Hey, there’s sand down there. And, um, glass? Looks like it’s melted. Ah, trinitite.”
“Sir?”
Borisovitch leans forward. “That’s odd.”
“What is?” asks Misha, but before he gets a reply both Gagarin and the researcher are up again and off toward another building.
“Look. The north wall.” Gagarin’s found another chunk of wall, this one a worn stump that’s more than a meter high: he looks unhappy.
“Sir? Are you all right?” Misha stares at him. Then he notices the academician is also silent, and looking deeply perturbed. “What’s wrong?”
Gagarin extends a finger, points at the wall. “You can just see him if you look close enough. How long would it take to fade, Mikhail? How many years have we missed them by?”
The academician licks his lips: “At least two thousand years, sir. Concrete cures over time, but it takes a very long time indeed to turn all the way to limestone. And then there’s the weathering process to take account of. But the surface erosion . . . Yes, that could fix the image from the flash. Perhaps. I’d need to ask a few colleagues back home.”
“What’s wrong?” the political officer repeats, puzzled.
The first cosmonaut grins humorlessly. “Better get your Geiger counter, Misha, and see if the ruins are still hot. Looks like we’re not the only people on the disk with a geopolitical problem . . .”
BEEN HERE BEFORE
Brundle has finally taken the time to pull Gregor aside and explain what’s going on; Gregor is not amused.
“Sorry you walked into it cold,” says Brundle. “But I figured it would be best for you to see for yourself.” He speaks with a Midwestern twang, and a flatness of affect that his colleagues sometimes mistake for signs of an underlying psychopathology.
“See what, in particular?” Gregor asks sharply. “What, in particular?” Gregor tends to repeat himself, changing only the intonation, when he’s disturbed. He’s human enough to recognize it as a bad habit but still finds it difficult to suppress the reflex.
Brundle pauses on the footpath, looks around to make sure there’s nobody within earshot. The Mall is nearly empty today, and only a humid breeze stirs the waters on the pool. “Tell me what you think.”
Gregor thinks for a moment, then summons up his full command of the local language: it’s good practice. “The boys in the big house are asking for a CAB. It means someone’s pulled his head out of his ass for long enough to realize they’ve got worse things to worry about than being shafted by the Soviets. Something’s happened to make them realize they need a policy for dealing with the abductors. This is against doctrine; we need to do something about it fast before they start asking the right questions. Something’s shaken them up, something secret, some HUMINT source from the wrong side of the Curtain, perhaps. Could it be that man Gordievsky? But they haven’t quite figured out what being here means. Sagan—does his presence mean what I think it does?”
“Yes,” Brundle says tersely.
“Oh dear.” A reflex trips, and Gregor takes off his spectacles and polishes them nervously on his tie before replacing them. “Is it just him, or does it go further?” He leaves the rest of the sentence unspoken by convention— Is it just him you think we’ ll have to silence?
“Further.” Brundle tends to talk out of the side of his mouth when he’s agitated, and from his current expression Gregor figures he’s really upset. “Sagan and his friends at Cornell have been using the Arecibo dish to listen to the neighbors. This wasn’t anticipated. Now they’re asking for permission to beam a signal at the nearest of the other disks. Straight up, more or less; ‘Talk to us.’ Unfortunately, Sagan is well-known, which is why he caught the attention of our nominal superiors. Meanwhile, the Soviets have found something that scared them. CIA didn’t hear about it through the usual assets—they
“Sir?”
Borisovitch leans forward. “That’s odd.”
“What is?” asks Misha, but before he gets a reply both Gagarin and the researcher are up again and off toward another building.
“Look. The north wall.” Gagarin’s found another chunk of wall, this one a worn stump that’s more than a meter high: he looks unhappy.
“Sir? Are you all right?” Misha stares at him. Then he notices the academician is also silent, and looking deeply perturbed. “What’s wrong?”
Gagarin extends a finger, points at the wall. “You can just see him if you look close enough. How long would it take to fade, Mikhail? How many years have we missed them by?”
The academician licks his lips: “At least two thousand years, sir. Concrete cures over time, but it takes a very long time indeed to turn all the way to limestone. And then there’s the weathering process to take account of. But the surface erosion . . . Yes, that could fix the image from the flash. Perhaps. I’d need to ask a few colleagues back home.”
“What’s wrong?” the political officer repeats, puzzled.
The first cosmonaut grins humorlessly. “Better get your Geiger counter, Misha, and see if the ruins are still hot. Looks like we’re not the only people on the disk with a geopolitical problem . . .”
BEEN HERE BEFORE
Brundle has finally taken the time to pull Gregor aside and explain what’s going on; Gregor is not amused.
“Sorry you walked into it cold,” says Brundle. “But I figured it would be best for you to see for yourself.” He speaks with a Midwestern twang, and a flatness of affect that his colleagues sometimes mistake for signs of an underlying psychopathology.
“See what, in particular?” Gregor asks sharply. “What, in particular?” Gregor tends to repeat himself, changing only the intonation, when he’s disturbed. He’s human enough to recognize it as a bad habit but still finds it difficult to suppress the reflex.
Brundle pauses on the footpath, looks around to make sure there’s nobody within earshot. The Mall is nearly empty today, and only a humid breeze stirs the waters on the pool. “Tell me what you think.”
Gregor thinks for a moment, then summons up his full command of the local language: it’s good practice. “The boys in the big house are asking for a CAB. It means someone’s pulled his head out of his ass for long enough to realize they’ve got worse things to worry about than being shafted by the Soviets. Something’s happened to make them realize they need a policy for dealing with the abductors. This is against doctrine; we need to do something about it fast before they start asking the right questions. Something’s shaken them up, something secret, some HUMINT source from the wrong side of the Curtain, perhaps. Could it be that man Gordievsky? But they haven’t quite figured out what being here means. Sagan—does his presence mean what I think it does?”
“Yes,” Brundle says tersely.
“Oh dear.” A reflex trips, and Gregor takes off his spectacles and polishes them nervously on his tie before replacing them. “Is it just him, or does it go further?” He leaves the rest of the sentence unspoken by convention— Is it just him you think we’ ll have to silence?
“Further.” Brundle tends to talk out of the side of his mouth when he’s agitated, and from his current expression Gregor figures he’s really upset. “Sagan and his friends at Cornell have been using the Arecibo dish to listen to the neighbors. This wasn’t anticipated. Now they’re asking for permission to beam a signal at the nearest of the other disks. Straight up, more or less; ‘Talk to us.’ Unfortunately, Sagan is well-known, which is why he caught the attention of our nominal superiors. Meanwhile, the Soviets have found something that scared them. CIA didn’t hear about it through the usual assets—they
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