Terraplane Read online

  "She holds six thousand hours in pilot time, is an accomplished artist with a fine eye for perspective, performed gymnastics throughout her teenage years. She received perfect scores in every class at every school she attended, even when completed work was denied acceptability. A unique accomplishment, it seems."

  "Generate her picture, if possessed." An image rose from the blue. Oktobriana Osipova stood in Red Square, in summertime, judging from her lack of wrap; she showed as a very young woman. Her dark hair was short in back, long in front. Her gymnast's training evidenced in her overdeveloped shoulders, her muscular thighs and her high, round buttocks. Scaling, I sized her to be no taller than a meter and a half. "There're no shots more recent?"

  "This is a near-contemporary," said Alice. "Taken two years ago when she was twenty-one. Dependent upon date of testing her IQ fixes between 253 and 280, Stanford-Binet, not to automatically infer that such arbitrary scores are indicative of empirical intelligence."

  "We've no record of her in-house," I said. "Why isn't she riding the whale with such abilities as possessed?"

  "Prejudice," said Alice. "She is a woman, and Georgian as well. More immediate to the situation is that her political opinions and Krasnaya's differ sharply in several areas, though not so much as to warrant exile or ultimate control. Following an unrecorded incident two years ago she was ordered to assist Doctor Alekhine and sent to Dubna. I infer that they more easily compromised their differences. "

  "What shows in regard to experiment records?"

  "Nothing."

  "They must exist."

  "They did."

  "What's meant?" I asked.

  "Files pertinent to experiments during these two past years were entered in such a way that not even Krasnaya could uncover the information within."

  "Impossible-"

  "Obviously not. Through unknown methods secret entries were filed as required without standard dupes, using a remarkably complex encoding program. The code employed remade itself when outside penetration was attempted. I raped the system in one minute thirty-one and five forty-sevenths seconds, during which time the code adjusted to block intrusion one hundred and eight times. Upon final entry all records self-erased in accordance to program directives."

  `All lost?"

  `All," she said.

  "One question further, Alice. The Dream 'Ieam's awared of our directives?"

  "Of course," she said. "Continue as you have. The Dream Team is the most incompetent of all covert surveillance and corrective units."

  "Closing time, Alice. Pass word topside."

  "Luther," she added, "wait until airborne before renewing contact. Though words go unheard, they know a signal passes. Take care."

  "Good night."

  Her blue rinsed from the white; she was gone. In memory my exwife's voice sounded almost as Alice's, and the match would have exacted had she had spirit like Alice's. Mayhap I was wrong; it possibled that as time's lobotomy settled over years, that which seemed most unexpectedly familiar became the recipient of all long-bound pain. It was the hour's least attractive and most oftoccurring thought, and as on every night I bade it leave my mind. Once unlinking, feeling the usual sadness at taking leave of Alice, I didn't bedaway immediate; I sat staring into the screen's milk, attempting to hear the radio strains of Gayaneh over the toilet's perpetual gurgledeglurp. When ease enough to allow sleep returned to me, I bedded, settling into troubled sleep. Eyes overlooked my dreams, eyes watchful, eyes alert; little-girl eyes, dimmed by pain. From the sandy bloodred dune upon which I stood, panting, catching breath, the sound of breakers scarring my ears, Johnson rose, dragging me into his depths, where I so surely belonged. I awoke, screamless. Jake, safely earphoned, slept on.

  At morningside we attached scramblers previous to wording. At check-in we'd bug-run, stopping the count at forty-seven within the living room alone. If we'd searched and destroyed all, we would still have been eared, through the radio, the phone, the window, so long as our words rang free. With scramblers and phones, we communicated sans worry.

  "Seven-forty," said Jake, reading his watch, collapsing before the TVC. As heard scrambled, his voice sounded as a tape rewound at hypermode. "We've an eight-thirty set to toystore it?" I nodded. "Why such earlybirding? Heavy action expected?"

  "No," I said; he frowned. "Washes idle speculation. Recall that as cover goes, we move toys. Just two businessmen keen to measure product. That gives our check hours to clear."

  "Transporting footways or on rubber?"

  "I've called for a cab. Eight o'clock arrival."

