activity, even at this hour. In the main square, Army trucks with batteries of floodlights made the scene bright as new banners were hoisted into position for the May Day parade—we will fulfill our plan! and we demand peace and freedom for the world! As they Crossed the square where the great old cathedral stood, Smin said to Didchuk, 'Tell them that services are held there every Sunday; if one wishes to believe in God, one may.'
'I already have,' said Didchuk proudly. 'They were very pleased to hear it.'
The May Day parade would go along the Khreshchatik, of course — there was no more famous street in Kiev. They had to dodge around the Army trucks to get to the entrance of the Great Gate Hotel. Of course, the hotel doors were locked at that hour. When Didchuk had roused the doorkeeper to let them in, they all got out of the car and stood for a moment in the chilly April night air. 'I wish,' Candace Garfield said earnestly through Didchuk's translation, 'that we had been able to get together earlier, Cousin Simyon. It's really too bad that we have to leave for Tbilisi tomorrow. We have enjoyed this very much, and if you ever come to Beverly Hills—'
'Of course,' smiled Smin gallantly, reaching to put his arms around her. In his hug she was even slimmer than he had thought, and there was a scent of France and America that came from her hair. 'Ah, well,' he said to Didchuk as they drove away, 'there is simply one more duty call we will have to pay next time we are in California. What a nuisance, isn't it?' But now that they were alone Didchuk appeared to have remembered that he was in the presence of a Deputy Director and senior Party member, and he did not seem to know how to respond to the pleasantry.
By the time Smin was back in his mother's flat everyone was asleep. He was careful not to wake his son as he poured himself the 150-milliliter nightcap of brandy that was all he allowed himself anymore and gratefully stretched out next to his gently snoring wife. It had been an interesting evening, if sometimes puzzling — what had Dean Garfield meant when he called his wife a 'Valley girl'? And certainly it had been a pleasant ending to a day that had been full of irritating worries.
When the doorbell rang and someone knocked heavily at the same time, Smin woke up with a start. It was after three o'clock! Selena was upright next to him, her face strained. 'No, no,' Smin soothed, not having to ask what had frightened her because he knew, not having to reassure her that the bad days when a knock at three in the morning meant only one specific, hopeless thing were over, because she knew that too.
He almost persuaded himself to relax as he listened to the voices outside, until his son burst into the room, a blanket wrapped around him, crying, 'Papa! It's the militia! They have brought an important message for you — you must go back to Chernobyl at once!'
Chapter 4
Leonid Sheranchuk knows very little of nuclear energy. In this he is like most of the engineers and managers in the Chernobyl Power Station. Sheranchuk's specialty covers piping, pumps, water, and steam, and his work experience has been confined to that outdated peat powered plant north of Moscow. For most of the others their experience has been in coal and oil plants, and what they know is turbines, transformers, and electricity. The mushrooming growth of nuclear power in the Soviet Union has gone faster than the supply of engineers trained in nucleonics can keep up withh — though, of course, the problems of a nuclear power plant are known to be very like the problems of any power plant anywhere — you heat your water into steam, and you turn your steam into electricity— and the specifically nuclear questions, they are taught, have been solved at higher levels long ago. All the same, Sheranchuk wishes he knew more. He has even enrolled in an evening course in nucleonics at the local polytechnic, though it will not begin for another month. Meanwhile he reads texts when he can find time.
When Sheranchuk got home he thought of tackling the books again, but he was really tired. Maybe later, he thought. He ate something instead, with the nine o'clock news broadcast going on unheeded on the television set. His wife had, of course, eaten with their son, Boris, long since, but she sat companion-ably with him over a glass of wine. 'Did anything interesting happen at work today?' she asked dutifully.
'No,' said Sheranchuk; there was no use telling her about the annoyances with the proposed experiment on Reactor No. 4; she was already too likely to worry about the unknown dangers of nuclear power. 'Some problems with one of the pumps, but it's all right now.' He thought for a moment, and then said, 'The Deputy Director said, in general, I was doing a good job.'
'In general!'
'It's just his way. He calls me his plumber.'
'Plumber!' But she knew how her husband felt about Deputy Director Smin. 'Then you won't have to go in tomorrow morning?' she asked. 'Because of your dentist's appointment, I mean?'
'I had forgotten all about my appointment with the dentist,' Sheranchuk confessed. Then, grinning, 'Do you know what she told me last time? She said, 'It's a shame you keep those stainless-steel teeth. Now we can make you much better ones, porcelain, even better than your own, so that the girls will turn and look at you.' '
'There's no need to have the girls look at you,' Tamara said sharply.
'Not even just to look? If I don't look back?'
'They look at you enough already,' his wife said. She began to clear dishes from the table in silence for a moment, then remembered to tell him about the young girl who had come to her clinic that morning for an abortion. 'Imagine, Leony! She was only sixteen years old. No older than Boris!'
'At least our son can't get pregnant.' Sheranchuk smiled.
'It is not a joke! She is destroying a life inside her, and so young.'
Sheranchuk said reasonably, 'But, Tamara, what else would you have her do? At sixteen she is certainly too young to marry, especially to have the care of a baby when she is only a child herself.'
'I could never do such a thing,' Tamara insisted.
'You have never had to,' Sheranchuk said mildly. There was no reason she should; she worked in the clinic and had ample access to such things as diaphragms and sponges. But the look she gave him as she turned to get on with her household chores kept him from saying so. It was not an angry look, but it was definitely an exclusionary one, as if to say,
Sheranchuk turned off the television set and rummaged through their literary library for the works on nuclear energy he had set himself to go through. He found himself yawning as he opened his books. To help concentrate he put a
Tamara Sheranchuk paused to listen. She knew the song. It was nothing out of the ordinary for them to play the tapes of Vyshinsky, or of Aleksandr Galich or Boulat Okudzhava — the balladeers who lived in, but not of, the Soviet system. Their records were never pressed by Melodiya. Their songs had no official recognition, but were known by heart by nearly every Soviet citizen, passed from hand to hand in the furtively recorded tape cassettes called
She had met Sheranchuk at an Okudzhava concert. It was not in a hall or a stadium, or even in a nightclub. The concert had been out in the birch and pine woods, on a spring night not quite warm enough to be comfortable, and not even dry— little sprinkles of rain came now and then. Still, there had been more than two hundred people out there in the woods, listening to the Georgian balladeer play his old guitar and sing of trolleybuses and the road to Smolensk. All young. And among them had been this red-haired young man who had come by himself, and when he looked at her he did not smile. But as the listeners moved around under the trees, trying to stay dry if not warm, she had wound up next to him. She had left the little group she came with, and Sheranchuk had taken her home.
Tamara had gotten a cold from attending that concert, but she had also gotten a husband.
In order to be fresh for the morning, when he was determined to get in bright and early, despite the dentist, Sheranchuk gave up his yawning struggle with his studies and went to bed at ten o'clock. But now sleep did not come. He lay listening to the sounds of his wife, ironing Boris's white school shirt for the morning, with the sound of
