Fantastic Voyage II: Destination Brain fv-2 Page 5

  "Ah? And how do you know that, Frank?"

  "Partly from contacts inside the Soviet Union."

  "Ashby?"

  "Partly."

  "Good agent."

  "At it too long. Needs to be replaced."

  "I don't know. Let's not retire a winner."

  "In any case," said Rodano, unwilling to fight the point, "there was a sudden multiplication of interest in Morrison, on whom I'd been keeping tabs for a couple of years."

  "This Shapirov, I suppose, had another brainstorm about Morrison and persuaded the Russ- Soviets they needed him."

  "Perhaps, but the funny thing is that Shapirov seems to have dropped out of the news recently."

  "Out of favor?"

  "No sign of that."

  "Could be, Frank. If he's been feeding the Soviets a line of garbage about miniaturization and they've caught on to it, I wouldn't want to be in his shoes. These may be the good new days, but the Soviets have never learned to have a sense of humor about being made to look or feel foolish."

  "It could be that he's gone underground because the miniaturization project is heating up. And that could also explain the sudden desperation about Morrison."

  "What does he know about miniaturization?"

  "Only that he's sure it's impossible."

  "It makes no sense, does it?"

  Rodano said carefully, "That's why we let him be taken. There's always the hope it will shake up the pieces and that they may then come together in a new way that will begin to make sense."

  Winthrop looked at his watch. "He should be there by now. Malenkigrad. What a name! No news of any plane crash last night anywhere in the world, so I guess he's there."

  "Yes - and just the wrong person to send, too, except he was the one that the Soviets wanted."

  "Why is he wrong? Is he shaky ideologically?"

  "I doubt that he has an ideology. He's a zero. All last night I've been thinking that it's all a mistake. He lacks guts and he's not very bright, except in an academic sense. I don't think he can possibly think on his feet - if he ever has to. He's not going to be smart enough to find out anything. I suspect he'll be in one long panic from beginning to end and I've been thinking for hours now that we'll never see him again. They'll imprison him - or kill him - and I've sent him there."

  "That's just middle-of-the-night blues, Frank. No matter how dumb he is, he'll be able to tell us whether he watched a demonstration of miniaturization, for instance, or what it was they did to him. He doesn't have to be a shrewd observer. He need only tell us what happened and we will do the necessary thinking."

  "But, Jon, we may never see him again."

  Winthrop placed his hand on Rodano's shoulder. "Don't begin by assuming disaster. I'll see that Ashby gets the word. If something can be done, it will be done and I'm sure the Russ- Soviets will hit a sane moment and let him go if we put on enough quiet pressure when the time comes. Don't make yourself sick over it. It's a move in a complex game and if it doesn't work, it doesn't work. There are a thousand other moves on the board."

  12.

  Morrison felt haggard. He had slept through much of Monday, hoping it would rid him of the worst of his jet lag. He had eaten gratefully of the food that had been brought in toward evening, had partaken even more gratefully of a shower. Fresh clothing was given him that fit rather indifferently - but what of that? And he had spent Monday night alternately sleeping and reading.

  And brooding.

  The more he thought of it, the more convinced he was that Natalya Boranova was correct in her estimate that he was here only because the United States was satisfied to have him here. Rodano had urged him to go, had vaguely threatened him with further career troubles (how much deeper in trouble could he possibly get?) if he did not go. Why, then, should they object to his having been taken? They might object on principle or feel there was the danger of setting an undesirable precedent, but apparently their own eagerness to have him go had overruled that.

  What, then, would be the point in demanding to be taken to the nearest American consul or in making wild threats of American retaliation?

  As a matter of fact, now that the deed had been done with American connivance - surely with American connivance - it would be impossible for the United States to take open action on his behalf or express any indignation whatever. Questions would inevitably arise as to how the Soviets had managed to spirit him off and there would be no answer other than American stupidity or American connivance. And surely the United States would not want to have the world come to either conclusion.

  Of course, he could see why this had been done. It was as Rodano had explained. The American government wanted information and he was in an ideal position to get it for them.

  Ideal? In what way? The Soviets would not be fools enough to let him get any information they didn't want him to have and if they thought that the information he managed to get (or couldn't avoid getting) was too much, they would not be fools enough to let him go.

  The more he thought of that, the more he felt that, dead or alive, he would never see the United States again and that the American intelligence community would shrug its collective shoulders and write it all off as an unavoidable miss - nothing gained but, then again, nothing much lost.

  Morrison assessed himself - Albert Jonas Morrison, Ph.D., assistant professor of neurophysics, originator of a theory of thought that remained unaccepted and all but ignored; failed husband, failed father, failed scientist, and now failed pawn. Nothing much lost.

  In the depth of the night, in a hotel room in a town he didn't even know the location of, in a nation that for over a century had seemed the natural enemy of his own, however much a spirit of reluctant and suspicious cooperation might rule in the last few decades, Morrison found himself weeping out of self-pity and out of sheer childish helplessness - out of a feeling of utter humiliation that no one should think him worth struggling for or even wasting regret over.

