Chernobyl

radiation would be only a fraction of its current levels.. .

A year or less! He did not even think of the long-lived transuranics, like plutonium, with a half-life of a quarter of a million years. A year was already an eternity.

And anyway, it all depended on how much there was to begin with. A quarter of a little bit was perhaps no more than the normal background, while a quarter of very much might still be enough to kill. And, worst of all, when could they start the patient clock that would tell them when they might return? For as the bus pulled out of Pripyat, Kalychenko had craned his neck to stare back. He could still see, in the waning light of that April day, the distant, uneven column of smoke. There seemed to be helicopters fluttering around it — sight-seers? Foolish ones, if they were, because if they flew through that plume, they would learn caution very thoroughly, if too late to do them any good.

The plume had been not one whit smaller or less frightening than it had been the day before.

So it could easily be a year before any of them saw Pripyat again. Kalychenko told himself. It could be much longer. It could be never. And what then of his precious stereo from East Germany, his magnetizdat tapes of Okudjava and the Beatles, his hopes for a car, his career? What of Raia's ten thousand forgotten treasures? What of their wedding? When she started up again—'My raincoat from Czechoslovakia! What if it rains where we're going?' — he patted her silently. It would rain, all right. It would rain many, many times before she saw that smart, new, black trench coat again.

When he woke from an uneasy sleep an hour later, it was because Raia was leaning across him. She was trying to help the woman in the seat ahead of them with her wailing baby. The infant had soiled itself, and the mother was trying to make a flat space on the clutter of bundles, bags, and personal possessions of all kinds that were piled in the aisle so she could change it. Under the circumstances, it was a major undertaking. The mother had not failed to bring everything she needed with her, especially including the rolls of gauze bandages that were used for diapers. Unfortunately, the child was in her lap and the bandages were in a bag buried somewhere along the aisle of the bus.

Kalychenko suffered his fiancee to climb over him, changing seats so that she could be more use to the woman ahead. Raia held the crying infant's shoulders securely while the mother dabbed him clean, then grumpily wound a head scarf around the baby boy's bottom.

Kalychenko averted his eyes. He could not avert his nose, and when the woman carefully rolled up the soiled diaper-bandages and deposited them at her feet, he complained to his fiancee, 'She should throw them out the window! It's not fair, making us stand all that stink!'

Then it was Raia's turn to shush him. 'And then what would she use when we got where we are going? It's all right, Bohdan. Here, let me make it smell better—' From her pock-etbook she pulled out a little flask of cologne and patted it on

Bohdan's cheek. 'You don't mind about the scarf, do you?' she added shyly.

'The scarf? You mean you gave that woman my sling?' Kalychenko was suddenly outraged.

'But you don't seem to need it anymore, Bohdan dear. You lifted the bags with both hands. And, think, in just a few months, when we have our own little one—'

'I suppose it is all right,' he grumbled. 'Let us go back to sleep.' Obediently Raia put her head on his shoulder again and presendy closed her eyes.

But for Kalychenko it was not so easy. Raia's last remark had reminded him of another problem of radiation. What about the baby she was carrying? Just how much radiation had Raia absorbed? He didn't know but had an uneasy feeling that pregnant women, or their babies anyway, were especially subject to radiation damage. In any case, he told himself, there was nothing he could do about it right now. But he remained wide awake, trying not to think.

He squirmed carefully in his seat, not wanting to disturb Raia. The woman ahead had politely opened her window a crack to try to dissipate the odor pervading her immediate area, but as a result a blast of damp, cold night air was striking Kalychenko just on the side of his head. His bladder was full. His future was murky. His mood was dour.

