certainly, than the farm-bred boys and girls he’d worked with over the years in City 512.
“Dogs pick up a scent,” said Kolyokov. “Are you calling me a dog?”
“No,” said Stephen. “You’re not a dog. You lost the scent all the same, though.” He smirked. “Have to show me your tricks some time. Before it’s too late.”
Kolyokov ducked back into the tank. “You spend enough time sleeping,” he said. “Check the fax machine.”
Stephen came over to the hatch. He leaned on it. “Something happened,” he said. “I can see it in you. Tell me what it is. Did the ocean get you?”
“No. I know better.” Kolyokov squinted at the circle of light as he sloshed back into the brine. “I lost the Goddamn scent,” he said. “I had to piss. Don’t you ever have to piss, boy?”
Stephen shrugged, and lifted the hatch cover over the light. And it was dark again. Kolyokov took a breath of the dank air in the tank. And he began to sleep.
For someone else with Kolyokov’s problem, falling asleep would be a problem; restlessness would intervene and the night would stretch from minutes into an eternity. But as a rule, Kolyokov didn’t fall asleep. Sleep was his avocation — and the word “fall” implied a clumsiness, a lack of forethought — an amateur mistake. Kolyokov approached sleep methodically. “Red,” he whispered. “And orange and yellow. And green, and blue . . .”
And with the words, his eyelids fluttered shut, his breathing slowed, the spectrum flashed through his mind. The water numbed his flesh, and then all other sensation in his body was gone. There was a familiar rushing feeling, as of a body moving swiftly through a tunnel of chilled air. At the end of it, Kolyokov looked upon a brilliant, stratospheric light.
A less experienced dream-walker might have imagined himself dead — staring at the brilliance of his Creator, waiting to welcome him into the glories of the afterlife. But Kolyokov had been around long enough to tell the difference between Heaven and seven thousand feet. He rotated his gaze from the sun, and looked down through thinning clouds, at the grey-green waves of the Atlantic.
The fogbank was the last thing he’d seen before being driven out of his dream. It was still there. It had grown in fact — now it squatted on the ocean like a pus-whitened sore, miles across.
It was not a real fog, though. Kolyokov could see through a real fog, at least well enough to find his people and move in them. This one was as impervious as lead.
Kolyokov took a breath, and let himself descend to its crown. The last time he had tried to penetrate the dome, he had done so without preparation — he had underestimated its strength.
And so it had thrown him from sleep, left him bug-eyed and shaking in his tank, clenching his bladder and gasping like an old man at the top of a stairway.
This time, he would prepare himself for the descent. He would not underestimate his opponents again.
So Kolyokov began to study the fog. As he did so, he began to apprehend certain flaws in its camouflage. It was white, but it was a white too pure — it bore no shadow, even though the cloud overhead was beginning to break and yellow sun was punching through. While wisps of vapour came off the fog, as Kolyokov studied it more closely he saw that by and large the vapour clung to it, as though made from a solid dome of dry ice. He fell slowly towards it, thinking that this was what the form of the fog must in fact be: a solidified dome — solidified to beings such as himself, that is — covering an area of the Atlantic of perhaps a dozen square miles.
Kolyokov laughed to himself. An old trick, that. It was the same thing he used on the hotel; the same thing the others had used on Petroska Station, to hide when hiding was needed, all those decades ago. But this one — this was the true thing that the Party had hoped for: a dome of psychic energy that would cover Moscow, so powerful that spy
“Dogs pick up a scent,” said Kolyokov. “Are you calling me a dog?”
“No,” said Stephen. “You’re not a dog. You lost the scent all the same, though.” He smirked. “Have to show me your tricks some time. Before it’s too late.”
Kolyokov ducked back into the tank. “You spend enough time sleeping,” he said. “Check the fax machine.”
Stephen came over to the hatch. He leaned on it. “Something happened,” he said. “I can see it in you. Tell me what it is. Did the ocean get you?”
“No. I know better.” Kolyokov squinted at the circle of light as he sloshed back into the brine. “I lost the Goddamn scent,” he said. “I had to piss. Don’t you ever have to piss, boy?”
Stephen shrugged, and lifted the hatch cover over the light. And it was dark again. Kolyokov took a breath of the dank air in the tank. And he began to sleep.
For someone else with Kolyokov’s problem, falling asleep would be a problem; restlessness would intervene and the night would stretch from minutes into an eternity. But as a rule, Kolyokov didn’t fall asleep. Sleep was his avocation — and the word “fall” implied a clumsiness, a lack of forethought — an amateur mistake. Kolyokov approached sleep methodically. “Red,” he whispered. “And orange and yellow. And green, and blue . . .”
And with the words, his eyelids fluttered shut, his breathing slowed, the spectrum flashed through his mind. The water numbed his flesh, and then all other sensation in his body was gone. There was a familiar rushing feeling, as of a body moving swiftly through a tunnel of chilled air. At the end of it, Kolyokov looked upon a brilliant, stratospheric light.
A less experienced dream-walker might have imagined himself dead — staring at the brilliance of his Creator, waiting to welcome him into the glories of the afterlife. But Kolyokov had been around long enough to tell the difference between Heaven and seven thousand feet. He rotated his gaze from the sun, and looked down through thinning clouds, at the grey-green waves of the Atlantic.
The fogbank was the last thing he’d seen before being driven out of his dream. It was still there. It had grown in fact — now it squatted on the ocean like a pus-whitened sore, miles across.
It was not a real fog, though. Kolyokov could see through a real fog, at least well enough to find his people and move in them. This one was as impervious as lead.
Kolyokov took a breath, and let himself descend to its crown. The last time he had tried to penetrate the dome, he had done so without preparation — he had underestimated its strength.
And so it had thrown him from sleep, left him bug-eyed and shaking in his tank, clenching his bladder and gasping like an old man at the top of a stairway.
This time, he would prepare himself for the descent. He would not underestimate his opponents again.
So Kolyokov began to study the fog. As he did so, he began to apprehend certain flaws in its camouflage. It was white, but it was a white too pure — it bore no shadow, even though the cloud overhead was beginning to break and yellow sun was punching through. While wisps of vapour came off the fog, as Kolyokov studied it more closely he saw that by and large the vapour clung to it, as though made from a solid dome of dry ice. He fell slowly towards it, thinking that this was what the form of the fog must in fact be: a solidified dome — solidified to beings such as himself, that is — covering an area of the Atlantic of perhaps a dozen square miles.
Kolyokov laughed to himself. An old trick, that. It was the same thing he used on the hotel; the same thing the others had used on Petroska Station, to hide when hiding was needed, all those decades ago. But this one — this was the true thing that the Party had hoped for: a dome of psychic energy that would cover Moscow, so powerful that spy
Similar Books