  And yet - and here a small spark of pride managed to surface - the Soviets had wanted him. They had gone to considerable trouble to get him. When persuasion had failed, they had not hesitated to use force. They couldn't possibly have been certain that the United States would studiously look the other way. They had risked an international incident, however slightly, to get him.

  And they were going to considerable trouble to keep him safe now that they had him. He was here alone, but the windows, he noted, had bars on them. The door was not locked, but when, earlier, he had opened it, two uniformed and armed men looked up from where they had been lounging against the opposite wall and asked him if he were in need of anything. He didn't like being in prison, but it was a measure, of sorts, of his value - at least here.

  How long would this last? Even though they might be under the impression that his theory of thought was correct, Morrison himself had to admit that it remained a fact that all the evidence he had gathered was circumstantial and terribly indirect - and that no one had been able to confirm his most useful findings. What would happen if the Soviets found that they, too, could not confirm them or if, on closer consideration, they found it all too gaseous, too vaporous, too atmospheric to trouble with.

  Boranova had said Shapirov had thought highly of Morrison's suggestions, but Shapirov was a notorious wild man who changed his mind daily.

  And if Shapirov shrugged and turned away, what would the Soviets do? If their American trophy were of no use to them, would they return him contemptuously to the United States (one more humiliation, in a way) or hide their own folly in taking him, by imprisoning him indefinitely - or worse.

  In fact, it had been some Soviet functionary, some specific person, who must have decided to kidnap him and risk an incident and if the whole thing turned sour, what would that functionary do to save his own neck - undoubtedly at the expense of Morrison's?

  By dawn on Tuesday, when Morrison had been in the Soviet Union for a full day, he had convinced himself that every path into the future, every alterna
tive route that could possibly be taken, would end in disaster for him. He watched the day break, but his spirits remained in deepest night.

  13.

  There was a brusque knock at his door at 8 a.m. He opened it a crack and the soldier on the other side pushed it open farther, as though to indicate who it was who controlled the door.

  The soldier said, more loudly than necessary, "Madame Boranova will be here in half an hour to take you to breakfast. Be ready."

  While he dressed hurriedly and made use of an electric razor of rather ancient design by American standards, he wondered why on Earth he had been faintly astonished at hearing the soldier speak of Madame Boranova. The archaic "comrade" had long passed out of use.

  It made him feel irritable and foolish, too, since of what value was it to brood over tiny things in the midst of the vast morass in which he found himself? - Except that that was what people did, he knew.

  Boranova was ten minutes late. She knocked more gently than the soldier had and when she entered said, "How do you feel, Dr. Morrison?"

  "I feel kidnapped," he said stiffly.

  "Aside from that. Have you had enough sleep?"

  "I may have. I can't tell. Frankly, madame, I'm in no mood to tell. What do you want of me?"

  "At the moment, nothing but to take you to breakfast. And please, Dr. Morrison, do believe that I am as much under compulsion as you are. I assure you that I would rather, at this moment, be with my little Aleksandr. I have neglected him sadly in recent months and Nikolai is not pleased at my absence, either. But when he married me, he knew I had a career, as I keep telling him."

  "As far as I'm concerned, you are free to send me back to my own country and spend all your time with Aleksandr and Nikolai."

  "Ah, if that could be so - but it cannot. So come, let us go to breakfast. We could eat here, but you would feel imprisoned. Let us eat in the dining room and you will feel better."

  "Will I? Those two soldiers outside will follow us, won't they?"

  "Regulations, Dr. Morrison. This is a high-security zone. They must guard you until someone in charge is convinced that it is safe not to guard you - and it would be difficult to convince them of that. It is their job not to be convinced."

  "I'll bet," said Morrison, shrugging himself into the jacket they had given him, which was rather tight under the armpits.

  "They will in no way interfere with us, however."

  "But if I suddenly break away or even just move in an unauthorized direction, I assume they will shoot me dead."

  "No, that would be bad for them. You are valuable alive, not dead. They would pursue you and, eventually, seize you. - But then, I'm sure you understand that you must do nothing that would be uselessly troublesome."

  Morrison frowned, making little effort to hide his anger. "When do I get my own baggage back? My own clothes?"

  "In time. The first order of business is to eat."

  The dining room, which they reached by an elevator and a rather long walk along a deserted corridor, was not very large. It contained a dozen tables, each one seating six, and it was not crowded.

  Boranova and Morrison were alone at their table and no one offered to join them. The two soldiers were at a table near the door and though they each ate enough for two, they faced Morrison and their eyes never left him for more than a second or two.

  There was no menu. Food was simply brought to them and Morrison found he had no quarrel over the quantity. There were hard-boiled eggs, boiled potatoes, cabbage soup, and caviar, along with thick slices of dark bread. They were not given out in individual portions, but were placed in the center of the table where each person could help himself.

  Perhaps, thought Morrison, they bring enough food to feed six and, since we two are the only ones here, we should only consume a third. And after a while, he had to admit that with a full stomach he felt a little mollified. He said, "Madame Boranova -"

  "Why not call me Natalya, Dr. Morrison? We are very informal here and we will be colleagues for perhaps an extended period of time. The repeated 'madames' will give me a headache. My friends even call me Natasha. It could come to that."