  "A cab sans media?" he asked. "The background racket gave me splitters nightlong." The room's radio, by daytime, blared no classical, as I would have wished, only American apocalypso or European postwave redone con tempo. Over TV's air showed whatever its wires sucked from the sky. Backgrounding us as we spoke was a Leningrad exershow called jump, People! Russian television, no less enjoyable than America's, bore one demonstrable diff: those televised here were ugly, therefore close-to-real; people on American air always seemed alchemized from some unnatural clay.

  "Alice's info enlightened as to whether this associate's worth the bullet?"

  "She's the catch of the day," I said. "Good as Alekhine."

  "Can't viz this fucker half a minute till the throb digs in," Jake said, eyeing the screen, rubbing his temples violently. I recognized his problem. Taking a hotel-provided blank, inslotting it, I taped a minute of air. Rewinding, I paused and pressed superslo playback. White blurs imaged midscreen. "What goes?" he asked. "Jam session?"

  "Of sorts. Here's your pain's excuse."

  Pressing freeze, I showed the words whole as they emerged, four frames per phrase, and translated. "Go now and buy. Money is life-spend it. Thrifty are traitors. They've run these onscreen yearslong. It must affect over time. "

  Jake shook his head as if to reattach his brain. "Where's our takeoff?"

  "Near her living space."

  "Which is where?"

  "Maliuta knows the route."

  "Him you trust?" Jake asked. "He's secured proper and tight?"

  "One of few," I said. Under circumstance it was like trusting Jake; there was no choice if accomplishment was expected. "He delivered last year in Leningrad. Gave us our visit's reason this year.

  We'd connected while crossing the bridge to Vasilovski Island. As we walked Skuratov had worded me of developments in areas long studied. Through the military Krasnaya funded projects studying potential application of parapsychological battle methodologies. To American eyes such implausibilities showed as corrupt idiocies befitting a spirit's world; compared, Freudianism seemed scientific. The dropping sun drew thin shadows over the river; he told of how, in the Dubna science colony north of Moscow, hard evidence had recently showed during experiments performed under Alexander Alekhine's guidance. Alekhine, Russia's leading theoretical physicist, oversaw the Academy of Sciences. We had generated photos; knew he was four times a Hero of Socialist Labor, twice winner of the Lenin Prize. All else involving him was as fog. In that first success of which Skuratov spoke in such nonspecifics, what had manifested? The bending of forks? Control over the tumble of tossed dice? No one knew.

  "I'm hunching there'll be no backtrack," I said. "Essential yourself. "

  "Essentialled," Jake said, slapping hands coatways, relishing his arsenal's embrace. He'd retained our attacker's Omsk as something more than a keepsake. "Suitcase me."

  "Nonessential led," I said, slipping on my own coat, heavy with minicam's weight. "Appear all as if we've stepped out for a breath. Lead to astray. "

  "Three linen whites I packed," he said, his face drawn.

  "Wear what's worn. Come on."

  The potential stupefied. If someone worked such ability into skill, he could, in time, properly trained, think tanks to a stop, dream planes out of the sky, wish that rockets would stray from their targets. Were an improper cue be then employed, the spin might purposely forever scratch the ball. What beasts result
ed from domesticating wild talents? By Skuratov's word Krasnaya reactionaries wished to apply Alekhine's discoveries, whatever they were, to military purpose sole. We American optimists were awared that such blessings as scientists brought were most effec- tivized when deployed by the private sector, so that our world's delicate alignment might not be unduly tipped by governmental mischief. Only in recent quarters had the profit/loss forecast stuck when thrown; only during recent years did our economies boom again to levels where recovery for those still living seemed at last possible to consider straight-faced.

  The hotel's elevator was broken; we crept down six darkened flights. From the lobby ceiling downstairs hung chandeliers, each bearing a dozen monitors showing unceasing vids of goods available in-hotel, at every shop from McDonald's to Smert'Muzham-the latter a women's store whose name, translated, meant Death to Husbands. The monitors never dimmed or blew.

  "Traveling where for how long?" asked the hostess: as concierge, she lent help; as dezhumaya, a licensed tattler, she eliminated hope. She fisheyed our entrycards, looking to see if we'd remag- netized them to untoward purpose. Upon approving us, she unsafed our passports and visas, handing them over, again lending our presence more weight than dust.

