would try to contact Boris secretly? Or that Boris knew something already? If so, they were in for a vast disappointment, for the one question Boris continued to ask himself, all these months later, was what exactly had happened at Mirnyy Station? Peter had been engaged on climatic field research, graded Red A, which was top secret, and Boris knew for a fact that the KGB were keeping a vigilant eye on the project for fear that the Americans might find out what was going on.
Yet Peter had vanished without trace somewhere in the wastes of Antarctica. Was he dead, or had he really defected? And if the KGB didn't know, how in high heaven did they expect him to provide the answer?
'Slippers,' said his wife from the doorway, making him blink. 'Shall I pack your slippers?'
Boris shook his head. 'No!' He gave her a pained look. 'Nina, dear, I can't wear slippers to the conference. It isn't a rest home for retired scientists.'
She shrugged, gestured to heaven, and went back into the bedroom.
Boris realized he was still holding the memorandum and ran his eye over it. subject: project arrow, which in plain language meant the Yenisei and Ob rivers diversion scheme. Boris was weary of the endless discussion, as well as having serious doubts about it. Diverting these two rivers, which at present poured 85,000 cubic meters of fresh water every second into the Arctic Ocean, would bring about a significant change in the salinity of the seawater, possibly leading to the gradual melting of the polar ice. Once started, a positive feedback would begin to operate and the process would accelerate until in ten or fifteen years time . . .
Who could say? Conceivably a catastrophe of global proportions-- not that the authorities seemed concerned one way or the other. Besides, this was a political, not a scientific, decision. The party chose only to listen to those who raised no objection to the scheme, and not being one of them, Boris Stanovnik found himself out of favor, his section whittled down to next to nothing, and his work spied on by a little sewer rat with bad breath who bit his nails.
When Nina had finished packing she prepared a meal, which they ate in the living room, this being the warmest place.
'Will Theo Detrick be there?' she asked him as they were finishing off their meal with
'I've no idea,' Boris replied. 'It must be five years since I heard from him. He was in the Pacific at the time, still working on his precious diatoms.'
'Such a pity you lost touch,' Nina said sadly. 'We could have visited him again; those six months in America were wonderful.'
'Things have changed in fifteen years,' Boris said grimly.
'Well, of course, dear . . .'
'I meant here.'
'Oh,' Nina said quietly. 'Yes.'
In those days, Boris reflected, he had been permitted to take his wife with him. Today he was allowed out of the country only if Nina stayed behind. In that sense he was fortunate: Scientists without close family ties never got the chance to travel abroad because the risk of defection was considered too great.
No doubt Malankov, he thought sardonically, had kept his masters fully informed as to Boris Stanovnik's political loyalty and the extent to which he could be trusted. Not that he had ever seriously considered defecting. America was a marvelous place to visit but he wouldn't want to live there.
Had his suspicions required confirmation, they received the official heavy stamp the next day at the airport. He was taken aside into a private interview room by two anonymous officials in drab suits, who examined every item in his luggage, paying especially close attention to the harmless contents of his briefcase.
'Where are you staying in Geneva?' asked one of them, a ferret-faced young man who despite his shabby appearance wore an expensive-looking digital wristwatch. He was out of the same mold as Malankov, one of an endless and identical series dedicated to serving the twin deities of party and state.
'Do you mean to say you don't know?' Boris inquired with mock surprise. But neither man, it transpired, had been issued with a sense of humor. Boris altered his expression and told them what they wanted to know in a sober voice. Play the game, he cautioned himself. Everything you say, no matter how frivolous, will be taken seriously and noted down in the file.
'You're to make a speech in Geneva,' the young man said, sorting through the contents of the briefcase spread out on the table. 'I don't see the text. Where is it?'
Boris pointed to a large leather-bound ring binder, a present from Nina. 'Those are my notes. I don't prepare a set speech. I prefer to speak spontaneously,' he said.
'But to the point, I trust,' said the other man with a faint, cold smile. 'Certain people will be listening and every word will be recorded.'
'I'm flattered,' Boris said with a perfectly straight face. What were they expecting him to do--denounce the Kremlin in public? 'May I put my things away now?'
The young man straightened up and thrust his hands into the crumpled pockets of his suit, watching him without expression. 'Have a pleasant stay in Geneva,' he said, 'and don't forget to bring back a present for your wife.'
From his seat one over from the window Theo Detrick looked out at the huge streaked cowling of the inboard 22,000-horsepower engine of the Pan Am Boeing. The engine was slightly ahead of him, so he couldn't see the gaping turbofan mouth gulping in rarefied air 35,000 feet above Greenland. But he knew that every minute of the flight this one engine consumed thirty-four pounds of oxygen, which multiplied by four meant that the aircraft used up thirty-nine tons of oxygen every time it crossed the Atlantic.
He couldn't begin to guess at the number of flights on the transatlantic route. And God knew how many other private, commercial, and military aircraft were flying every hour of the day and night. Add them all together and it amounted to a global oxygen loss of millions of tons every twenty-four hours.
And that in itself was only a tiny proportion. Man was greedily consuming more and more oxygen in his industrial plants, his power stations, his home furnaces, his automobiles--every form of combustion destroying oxygen in quantities that the natural cycle of the biosphere wasn't designed to cope with, nor was able to replenish.
There was also--and this a thought never far away from Theo's mind these days--the world population of 5.5 billion human beings, each one needing seven pounds of oxygen every day to stay alive. By the year 2000 there would be an estimated 6.25 billion people inhabiting the planet; the question was, would there be any air left for them to breathe?
And those cretins in Washington couldn't see--refused to admit?-- there was a problem. Were they mad, or was he?
In the window seat next to his, Cheryl leaned forward, blocking his view. Resisting the impulse to touch her hand, Theo asked instead, 'You're not regretting this, are you?'
'Not so far,' Cheryl answered briefly. She spared him a cool glance and turned away, a shaft of pure sunlight gilding her razored cap of hair and snub-nosed profile.
He had no right to expect anything more. All those years of absence and neglect couldn't be simply wiped away by the promise of a week in Geneva. He remembered his resolve, not to rush her into a kind of false intimacy that would embarrass them both. No, if any real affection was still there it would have to evolve naturally, unforced, at its own pace. It came as a shock that for years he had experienced not a twinge of guilt, and now to discover that it was his strongest emotion.
He said diffidently, 'This trip will be useful to you. You'll meet other marine biologists and people with different views, be able to get involved in seminars and debates--' Then hastily reconsidered and thought it wise to add, 'Of course, for you, I want it mainly to be a vacation.'
Still not looking at him, Cheryl said, 'I thought maybe you'd invited me along to take notes. Work comes first, doesn't it? And second. And third.' *
'Yes, my work is important to me,' Theo acknowledged soberly. 'But it is also important to me that you are interested--that you believe in what I am doing--that is, I hope--' He was fumbling for the words and making a mess of it. He looked down at his hands, gnarled mahogany. 'I wanted you to be with me because . . .'
The truth was he didn't know himself what the reason was. He suspected it had something to do with a need to find understanding. Sympathy. Affection? One person in all the world who might believe in him. Strength and belief failed and withered with the passing years, while the popular myth was that they grew strong, became deep-