There was no doubt in Kalychenko's mind — well, no real doubt — that he wanted to go through with marrying Raia, even less that he wanted the child she was carrying. Of course, one should have a son! But his stomach churned with fear. Perhaps there was a way to have Raia checked for radiation. As for himself, the little bruises on his elbow, got when he fell as he fled the exploding reactor, no longer seemed very convincing even to him. Especially since Raia had given his sling away! The sling, of course, was no more than camouflage, simply circumstantial evidence to add credibility to the story he was planning to tell; but Kalychenko was aware he would need all the help he could get when questions were asked.

And, sooner or later, questions surely would be asked.

Kalychenko groaned — stifling it, so Raia would not hear— and tried to settle himself again for sleep. But the bus seemed to be slowing down, even stopping. It came to a dead halt, then lurched slowly forward again.

Kalychenko tried to raise himself to see ahead. There were lights in the road. Someone was shouting directions; the bus crept forward, then turned into a space on the side of the highway and came to a complete stop. The passengers began to stir.

The overhead lights on the bus came on and the door opened. Up ahead there was a muttered colloquy between the driver, the soldier who had gotten on with them, and someone from outside; then the soldier stood up: 'Everybody is to get out here,' he cried, his voice hoarse with sleep and fatigue. 'Leave your belongings on the bus. Now, please, hurry up!'

It had not, after all, been altogether a good idea to sit at the back of the bus, for it took them forever to get out.

Emptying the bus was a complicated logistical problem. First the people in the front seats had to stand up and lift some of the things from the aisles onto the seats they had vacated before those in the next row could move into the aisle. The process had to be repeated, row by row, the whole length of the bus before it came to Kalychenko's and Raia's turn. There was no way to speed the process. All they could do was peer out the windows. They could see that they were in what seemed to be an agricultural station of some kind. There were other buses there, a dozen of them or more, and people milling around under bright lights. As they limped forward and stiffly disembarked, the soldier was calling, 'Please, everybody! Listen. Remember your bus number, bus number eight two eight. Eight two eight, remember! When the bus number is called, follow instructions — and especially when it's time to go, make sure you get back on bus eight two eight, for it is my ass if you aren't!'

An old woman chided him: 'Is that a way to speak, a Soviet Army soldier? Would your mother like to hear such talk?'

'I'm sorry,' Konov said, abashed. 'But please — bus eight two eight, don't forget!'

Men were drifting to the right, back down the road they had traveled, women to the left. Kalychenko went far enough to avoid the messes those before him had made and then relieved his bladder at the side of the road, stretching and shivering in the cold night air. One by one the buses were pulling up to a gasoline truck for refueling, then returning to their parking spaces while the drivers hurried to take care of their own needs. They closed the doors behind them. Soldiers— other soldiers, with the green flashes of the internal army— were keeping everyone but the drivers away. Still other soldiers were clustered around a pair of wooden tables, with people lined up before them, and from the back of a truck dirty, tired Komsomols were serving some kind of food.

Well, at least that was something. Kalychenko looked around for Raia, and when she returned from her own necessities along the southward stretch of the road, they lined up to get what was offered. The Komsomols looked both exhausted and keyed up as they dished out bread, sausages, and strong tea.

'I wonder where we are?' said Kalychenko as they found a low wall to sit on while they ate.

'A woman said it is a place called Sodolets,' Raia told him, raising her voice to be heard. It was a noisy place to be, with bus motors grumbling and racing as new ones arrived and old ones left. 'South of Kiev. We've come a long way.' She was gazing at the mother from the bus who, her back modestly turned, was nursing her baby. 'I hope we're nearly there,' Raia fretted. 'It's not good for the child, being up so late in this night air.'

'It's not too good for me, either,' Kalychenko grumbled, but softly. And then their bus number was called and they lined up one more time, under the bright lights, before the tables where an Army colonel was standing, scowling, smoking a cigarette while two lieutenants were, wonder of wonders! Giving away money! When he reached the head of the line, Kalychenko displayed his passport. The lieutenant painstakingly copied his name onto a long list and then carefully counted out twenty new ten-ruble notes into Kalychenko's hand. 'For what?'