"Don't go to all that trouble," Tib began, while Rainy said, "Can I help?"
"It is not any trouble, and thank you, but it is all done." Mihailovitch surveyed the lineup on top of the television set, and then turned to look at them. "It was in Vienna in 1976 that we met, Dr. Sonderman."
"That's right, but my name's Tib."
"Yes. You gave a paper on tectonics in Yugoslavia, which I went to hear because I have always loved that part of the coast, near Dubrovnik and south. But it was quite technical." Something was troubling him, it was clear; he shook his head ruefully and said, "I hope we will all be friends, and one cannot begin a friendship on a false basis. I have not been entirely frank with you. It was not an accident that I saw you in the elevator, I was following you."
"Me?" Tib said, astonished.
"You? No! If it had been you I would have come up and slapped you on the back; after all this is California, not Moscow- I was following Miz Keating, because I wish to tell her something."
He was filling hotel tumblers and handing them out, and then he sat on a hassock before Rainy's chair and offered a toast. "To a beautiful woman for whom I feel much sympathy," he said.
"Thank you," Rainy said, gamely trying to swallow a significant fraction of the brandy. "But I'm a little puzzled."
The cosmonaut nodded seriously. "Dear lady," he said, "I am aware that you are in certain difficulties with your secret police."
She stiffened. "It's not exactly like that," she said defensively.
"No, not exactly." Mihailovitch tossed off his drink. "But in some respects, rather similar?"
Rainy said slowly, "I don't know how much of this I should be telling you. "
"Nothing at all!" Mihailovitch cried. "Please, I did not bring you to my room to get you drunk so you would divulge the innermost secrets of NASA, such as what color the director's eyes are and why you should not order chili in the cafeteria. Not at all. But there is much that cannot be very secret, since I have seen it on your own television. First, you have no good explanation for why your spacecraft stopped transmitting. Second, there are some persons who think that it must have been the wicked Russians who did it—that is, of course, why everything bad has happened in your country, just as in my own— No matter. Third, there will surely have been many persons investigating, and quite a few will be rather quiet men in undistinguished clothes who want to know everything that can be known." He paused, looking at Rainy, who did not quite know what to say. "And all of this," he went on, "cannot have been very enjoyable for you, and I feel for you." He recharged all the glasses, frowning as he observed that Rainy and Tib had hardly dented theirs. "So what I wish to say, dear lady, is that it is nothing our people have done which has caused the loss of your spacecraft. We would never do such a thing to so sympathetic a lady. Khoroshol"
He downed his second tumbler of brandy and sat down, regarding them blandly. Sonderman stirred uncomfortably. There was something out of key here, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. A cosmonaut was a mighty man in the U.S.S.R., likely to have his own apartment on Gorky Street, even his own sports car, even the freedom to attend international space and scientific conferences almost at will. But he was not likely to be volunteering information to near strangers, unless there was something else involved.
But what? To test the waters, Tib said, "Let me see if I understand you. All these stories we hear about Russian anti-satellites, with laser weapons and proximity nuclear blasts—they're just the fascist cannibal propaganda of the American imperialists, right?"
The cosmonaut's eyes narrowed, and he took a moment before he spoke. But then he said, "My dear gospodin Sonderman! Our nations do many things. Not only mine, but yours as well—all nations do. We can have a discussion in these terms if you like, you say 'Afghanistan' and I say 'Vietnam', and you say 'Czechoslovakia' and I say 'Chile', and both of us then feel quite proud to have done our patriotic duty. Is that what you wish?"
"What I wish is a little less crap, okay? I want to know what you're telling us. Are you saying your boys don't have anything that could bust Rainy's spacecraft?"
"I said we had not done it," the Russian corrected, scowling. "And that is so!" Then his mood lightened. "If we did, do you think I could refrain from boasting of it to you? Or at least letting you worry, a little? No. We talk of other things, such as that mob scene we have just experienced downstairs. Is it your opinion, gospodin Tib, that there is a real danger of us all plunging into the ocean?"
"Not a bit of it. Or not because of the planet Jupiter, anyway," Tib amended. "But the point is that many people seem to believe in this, this astrology. I don't like to see science mixed up with it!"
The cosmonaut pursed his lips. "Another drink?" he asked. "Perhaps some music?" He gestured toward an instrument shaped like a lute; without waiting for a response he picked it up and strummed a sad chord. "Do you know your Ed Mitchell?" he asked abruptly.
"The astronaut? Yes. He is into some sort of psychic investigation now, isn't he?"
"Yes. He is a very sympathetic man. Very serious-minded. And I—I am not so sure. You see, my friends, I came very close to dying not long ago, and it caused me to think deeply. Astrology? No. I have no interest in astrology. But there are some questions for which I find no scientific solution, you see." He struck another chord. "It is very Russian," he apologized, grinning. "But Edgar Mitchell is not Russian, so perhaps it is not only Russians who think these things."
He got up to fix fresh drinks, putting the balalaika aside. Rainy, leaning against the edge of the hotel bed, felt moved toward the Russian, and not unmoved toward the man beside her. She could feel the warmth in her cheeks and knew that, if she stood up, sh'fe would experience the effects of the brandy; but meanwhile it was very pleasant in this room. And when there was a knock on the door she resented it.
"Is only my room-mate," Mihailovitch explained. But when he opened it it was Senator Pedigrue's kid brother, looking uncomfortable. "I'm sorry to interrupt," he said, staring past the cosmonaut at the couple on the floor. "Your friend told me I might find Dr. Sonderman and Miz Keating here. "
"Yes, yes! Come in!" cried the cosmonaut hospitably, but Tommy Pedigrue shook his head.
"I hate to break up the party," he said, "but I'd like to see the two of you for a moment. I have an offer that I think might interest you."
The earth's north pole is not fixed; it shifts irregularly, usually within a small area. Sometimes the area is not small. About thirteen thousand years ago, in what is called the "Gothenburg excursion", it made a large-angle shift. At about the same time, the world's sea levels dropped significantly. At about the same time, the Nile flooded. At about the same time, the North American glaciers, which had been retreating, began to advance again. At about the same time, the Neanderthalers became extinct. A link between these events and the Gothenburg excursion of the magnetic field has been suggested, but not established.
Tuesday, December 8th. 5:30 PM.
In the computer files of the L.A.P.D., the F.B.I., and about sixteen other law-enforcement agencies around the West Coast he was listed as Melvin "Buster" Boyma, with a regrettable number of arrests and very few convictions. Boyma was an extraordinarily short man, not quite five feet tall. When he was young he was almost round, and the bulges were all muscle. The other hoodlums called him "Buster" because his bear-hug had broken at least three opponents' spines. On the grounds of his condominium no one called him Buster. They didn't call him Melvin, either; he was Mr. Boyma whenever any of the contractors had to talk to him, which they preferred to do seldom. He picked his way carefully around the raw red mud that one day would be plantings of lawn and shrubs, studying the steel skeleton that rose six stories into the sky, and sniffed the Chirstmas wreaths that hung around the sales office to make sure they were real. In spite of the heat, he was wearing a pearl gray jogging suit and pearl gray boots, custom made to fit his bulging calves. He lifted one boot and studied it fastidiously. "Jesus," he said, shaking his head, "you got six straight days of Santa Ana and everything in California burning up, and what do I get here?"