  "To town. To shop," I said. Her smile stretched earways at the ring of that ultimate word, revealing a kilo of metal embedded in her mouth.

  "Shopper's Line provides continuous helpful guidance," she said, patting her monitor, reading its announcements. "Excellent deals on jeans and samovaramats at GUM today during Noontime Madness Hour. Vibrant springwear on display at Zinoviev Fashion Mart off Mayakovsky Square. Sultry yes, shameless no-"

  "We're taxied or no?" Jake asked, pushing forward, palming the desktop as if prepping to leap.

  "Da. Returning when?" she asked, her smile but a memory.

  "Uncertain," I said. "Business meets after."

  For record's sake she entered my response into memory in case of belated inquiry. "Enjoy Moscow hospitality," she snorted, staring through us as if we were glass. The hotel guards, awared by Krasnaya of our Guests of State status, steered us past the metal detectors. We hit the street, inhaling pure, painful air. A pasteboard Big Boy directed Intourist groups away from the main entrance to the side, next to the disposal area. Ignoring the cold were sixty-odd vendors, ready and spreadwared, set for tourist reveille.

  "There," I said, spotting our cab, a lipstick red Volga Supreme Wagoneer carrying as driver a stub ruffed headround with wiry hair and beard. Dashing rearward, he opened the tailgate.

  "Interested?" he asked, attempting English. In his taxi's flatbed lay a bulky oak bureau swaddled in animal pelts, resembling a coffin built for six. As he slid hands across his furs, I noted several fingertips lacking. "Finest ermine and mink from my Kamchatka native home."

  "Terrier and mastiff," said Jake, copping his own feel. "Roll us, hack. Blow. "

  "Best prices for British friends if you reconsider," he said, jerking about as if guided by strings, heaving himself wheelways while we boarded. his cab's interior called to mind an unlicensed souvenir stand at an unsuccessful resort. Glued to the dash were plastic icons, pipeholders and holographic badges. A green skeleton dangled from the rearview Rubber hands affixed to the front seat's underside impressioned that deportniks desperate for breath were hauling themselves up through the oilpan.

  "Ya Amerikanets," said Jake, unfortunately using one of his few accurate phrases.

  "Americans!" the driver said, beaming, stunned by fortune. "See what I have wholesale for you experienced hard bargainers." From the glove compartment he slid velveteen-covered trays layered with paste jewelry. Jake, drawing his powerdrill, set the bit against our driver's cranium, fingers itching to trigger. "Toystore me," he said, so softly I barely heard. The hack heard; lipshut and floored. We bug-ran before reaching the first stoplight, discovering multiple infestation as expected. Wiping mist from my window I eyed a black Marx DeVille pacing us.

  "Travel buddies," I said to Jake as I waved their way. They waved in return. Another carload drew up, keeping several carlengths rearward. "They trail all but the chaperoned," I explained; Jake gave them a moment's attention. "They'll drop once our stability's proved."

  "Will it be?"

  On rightward, a third black Marx came along. All, undoubted, tuned in to hear our confessions. Desuspicioning, I noted local glories; Jake yawned. The sun, a pink ball skulking along the horizon, threw faint heat and little light. St. Basil's multihued domes, brushed clean of snow, radiated morning's lavender hues. Edging Red Square and the Kremlin's inquisitional walls and steeples we saw the touristline awaiting their moment in Lenin's box, his tomb dyed in dried blood's color in this season's light. At distance, Moscow attracted; close in the city forever bore the look of a sixth-generation dupe: details fuzzed, colors weren't true, images bled at the borders. In the middle distance, wedding-cake skyscrapers from the Big Boy's day screwed heaven while awaiting some long-delayed celebration. We reached the store. I slapped our furrier a fiver.

  "They even ad the green?" Jake asked, examining a ten-ruble while I took my change. Debilling him, I perused the ornate designs wreathing Akhmatova's debeaked profile.

  "Coins, too," I said. "Stamps, stocks and bonds." The tenruble's message was Hoarders Bleed Our Nation. Small-print credit thanked the unequaled Zolotskova shopping mall. Our cab spedaway, seeking fresh capital. Jake snapped back his money.

