Fall of a Cosmonaut

information.”

“So that you can construct a series of possible scenarios, imagine the murder?” she asked.

“I have no imagination,” Karpo said flatly. “I collect and analyze information. If the situation requires what you call imagination, I consult with my superior, Chief Inspector Rostnikov, who has a large imagination. Now, I would like to see the sign-in book and interview everyone who was here at the time of the murder. My colleague will then interview everyone in the employ of this facility who was not present.”

“Certainly,” she said. “Are we finished in here?”

“Yes,” said Karpo. “The room next to this one, the one in which we can look through that mirror into this one.”

Nadia Spectorski nodded, opened the door, and led them to the adjacent room.

“Why were you chosen to take us on this tour?” Karpo said. “You are not the director or even the assistant director.”

“I volunteered,” she said. “Sergei was not a well-liked man. To call him gruff, unpleasant, and secretive would be to minimize the extent of his clear and open dislike of the human race. I was probably the only one who had anything like a relationship with him, and that was simply cordial. Even Sergei needed someone with whom to discuss his ideas.”

“He was not married,” Karpo said.

“He was not.”

Nadia Spectorski entered the second room but did not turn on the light. Through the mirrored window, they could see the scene of the murder. Nadia had intentionally left the light on. To one side of the mirror, on a tripod, stood a video camera.

“I should like to see the last tapes he made,” Karpo said.

“That is no problem,” she said. “However, the timing mechanism indicates that nothing has been recorded for several days.”

“Still, I wish to see it.”

“Easy enough,” she said, opening the camera with a push of a button. “Here.”

She handed the tape to Karpo, who placed it in his pocket. “And now I should like to talk to the others,” he said.

“Before we do that,” she said, leading the way back into the corridor and closing the door, “would you indulge me in a quick and simple experiment? It will take only a few minutes of your time. I have never worked with policemen before.”

“Experiment?” asked Karpo.

“A deck of cards. It is something I do. Right down the corridor. I am being cooperative and will continue to be so. I could make your investigation difficult, though I have no reason to do so. Indulge me. It is something I do with all visitors.”

Zelach shifted uneasily and considered speaking but decided against it.

“Ten minutes,” said Karpo.

“And since I am obviously a suspect because I was here, you can also observe how I work and see if it yields anything about me you might be able to use.”

Two minutes later they were in a room not much different from the laboratory of Sergei Bolskanov. This room was smaller, with no mirror. It was completely empty except for the table with four chairs. Nadia Spectorski sat on one side, the detectives on the other, facing her. She held something small in her lap and with her free hand passed a deck of cards to Emil Karpo. As they proceeded, she took notes on a lined pad on the table to her right.

There were three experiments with each man, each time with a fresh deck, six decks all moved to the side after each experiment. First they were asked to concentrate on the deck before them and tell what the top card would be. They were then to turn over the card. When that experiment was finished with each man, Nadia repeated it, only she turned over the cards. Finally, with yet another deck, she picked up each card, looked at it, and asked each man what card she was looking at.

“Are we now finished?” asked Karpo.

“We are,” she said, standing.

“And?”

“You were well within the law of averages,” she said, looking at her notes. “No significant sign of telepathy or projection. You,” she added, looking at Zelach, who blinked nervously behind his glasses. “You got nothing right. You are phenomenally below the law of averages. It is extremely rare for someone to get not a single correct card in all three experiments. I’ll have to recheck the data.”

“I’m sorry,” said Zelach.

“No,” she said. “It is interesting.”

“You do not seem to be particularly disturbed by the murder of your colleague,” said Karpo suddenly.

“We each carry our grief in our own way, Inspector,” she said. “As you well know, as you have done.”

There were few times in his life when Karpo was unprepared for an eventuality. This was one of those times. Karpo’s loss had been enormous. The only woman who had gotten through to him emotionally-no, the only person who had gotten through to him-had been Mathilde Verson, the redheaded part- time prostitute who had been full of life, and who had seen something in the pale specter that challenged her. Mathilde had been killed in the crossfire of two Mafias while she drank coffee in a bar on a bright summer day.

“What do you know of me?” he asked.

“Little,” she said with a shrug. “But what you should know of me and would probably learn from the director is that I entered this line of research because I have psychic insights. I have, as they said in past centuries, visions. I cannot control them. I usually don’t know what they mean or what I am even seeing, but they are there. I am, in fact, in addition to my own research, a primary research source for Boris Adamovskovich. Who was also here during the murder.”

Zelach was looking from Karpo to Nadia Spectorski. He felt a tension but wasn’t at all sure what it was all about.

“It was an intuitive observation,” Karpo said.

“She had red hair,” responded Nadia Spectorski.

“You have done research on me in the last day,” Karpo said.

“No,” she answered. “I have not, but my job is not to convince you of anything. I have encountered hundreds of nonbelievers in psi phenomena. I have learned not to argue with them. Let’s go see the director now. I know he is expecting you.”

“Psychic knowledge?” asked Karpo as they all rose.

“No, you are scheduled.”

“Shall we argue now?” asked Elena.

They were seated at one of the hundreds of new outdoor cafes and coffee shops that had sprung up in the new Moscow. This one was on Gorky Street. The coffee was exceptional and the owner never charged the police, which was good for Elena and Sasha because they could not have otherwise afforded the two cups and the pastry they had been served. Elena had pushed the sweet ahlahd’yee s yahblahkalmee, “apple puff,” across the table to Sasha. Elena was watching her weight. She was about to be married, maybe, and she did not want to go the way of her mother and her Aunt Anna, who were decidedly overweight. Elena, as men had told her, was well toned and amply plump.

“No argument,” said Sasha, picking up the sweet and taking a bite. He looked at the people at the other tables and smiled.

“I will go to the exchange. I will pose as Yuri’s niece.”

“As you wish,” said Sasha. “You are sure you don’t want a small piece of this?”

“A small piece,” she said with a sigh as he pushed it back toward her. “You’ve changed, Sasha Tkach. Your wife takes your children and leaves you. Your mother who drives you mad moves in with you. And instead of being miserable, you’ve grown more cooperative. If one did not know, one might say you are content.”

“And this bothers you?” he asked.

“No, but it puzzles me. Are you happy that Maya left?”