  She smiled, but Morrison felt stubbornly indisposed to be ingratiated. He said, "Madame, when I feel friendly, I will certainly act friendly, but as a victim and an involuntary presence here, I prefer a certain formality."

  Boranova sighed. She bit off a sizable chunk of bread and chewed moodily. Then, swallowing, she said, "Let it be as you wish, but please spare me the 'madames.' Let me have my professional title - and I don't mean 'academician.' Too many syllables. - But I interrupted you."

  "Dr. Boranova," said Morrison, more coldly than before. "You haven't told me what it is you want of me. You mentioned miniaturization, but you know and I know that that is impossible. I think that you spoke of it merely to mislead - to mislead me and to mislead anyone overhearing us. Let us drop that, then. Surely here we have no need to play games. Tell me why I am really here. After all, eventually you must, since you apparently expect me to be of some use to you and I can't be that if I am left completely ignorant of what it is that you wish."

  Boranova shook her head. "You are a hard man to convince, Dr. Morrison. I have been truthful with you from the start. The project is one of miniaturization."

  "I cannot believe that."

  "Why, then, are you in the city of Malenkigrad?"

  "Small city? Littletown? Tinyburg?" said Morrison, feeling a pleasure in hearing his own voice sound the phrases in English. "Perhaps because it is a small city."

  "As I have had periodic occasion to say, Dr. Morrison, you are not a serious man. Still, you will not be in doubt long. There are a few people you should meet. One of them should, in fact, be here by now." She looked around with an annoyed frown. "So where is he?"

  Morrison said, "I notice that no one approaches us. Every once in a while, the people at the other tables look at me, but then they look away if they catch my eye."

  "They have been warned," said Boranova absently. "We will not waste your time with irrelevancies and almost everyone here is an irrelevancy as far as you are concerned. But some are not. Where is he?" She rose. "Dr. Morrison, excuse me. I must find him. I will not be gone long."

  "Is it safe to leave me?" said Morrison sardonically.

  "The soldiers will remain, Dr. Morrison. Please do not give them cause to react. Intellect is not their forte and they are trained to follow orders without the painful necessity of thinking, so they might easily hurt you."

  "Don't worry. I'll be careful."

  She left, moving hurriedly out the door after exchanging a few words with the soldiers as she passed.

  Morrison watched her go, then glanced over the dining room morosely. Having found nothing of interest, he bent his eyes upon his clasped hands on the table and then stared at the still-sizable portions of unconsumed food before him.

  "Are you all through, comrade?"

  Morrison looked up sharply. He had decided "comrade" was an archaism, hadn't he?

  — A woman was standing, looking at him, with one balled fist on her hip in a negligent manner. She was a reasonably plump woman in a white uniform, slightly stained. Her hair was reddish-brown, as were her eyebrows, which arched disdainfully.

  "Who are you?" asked Morrison, frowning.

  "My name? Valeri Paleron. My function? Hardworking serving woman, but Soviet citizen and member of the party. I brought you this food. Didn't you notice me? Am I beneath your notice, perhaps?"

  Morrison cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, miss. I have other things on my mind. - But you had better leave the food. Someone else is supposed to be coming here, I think."

  "Ah! And the Tsarina? She will be back, too, I suppose?"

  "The Tsarina?"

  "You don't think we have Tsarinas any longer in the Soviet Union? Think again, comrade. This Boranova, the granddaughter of peasants and a long line of peasants, considers herself quite a lady, I'm sure." She made a sound with her lips like a long "psh
-sh-sh," redolent with contempt and a touch of herring.

  Morrison shrugged. "I do not know her very well."

  "You are an American, aren't you?"

  Morrison said sharply, "Why do you say that?"

  "Because of the way you speak Russian. With that accent, what would you be? The son of Tsar Nicholas the Tyrant?"

  "What's wrong with the way I speak Russian?"

  "It clashes as though you learned it in school. You can hear an American a kilometer away as soon as he says, 'A glass of vodka, please.' He is not as bad as an Englishman, of course. Him you can hear two kilometers away."

  "Well, then, I'm an American."

  "And you'll be going home someday?"

  "I certainly hope so."

  The serving woman nodded her head quietly, pulled out a rag, and wiped the table thoughtfully. "I would like to visit the United States someday."

  Morrison nodded. "Why not?"

  "I need a passport."

  "Of course."

  "And how does a simple, loyal serving woman get one?"

  "I suppose you must apply for one."

  "Apply? If I go to a functionary and I say, 'I, Valeri Paleron, wish to visit the United States,' he will say, 'Why?'"

  "And why do you want to go?"

  "To see the country. The people. The wealth. I am curious how they live. - That would not be reason enough."

  "Say something else," said Morrison. "Say you want to write a book about the United States as a lesson to Soviet youth."

  "Do you know how many books -"

  She stiffened and began to wipe the table again, suddenly absorbed in her work.