  "We're going shopping or rioting?" he asked, looking storeways. Hordes massed behind heavy metal barriers topped with high sharp spikes. Adults lifted babies above the crush as the mob awaited their cue to rage and plunder. Elderlies swatted unpeopled pavement with birch brooms, sweeping sparrows from the grates. We tossed time glancing nearby newsstand's wares. Stacked alongside Pravda and Izvestia were Russian mags, bright with untrue color, pulp laden with chemical scent. There too reposed American mags no less reliable than Russian journals and so Krasnaya censored nothing but their ads, keeping expectations no higher than ordained to rise. The store's siren roared as if to beckon firestorm; we filtered through the crowd, trailed by our newest fans.

  "Where's the meet and greet?" asked Jake.

  "Interactive Strategies department," I said. "Level two."

  Russia loved the children it didn't have to kill. Detsky Mir sold as Russian the toys of every nation; the ones homegrown evidenced by their tendency to break beneath the weight of dust settling upon them. The ancient interior, transplanted with fresh organs as fashion demanded, resembled the post office's central auctionhouse. Upholstered mothers, toddlers bundled into immobility, men of disconcerted mien and ill-tempered babushki shuffled like lost ghosts through the aisles. One wizened hag, eyeing Jake's bare head and slick hair, shouted: "Shapkoo propil!" Before he made his grab I grasped his arm, guiding it to his side as I would a cannon.

  "Her attitude shows plain," he said, his face purpling. "Translate her slur."

  "Ignore, Jake," I said. "She said you must have wasted so much money you can't afford a hat."

  "Nosetroubler." As he spoke, he fumbled a coin between thumb and finger; bent it double, flattening it as his color drained. "These stragglers close in. Should I react?" Those trailing showed through the crowd so plain they might have been spotlit. From the ceiling above cameras focused, keeping angels' eyes on us.

  "Ignore," I repeated. All escalators to level one were broken and so we climbed. Summiting, Jake looked, and let free, unexpected laughter burst loose.

  "No wonder you're so eyed by all locals," he remarked. A carmine scroll draped overhead announced HAPPY GOLLIWOGS ARE HERE. Displayers held a regiment of dolls shaped in the form of squat black women, staring with leering eyes, grinning with lips like Brazil nuts. "Heavy sellers, you'd guess?" Jake asked.

  "They talk," I said, reading a less prominent descriptive. Lifting one of the clammy little things I activated the cassette housed within. "Eat your veget-" it began, in Russian; the tape jammed. Coils oozed from the doll's mouth as if it vomited forth its i
ntestines. I repiled it quick. The escalator to level two worked for a minute, then broke; our pursuers huffed casually behind us. "Aisle E. Over here."

  The Interactive Strategies department's goods could have kept the Red Army supplied for centuries had they worked so well as their models; as was, they gave the young ones opportunity to practice until their draft day. Toy guns of every caliber, from peashooters to those that might splatter elephants' heads, glistened beneath glass. All required easily obtained Krasnaya permits for toy gun purchase; then, were the possessor to suffer mistaken identity situation, the police might be secure in knowing that such had occurred through victim's choice.

  "Alert yourself," said Jake; likely suspects browsed every side, crowded every aisle. The worst places were those where the children might offer so much danger as the adults. I spotted Skuratov striding towards us, his twohue shoes bright against the colorless floor.

  "Gentlemen," he said, wrapping round me like an anaconda. Jake distanced, loath to know the human touch. "Forgive my lateness. "

  "No need to forgive," I said, loudspeaking to allay cats' curiosity. "We were perusing these marvelous toys."

  Skuratov smiled; palmed a miniature half-track from a nearby rack, rolled it across his coatsleeve. The wheels fell off.

  "Shouldn't we head?" I asked. Jake, on point, circled round on his heels as if to measure the room's footage. A well-bundled father dragged a swaddled lump towards the cashier desk nearest; the child pleaded for goods denied. Skuratov pressed fingers to lips.

  "There is no hurry," lie said, meaning there was, and by his inaction demonstrating that the sooner could not be bettered. Several newcomers appeared some distance down, sauntering with flamboyant disinterest, each garbed in basic black, which, by rumor heard, was Dream Team's choice. Our prospects seemed evermore evanescent.