said something quickly, and nodded at Galich.
'My God. He says the man who killed the other man is the one with the black bag, the white shaman,' said Galich.
The shaman slowly let Mirasnikov's head back onto the thin, moist pillow. Then he stood, looked around the room, saw what he wanted and moved to a shelf against the wall where he pulled down a jar half full of dry beans. He emptied the beans into a bowl on a lower shelf and brought the jar back to the bed where he began to fill it with the remainder of the liquid he had mixed. While he poured, he spoke.
'He says the old woman should give him a full glass every water cycle which means, approximately, three times a day till it runs out.'
'Tell him we will see that it is done,' said Rostnikov.
The information was passed on and the shaman reached into his sack and pulled out a small, very old red leather bag. With his ginseng root in one hand and the sack in the other, he walked up to Rostnikov.
'What does he want?' Rostnikov asked looking into the shaman's unemotional face.
'I don't know,' said Galich.
Kurmu held up the ginseng root and nodded at it. Rostnikov reached up to touch the root and found it warm, almost hot to the touch.
'Hot?' asked Galich. 'Not surprising. Hot ginseng roots have been reported for hundreds of years. Some think it's some kind of natural radiation.'
Kurmu spoke softly, directly to Rostnikov, holding out the small sack.
'I didn't hear him,' said Galich.
Rostnikov took the small sack, which contained something light that shifted like sand or grain, and pointed at Mirasnikov. The shaman shook his head no and pointed west. West, Rostnikov thought, toward Moscow. Porfiry Petrovich placed the red sack in his pocket and nodded his thanks. Kurmu smiled and looked over at Galich.
'So, Inspector,' Galich said with a massive yawn. 'Your killer appears to be Dr. Samsonov, which should come as no great surprise. You've seen his temper. Rutkin must have come to a conclusion about his daughter's death that he found unacceptable. Who knows? Samsonov certainly was bitter at Rutkin, at the entire Soviet system. In that, as you know, I am not in great disagreement.'
Kurmu turned, moved back to the bed and began packing.
'And my only witness is an Evenk shaman who speaks no English and doesn't believe in time. What does he think about space?'
Galich smiled and said something to the shaman who was bending over his sack, back turned when he answered.
'It and time are endless, he said,' Galich translated. 'And there is no point to thinking about it.'
The Evenk finished his packing, threw the sack over his shoulder and turned to Rostnikov, pointing at the jar of dark liquid. Rostnikov nodded and Kurmu headed for the door.
'I hope you're not going to stop him from going,' said Galich. 'I certainly won't help you.'
'I'm not going to stop him,' said Rostnikov. 'I'm going to have Emil Karpo arrest Dr. Samsonov. I'm going to tell Mirasnikov's wife to give him the brew in that jar, and I am going to get a few hours of sleep.'
At the door, Kurmu said something and left without looking back.
'What did he say?' asked Rostnikov.
'He said that we should tell Mirasnikov when he awakens that there is no longer a need for demons, that there has been no need for demons since the whites came across the mountains and brought their own demons within their soul.'
'Religious philosophy,' said Rostnikov. -.
'Of the highest order,' Galich agreed. 'Of the very highest order.'
When Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov awakened from his few hours of sleep, he was very hungry. He had slept on top of his bedding in his clothes, taking off only his boots. And now he awoke ravenous. He massaged his left leg into feeling, considered taking one of the pills Samsonov had given him and made his way past Karpo and Sokolov's doors and down the stairs.
It was in the dining room, after he had gathered a bowl of cold soup and a half loaf of bread, that he found himself facing a quivering Sokolov who stood in his unbuttoned coat, his fingers clutching his hat. Sokolov's mustache was drooping slightly on the left side.
'Comrade Inspector,' Sokolov said, his voice barely under control. 'I have been informed that you have asked the commander of the weather station to allow no phone calls out of Tumsk.'
'You understand correctly, Comrade,' Rostnikov said putting his food on the table and sitting. 'Join me.'
'I'm not hungry,' Sokolov said. 'I am angry. You have arrested Samsonov, announced a public hearing this afternoon, informed me of nothing. Your actions are not those of an investigator but of a jailer.'
'A situation not unheard of in Siberia,' said Rostnikov dipping a torn piece of bread into the soup and taking a bite. The potato soup wasn't as good as Sarah's but it was better than just acceptable. The thought of Sarah brought him abruptly back to the small dining room in Siberia.
'You do not have the authority,' Sokolov hissed. 'I wish to call the Procurator General's Office in Moscow. I doubt that the government wishes to arrest Samsonov. I was under the impression that we were sent here to placate Samsonov, reassure him about his daughter's death before he left the country. You are threatening… threatening glasnost.' Rostnikov paused in his eating to look at Sokolov.
'Glasnost?' 'Better relations with the West,' Sokolov said impatiently.
'A very good idea,' Rostnikov agreed, putting the bread aside to get at the soup with the spoon he had brought from the kitchen.
'Then let Samsonov go,' shouted Sokolov.
'Even if he killed Commissar Rutkin?' asked Rostnikov.
'You have no evidence that he committed the murder.'
'A man named Kurmu is reported to have seen the murder and identified Samsonov as the killer,' said Rostnikov.
'Kurmu. Kurmu. Galich says he's a native medicine man,' Sokolov shouted, pounding on the table. The bowl in front of Rostnikov rattled and a bit of soup splattered onto the table.
'Comrade, I was under the impression that you were here to observe my investigative methods, not to ruin my I
humble meals. And I thought I was here to find the person responsible for the death of Commissar Rutkin.'
'It is not that simple,' Sokolov said, making a fist for another assault on the table.
His hand started down but was intercepted by Rostnikov's fingers which caught the fist as if it were a falling ball. Rostnikov had a spoon full of soup in his other hand. Not a drop spilled.
'No,' said Rostnikov releasing Sokolov's fist. The investigator for the Deputy Procurator staggered back holding his aching fist.
'You attacked me,' he shouted. 'As God is my witness, you attacked me,'
'God is not considered a very reliable witness in a Soviet court, Comrade,' said Rostnikov. 'And I'm rather surprised that you, an officer of the court, would invoke the name of God. I might have to put that in my reports, though it is an invocation I encounter with surprising frequency.'
With a combination of fear and face-saving front, Sokolov pulled himself together as he backed toward the door and muttered that things would be quite different when they returned to Moscow.
'Let us hope so, Comrade,' Rostnikov said, finishing the last of his soup by scouring his bowl with the remainder of the loaf of bread. 'I'll be over at the People's Hall for the hearing as soon as I get my boots on.'
The killer paced back and forth across the room glancing from time to time at the window, trying to decide what to do. The hearing had been a disaster.
The People's Hall had been set up by Famfanoff complete with chairs and a table behind which Rostnikov could sit like a judge conducting the hearing. To the left of Rostnikov the man from the Procurator's Office, Sokolov, sat brooding throughout, his hands folded except when his left hand moved up to stroke his mustache. To the right of Rostnikov sat the ghost, the pale unblinking creature with the straight back who examined everyone, seemed to register everything. They looked like a comic version of the jury in the Pudovkin movie, Mother. Famfanoff had
