responding to snapped fingers, but as the snapper could have his brass balls on wrecking table with yet another snap, the distinguished, gray-haired commander smiled dumbly and led the way.
Vassily’s suite was in the bow of the vessel—the admiral’s special quarters, which had been given over to the Premier for the trip. Thus they entered a small vehicle which ran on rubber wheels along the single track the thousand-feet-plus to the bow of the boat. Here an elevator took them down ten levels—the entire ship had over twenty. With a retinue of over fifty, the crowd came to the door of the Premier’s suite. The admiral opened the door as if he were a bellboy. Rahallah stared at the assemblage and then the admiral.
“The Grandfather will retire now. He thanks you all for this great reception.” With that, he wheeled the Premier in, and quickly closed the door behind him. The admiral, his dozen or so chiefs of staff, and a large number of Elite Guards stood around not quite knowing what the hell to do. At last most left, and just the Elite Guards set themselves up and down the corridor, setting up checkpoints at each end, clearing every other room for at least a hundred feet. Now that the Premier was behind steel walls, the Chief of Palace Security, Korlog, was breathing out for the first time that day.
“Ah, it’s beautiful, Rahallah, is it not,” the Premier said as his black servant wheeled him into the grandeur of the main suite. Although usually quite luxurious anyway, they had added a few touches here and there. Like silk curtains with gold-framed paintings; embroidery, finely stitched. They knew Vassily was a lover and collector of art and fine arts . . . Beds of velvet, carpets from the far-flung Persian and Far Asian parts of the Soviet world empire.
Rahallah parked the Premier by the large down bed that stood along one mahogany wall under a portrait of Prushkin, one of Russia’s greatest naval men. Large portholes, glass, two inches thick, ran across both sides of the room. As they were up in the bow area, the suite had portholes on both sides. They already were under way, the Premier having given instructions to waste no more time in protocol. Sunlight from the fractured clouds beamed down into the room, giving its riches a golden-painted look, as if an artist were going over the scene with his dappled brush.
“Here excellency, sunlight!” Rahallah said, pressing some buttons on a central control panel that clearly was the operating console for an array of devices that filled the immense room. Suddenly the curtains, which covered both sides of the very front thirty feet of the boat where it curved to a single piece of steel slicing through the dark waters, slid back. They were looking out at the Black Sea, heading inexorably toward the ocean—and America.
“Push me, Rahallah, right to the window.” The African did so. It was truly breathtaking. It was as if they were strapped to the very bow of the immense craft, just fifty feet above the water, shooting straight ahead into the falling light over the churning waters. Gulls flew on all sides of them, swirling in great confused and hungry circles, hoping to catch some of the moving city’s garbage. The clouds in the Russian sky were silver, like swords cutting the last of the life from the day.
The world was in his hands. What he did would decide the destiny of a planet. For if he died and there was no peace in place, the earth would be plunged into a thousand years of darkness and death, from which it would in all probability never arise. This he believed, deep in his heart. Only he, Vassily, could bring peace to a torn and battered world.
“Read to me, Rahallah,” the Premier suddenly said, feeling very weary and old. Hardly capable of bringing an entire planet into harmony. His body ached with the sharp pain that came from time to time from deep in his gut. It was here again, stabbing into him like a nail, hammering into his frayed and
Vassily’s suite was in the bow of the vessel—the admiral’s special quarters, which had been given over to the Premier for the trip. Thus they entered a small vehicle which ran on rubber wheels along the single track the thousand-feet-plus to the bow of the boat. Here an elevator took them down ten levels—the entire ship had over twenty. With a retinue of over fifty, the crowd came to the door of the Premier’s suite. The admiral opened the door as if he were a bellboy. Rahallah stared at the assemblage and then the admiral.
“The Grandfather will retire now. He thanks you all for this great reception.” With that, he wheeled the Premier in, and quickly closed the door behind him. The admiral, his dozen or so chiefs of staff, and a large number of Elite Guards stood around not quite knowing what the hell to do. At last most left, and just the Elite Guards set themselves up and down the corridor, setting up checkpoints at each end, clearing every other room for at least a hundred feet. Now that the Premier was behind steel walls, the Chief of Palace Security, Korlog, was breathing out for the first time that day.
“Ah, it’s beautiful, Rahallah, is it not,” the Premier said as his black servant wheeled him into the grandeur of the main suite. Although usually quite luxurious anyway, they had added a few touches here and there. Like silk curtains with gold-framed paintings; embroidery, finely stitched. They knew Vassily was a lover and collector of art and fine arts . . . Beds of velvet, carpets from the far-flung Persian and Far Asian parts of the Soviet world empire.
Rahallah parked the Premier by the large down bed that stood along one mahogany wall under a portrait of Prushkin, one of Russia’s greatest naval men. Large portholes, glass, two inches thick, ran across both sides of the room. As they were up in the bow area, the suite had portholes on both sides. They already were under way, the Premier having given instructions to waste no more time in protocol. Sunlight from the fractured clouds beamed down into the room, giving its riches a golden-painted look, as if an artist were going over the scene with his dappled brush.
“Here excellency, sunlight!” Rahallah said, pressing some buttons on a central control panel that clearly was the operating console for an array of devices that filled the immense room. Suddenly the curtains, which covered both sides of the very front thirty feet of the boat where it curved to a single piece of steel slicing through the dark waters, slid back. They were looking out at the Black Sea, heading inexorably toward the ocean—and America.
“Push me, Rahallah, right to the window.” The African did so. It was truly breathtaking. It was as if they were strapped to the very bow of the immense craft, just fifty feet above the water, shooting straight ahead into the falling light over the churning waters. Gulls flew on all sides of them, swirling in great confused and hungry circles, hoping to catch some of the moving city’s garbage. The clouds in the Russian sky were silver, like swords cutting the last of the life from the day.
The world was in his hands. What he did would decide the destiny of a planet. For if he died and there was no peace in place, the earth would be plunged into a thousand years of darkness and death, from which it would in all probability never arise. This he believed, deep in his heart. Only he, Vassily, could bring peace to a torn and battered world.
“Read to me, Rahallah,” the Premier suddenly said, feeling very weary and old. Hardly capable of bringing an entire planet into harmony. His body ached with the sharp pain that came from time to time from deep in his gut. It was here again, stabbing into him like a nail, hammering into his frayed and
Similar Books
