were people everywhere in the Grotto. There were a dozen nearby and others farther off and the impression was of the interior of a human ant hill crawling with machinery, with humanity, with purpose.
No one paid any attention to the newcomers or to each other. They went about their work in silence, their steps muffled by their sandals.
Again Boranova seemed to read Morrison's mind and when she spoke it was in a whisper. "We keep our council here. None of us knows more than it is good for him - or her - to know. There must be no leaks of significance."
"But surely they must communicate."
"When they must, they will - minimally. It reduces the pleasure of camaraderie, but it is necessary."
"This kind of compartmentalization slows progress," said Morrison.
"It's the price we pay for security," said Boranova, "so if no one talks to you, it is not a personal matter. They will have no reason to talk to you."
"They'll be curious about a stranger."
"I have seen to it that they know you are an outside expert. That is all they need to know."
Morrison frowned. "How can they expect an American to be an outside expert?"
"They don't know you're an American."
"My accent will give me away at once as it did to the serving woman."
"But you will not talk to anyone, except for those to whom I will introduce you."
"As you wish," said Morrison indifferently.
He was still looking around. Since he was here, he might as well learn what he could, even if it should turn out to be trivial. When - if - he returned to the United States, he would surely be asked for every detail he had observed and he might as well have something to give them.
He said in Boranova's ear, "This must be an expensive place. What fraction of the national budget is expended here?"
"It's expensive," said Boranova, admitting nothing further, "and the government labors to limit the expense."
Dezhnev said sourly, "I had to work for an hour this morning to persuade them to allow a small additional experiment for your benefit - may the Committee catch the cholera."
Morrison said, "The cholera no longer exists, even in India."
"May it be reinstated for the Committee."
Boranova said, "Arkady, if these supposedly humorous expressions of yours get back to the Committee, it will do you no good."
"I'm not afraid of those pigs, Natasha."
"I am. What will happen to next year's budget if you infuriate them?"
Morrison said, with sudden impatience, but speaking even more softly, "What concerns me is neither the Committee nor the budget, but the simple question of what it is I am doing here."
Dezhnev said, "You are here to witness a miniaturization and to be given an explanation of why we need your help. Will that satisfy you, Comrade Am- Comrade Outside Expert?"
Morrison followed the other two to something that looked like a small old-fashioned train carriage on very narrow-gauge tracks.
Boranova placed her thumb on a smooth patch and a door slid open smoothly and without noise. "Please get in, Dr. Morrison."
Morrison held back. "Where are we going?"
"To the miniaturization chamber, of course."
"By railroad? How big is this place?"
"It is large, Doctor, but not so large. This is a matter of security. Only certain individuals can use this device and only by using it can one penetrate into the core of the Grotto."
"Are your own people so untrustworthy?"
"We live in a complex world, Dr. Morrison. Our people are trustworthy, but we do not wish to subject large numbers to temptations they need not face. And if someone persuades one of us to go - elsewhere, as we have persuaded you, it is safer if their knowledge is limited, you see. - Please get in."
Morrison entered the compact vehicle with some difficulty. Dezhnev followed him with equal trouble, saying, "Another example of senseless cheese paring. Why so small? Because the bureaucrats spend billions of rubles on a project and they feel virtuous if they save a few hundred in odd places at the cost of making hardworking people miserable."
Boranova got into the front seat. Morrison could not see how she manipulated the controls or, for that matter, if there were controls to manipulate. It was probably controlled by a computer. The carriage began to move suddenly and Morrison felt the slight backward jar that resulted.
There was a small window at eye level on either side, but not of clear glass. Morrison could see a small section of the cavern outside in a streaky, wavy, poorly focused manner. Apparently, the windows were not meant for vision, but were merely intended to reduce what might otherwise be an unacceptably tight enclosure to those with claustrophobic tendencies.
It seemed to Morrison that the individuals he could make out through the glass paid no attention to the moving carriage. Everyone here, he thought, is well-trained. To show any interest in any procedure with which you have nothing directly to do must apparently be a sign of discourtesy - or worse.
It seemed to Morrison that they were approaching the wall of the cavern and the carriage, with another small jerk, slowed. A section of the wall slid aside and the carriage, with yet another jerk, picked up speed and moved through the opening.
It grew dark almost at once and the dim light in the carriage's ceiling did little more than change night to dusk.
They were in a narrow tunnel into which the carriage fit with apparently little room to spare, except on the left side where Morrison, peering past Dezhnev, thought he could make out another pair of rails. There must be at least two such carriages, he thought, with room to pass one another in the tunnel if both were in operation.
The tunnel was as dimly lit as the carriage and it was not straight. Either it had been carved through the hill in such a way as to follow lines of least resistance in order to save money or it was curved deliberately in some dim, atavistic search for making things more secure by making them more complicated. The darkness inside and outside the carriage might serve the same purpose.
"How long will this take - uh -" asked Morrison.
Dezhnev looked at him with (in the dimness) an unreadable expression. "You don't know how to address me, I see. I do not have an academic title, so why not call me Arkady? Everyone does here and why not? My father always said, 'What counts is the person, not the name.'"
Morrison nodded. "Very well. How long will this take, Arkady?"
"Not long, Albert," said Dezhnev cheerfully - and Morrison, having been lured into first-name informality, could not object to the return.
He surprised himself a little by finding he did not wish to object. Dezhnev, even with his father's aphorisms included, seemed to be uncomplicated, at least, and, under the circumstances, Morrison welcomed a chance of refraining from the perpetual fencing match to which Boranova seemed to subject him.