The Lotus Eaters

will change her mind.'

Chapayev pulled an architectural drawing from a satchel. It showed a medium size, single floor bungalow, built on stilts to form a carport under the main house, the house itself stuccoed and roofed with red tiles. Based on the size of the windows, the house looked to be about thirteen or fourteen meters on a side, perhaps one hundred and eighty or so, overall. By Volgan standards, it was palatial.

'No question but it's a better place than she's likely to find at home,' Samsonov observed. 'You might also mention to her that on your pay here she can afford a maid and cook, and a car if you wish.'

'Yes, sir,' Chapayev agreed. 'That might help. Duque Carrera also offered to let me use one of the spare places on his land until my house was complete.'

'He told me about how you fought in Santander,' Samsonov said. 'He thinks very highly of your abilities . . . and your courage under fire. I would cultivate him, were I you.'

Chapayev smiled. 'Yes, sir. But first, I have to think about how to cultivate my wife. And on that note, I have shopping to do in the city before I catch my plane. Menshikov is driving me to town and the airport.'

Pavlov added, 'There are a few things I'd like to add to your shopping list, Victor.'

'Sure, sir.'

'You are going by airship, Victor?' Samsonov asked.

'Yes, sir. The Legion paid for round trip fare for one, and one way for another, plus a generous allowance for shipping personal goods.'

'Well,' said Pavlov, 'if the rumors of how much Carrera succeeded in squeezing from the Santanderns are even half correct, the Legion is pretty flush, right about now.'

Chapayev smiled. 'Certainly the combat bonus the duque paid the regiment hasn't hurt.'

Saint Nicholasburg, Volga, Terra Nova

On Old Earth, the Russians had always been a deeply spiritual people. Not even three generations of the vilest forms of Marxism had ever been able to erase that. Moreover, with Marxism fallen, at the end of the 20th century, the major churches of old Russia had surged once again to prominence, their adherents knowing that, after all, God had not deserted His people.

The people God may not have deserted, but it certainly came to seem that he had turned his face from the Earth. Thus, when Christianity had become once again a suspect religion, and its enemies had introduced various forms of persecution, the faithful of old Russian had begun to leave for the new world.

Other colonies, in the early days of human settlement of the planet, might call their cities 'First Landing' or 'Drop Dead' or any of myriad other names. But for the faithful Russ, fleeing religious persecution, there could be no doubt of the name of their first city on Terra Nova. It had to be named for their patron saint, Nicholas of Myra.

As the Russians had said, 'Even if God dies we'll still have Saint Nicholas.'

* * *

'. . . and,' said the speaker overhead, 'for those of you on the port side, that's Saint Nicholasburg coming up ahead. For those on the starboard, if you look carefully you can see the glow where the Pripyat Nuclear Power Station fulfilled the Red Tsar's Five Year Plan for energy generation in four nanoseconds.'

Chapayev had tuned out the purser's voice—at least he thought it was the purser's—as he ticked off the sights to be seen on various legs of the aerial journey. For the neon-glowing Saint Nicholasburg, however, he paid attention, closing his wallet and shutting away the picture of his wife that he'd kept with him through the years of separation.

It was a lovely portrait, but not one for general viewing. For one thing, Veronica, the wife, was half, or rather more than that, nude, her breasts—delicate things—on full display. Her skin was creamy and smooth. Cornflower blue eyes stared out, innocent as a new baby's, under midnight bangs that turned into a long cascade down her otherwise bare back. Even after several years of marriage, the image still sent a shiver of desire up the young Volgan's back.

In a way it was better to put away the picture and stare at the town, below. For one thing, Chapayev was reasonably sure of the town. Of the woman in the portrait he was much less so.

* * *

The reasons that airships on Old Earth had never, so to speak, taken off was that, despite the advantages in fuel consumption and cargo load, they'd required excessively large and expensive ground crews and been terribly vulnerable to sudden and severe changes in weather, especially when near the ground. On Terra Nova, conversely, which had much less axial tilt to it than had the world of Man's birth, the weather was more predictable and, generally speaking, less severe. The better weather had made airships a better bet, long enough, for systems to be developed to reduce the size of the ground crews. The airships had never quite eliminated the need for fixed wing, heavier than air, craft, but they had proven a more useful supplement to those on New Earth than on Old.

They were still far too vulnerable in war to be used for anything but lifting heavy loads, and then only to and from very safe areas, and along safe routes. In practice, the ACCS was not an exception to these rules.

* * *

Chapayev barely noticed the shudder and the metallic clangs as the airship let go half a dozen cables. No more did he notice as the cables were grasped by claws mounted on half a dozen heavy trucks. Even when the trucks carried the cables off to be affixed to the mules—heavy and heavy-duty railway cars—that would take the ship in to the landing pit and hold it steady while the ship winched itself down, the tribune paid no mind.

With the terminal building rising next to his ship, Chapayev laughed at himself. If I wasn't afraid in Santander, why am I so afraid now?

* * *