foolishly destroyed the earth. So be it, Bhumi Bhap decided. Everything had been prepared, was ready. He would lead the way to destruction.
This world was no longer to be denied the death it craved. Let it perish. Let the species that had defiled and despoiled it drown and choke in its own excreta. Bhumi Bhap rejoiced in the certain knowledge of what was to be. His own mortal body, the self that was 'I,' meant nothing to him. The uncountable atoms of which he was made would continue to exist, to circulate throughout the universe, and would eventually, inevitably, form part of another consciousness. From somewhere out there, dispersed across a billion light-years of space, he would witness the end of this clod of mud and still be there, eternally cognizant, waiting and watching for the slow cycle of rebirth to begin.
The chanting died away as he appeared in the doorway.
He moved slowly through their ranks with his crippled, lurching walk. In the light of the lamps and candles the pits of his eyes were cavernously hollow and black. His sticklike figure in the sagging robes seemed to lack substance, seemed almost, despite the lurching gait, to drift in dreadful incorporeal silence along the main gallery.
Bhumi Bhap gave no word or sign. They followed after him, twelve of his youngest and most devout disciples, descending to the lowest level where, in these chambers, resided the machines that provided power for the mountain, feeding off the lake of oil beneath their feet.
When they were gathered, silent and kneeling, Bhumi Bhap spoke softly of the Optimum Orbital Trajectory, reminding them that their lives were dedicated to its attainment. Very few were so fortunate in having been given a purpose; fewer still in having the opportunity to fulfill it.
'We do not fear death,' he told them, 'because for us death has no meaning. It is merely a transition, exchanging one form of existence for another. The stuff of your being cannot be destroyed, only that which is the selfish ego, and which anyway you are taught, as adepts of the Faith, to denounce.
'You have no self, no ego, no identity, and therefore death has no sting. It is the gateway to everlasting life.'
A gateway they were about to enter.
These twelve knew what was expected of them. They had been specially chosen to undertake the final sacred ritual, a ritual unknown to the thousands above in the chambers and galleries and cells who went on with their lives in blissful ignorance.
Bhumi Bhap gave the instruction, with his blessing, and each of the twelve took hold of one of the cast-iron wheels that controlled the stopcocks. The greased wheels moved easily. Fumes began to seep into the chamber, forced upward by the immense pressure of oil below. The candles guttered in the heavy, dense, choking vapor. Two went out. A third died. Then the vapor ignited and a fire storm billowed upward through the shafts of the mountain like a gigantic blowtorch.
Fed by the lake, the fire raced along passageways devouring everything in its path. It burst through doors into the tiny cells where people were sleeping, talking, meditating, and consumed every living thing in a single scorching blast.
Within a few minutes the temperature inside the mountain had reached several hundred degrees. Iron girders supporting the tunnels and chambers turned white and writhed in the heat. The hewn walls ran with molten threads of silver and copper. And still the fire raged on, ever more fiercely, feeding greedily on the reservoir of oil.
The temperature continued to rise. Rocks became incandescent. Cracks appeared and split into jagged fissures. The fire surged onward and upward and broke through the mountain's crust, blasting the rocky mantle high into the storm-darkened sky and spouting angry flames and smoke from a hundred pores.
Two miles away, in the leading truck laboring up the crooked trail, it seemed to Major Coogan that a volcano was erupting. The ground shook and rocks showered down from out of the sky. He stared blank-eyed through the windshield at the mountain with its halo of orange fire and curling black smoke outlined against the massing storm clouds.
It was an image of the end of the world, an image he would never forget till his dying day.
IV
2013
21
In the opinion of Col. Gavril Burdovsky, the woman was perfect.
He had chosen her himself and therefore had cause to feel smug and self-congratulatory. He was also aroused by her--one of the reasons he thought her ideally suited for the assignment. Unfortunately this left him with a gnawing ache that could only be assuaged by Natassya Pavlovitch's smooth firm body. The fact that he was an obese, balding man of fifty-seven and she a beautiful young woman of twenty-four seemed to him a trivial incompatibility.
'I trust you have everything you require, comrade,' said the colonel, sitting on the corner of the desk and swinging a short bulbous leg in an attempt to make this final briefing casual, friendly--and dare he hope? --intimate. 'The black silk underwear is satisfactory?' There was a slight tremor in his voice at the mention of this item.
'Yes. Thank you, sir.' Natassya Pavlovitch was brisk, impersonal. She had been too well trained to display emotion in front of a superior.
Colonel Burdovsky nodded and stroked his pencil-thin moustache. The moustache was real and yet looked artificial, as if a strip of black paper had been stuck to his broad waxlike face with its hanging jowls.
'Good. Excellent,' murmured Burdovsky, for a moment lost in wistful contemplation of the pale curve of her neck at the point where it disappeared into the enticing shadow beneath the collar of her dark-gray woolen suit. That the rest of her should be so soft and warm and pliable . . .
He cleared his throat and said gruffly, 'You have all you need. Excellent.'
'I do have a question, if the colonel will permit.'
'Yes, of course.' Burdovsky slid down awkwardly from the desk, straightened the tail flap of his uniform with an abrupt tug, and strolled behind her chair, hands clasped over his plump buttocks.
Natassya looked straight ahead, speaking to the desk. 'Do we have 110 intelligence at all, Colonel, regarding Zone Four? The reports give no indication whatsoever of the research being carried out there.'
'There are a number of speculations but nothing definite. The Americans thought they were being very clever in allowing our scientific people to inspect their facilities at Starbuck Island. Of course it was to satisfy us that the research was solely in connection with the Final Solution program.'
He came to stand close behind her, breathing in her perfume.
'We are not that stupid, Comrade Pavlovitch. It was noted that parts of the island were off-limits to our inspection teams, and therefore it was necessary to instigate this series of operations.' Burdovsky unclasped his hands and placed them lightly on her shoulders, experiencing a sensation that was at once stimulating and extremely uncomfortable in his tight uniform. 'From the reports we know that the operatives who preceded you met with considerable difficulty in obtaining intelligence on Zone Four, which has led, as you know, to this new type of approach . . .' His stubby fingers touched her neck. Her skin felt cool and yet his fingertips burned. 'And to you, comrade, being personally selected by me to undertake the assignment.'
'I understand that, Colonel.' Her voice was totally without expression. She might have been carved out of soap. His fingers roamed lower, feeling for the hollows formed by her collarbones. Natassya said crisply, 'The reports are quite explicit in having discovered nothing at all about the activities in Zone Four.'
Explicit they were, thought Burdovsky, with one crucial omission: that of the three operatives sent to Starbuck as members of the scientific inspection teams, two had failed to return. Their reports had been culled from notes and tapes left with their colleagues. As for the third operative, who had returned, he had no information to add to the sketchy findings thus far.
'We are satisfied that the Americans have cooperated fully in their research into various techniques of mass extermination.' Burdovsky's fingers strayed down inside the woolen collar. 'But Starbuck Island is being used for some other purpose, which Advanced Strategic Projects do not wish to reveal.' He could feel the gentle slopes of her breasts, rising and falling with each steady breath. 'And it is vital that we learn what that is. Absolutely vital.' His voice sank to a throaty whisper. 'I know you will not fail me, comrade.'
In a calm, unhurried movement Natassya Pavlovitch removed his chubby paws and rose to her feet, towering statuesquely above him like an Amazon confronting a Pygmy. 'You may have every confidence that I will do my
