thunder. The weather had never intruded this deeply into the Center for the Study of Technical Parapsychology. She had waited till it passed.
Now she tried to clear her mind as she sat, tried to relax, used her techniques for concentrating on nothing. She hummed the single note she had chosen and paid attention only to it. After seconds or minutes, she didn’t know which, she let her eyes fall slowly to the cup. It was nothing. Some object. She continued the hum. A circle of nothingness surrounded her hum, and deep within she let the power unto itself reach out to the cup. Something was happening. She tried not to let thought enter her being. The cup. She gently allowed the power to engulf the cup almost lovingly. She waited, distanced, for the power to move the cup. It would not take much of a move, just a distinct small motion, an indisputable motion.
And then her meditation broke, as she knew it would. Thoughts, fears, reality crept in, and the murder of the day before danced before her. Sergei Bolskanov at the table in his laboratory in his white laboratory coat. He had been listening to a CD, Mozart perhaps? He had turned. There was no look of horror or surprise on his face. There was a look, perhaps, of pleasant surprise. And then the hammer came out and fell hard upon Bolskanov, the claw side digging into his beard just below his lips. Bolskanov tried to rise, ward off the attack, but he was bewildered, dazed. The second blow dug deeply into his forehead. He yelped like a dog and tumbled back. No longer able to protect himself, blood spurting, he ripped off his glasses and flung them into the corner of the room.
The blows continued. Four, five, six, until there was no doubt that the heap of blood and flesh on the floor was no longer alive. The hammer was wiped on the bottom of the dead man’s blood-spattered white smock, dropped on the floor, and kicked across the room to rest next to the pair of glasses.
And so, she asked herself, reaching out for the cup of tea, how can one perform an experiment with such thoughts, such memories, such images?
Her hands trembled but only slightly as she lifted the cup and took a sip. Tepid but with its flavor still intact.
The police were coming back. It would be a long day.
Chapter Two
“Tsimion Vladovka.”
A pad was open before him. His pencil was in his right hand, his alien leg stretched out under the table at a slight angle so it would not touch Yaklovev’s foot.
“Tsimion Vladovka,” the Yak repeated, leaning over, head cocked at a slight angle, hands folded on the table as he looked at Porfiry Petrovich for a reaction. “Do you know him? Does the name mean anything to you?”
“It is vaguely familiar.”
“He was a cosmonaut,” said the Yak evenly.
Rostnikov nodded, his eyes on the director, waiting for the point to come as it inevitably must. “There have been many cosmonauts,” he said.
“Many,” agreed the Yak.
Rostnikov reached for the mug of coffee before him and drank slowly, waiting.
“You remember the
Rostnikov did not particularly remember.
“There was a problem during that particular flight.”
Rostnikov said nothing.
“Yes,” the Yak went on. “There were always problems. But this one prompted an early change of crews and the rather unceremonious return to earth of the three cosmonauts on board. Vladovka was one of the cosmonauts. He is missing. National Security has been unable to find him. The Space security force has been unable to find him. Military Intelligence has been unable to find him. We have been given the task of finding him.”
Rostnikov nodded, let his eyes take in the thick file that lay behind the protective wall of the director’s arms, and then began to draw without thinking of what he might be drawing.
“And? …”
“You personally are to find him,” said the Yak.
“Question. Why does he have to be found?”
“He has information about our space program which might embarrass us, which should not be allowed to fall into the hands of other nations. He may have been kidnapped. He may have defected. He may have committed suicide somewhere, or he may simply have gone mad and run away.”
“And when I find him?”
“If he is alive, you are to inform me of where he is, be sure he remains there, and leave the rest to me, but if you believe he is trying to leave the country, take him into custody and bring him to me. It is better for you, better for me, if you do not ask him about the information he has. And it is essential that if he tries to tell you, you do not allow him to do so. There are secrets it is not safe to keep.”
The Yak unclenched his fingers, opened his arms, and slid the folder over to Rostnikov. Rostnikov drew it in past his coffee cup, opened it, and found the photograph of a very serious dark man with the face of a peasant, a face not unlike his own.
“I would like to work with Iosef on this,” Rostnikov said, putting down his pencil.
“The choice, as always, is yours, Chief Inspector,” said the Yak. “You wish to work with your son. Do so. As I say, the choice is yours. You have any questions?”
“One,” said Rostnikov, pocketing his pencil. “Why did you ask me if I knew Tsimion Vladovka rather than if I had heard of him?”
The Yak smiled. It wasn’t a very good smile. It was touched with the suggestion of a cunning secret knowledge, to make those who witnessed it slightly uncomfortable.
“In the last transmission before the rescue, Vladovka mentioned your name.”
“In what context?” asked Rostnikov, pausing as his hand reached over to close the notebook.
“There was no context. He simply said ‘Porfiry Petrovich Rostov.’”
“And was he not asked of this when he returned to earth?”
“I do not know. The fact that he mentioned your name is in the file before you. The reason he did so is not in the file you have before you.”
“Then I will begin by finding someone to whom I can ask the question,” said Rostnikov, rising far less awkwardly than he had when he first acquired his unresponsive leg. “He has a wife, children?”
“Wife died several months ago, cancer. No children. He has a father, brother, somewhere on a farm near St. Petersburg. He hasn’t seen them in years.”
“Then …”
“I have arranged for you to meet with the director of security at Star City. His name is Mikhail Stoltz. He spoke to the cosmonauts when they were brought back to earth.”
Rostnikov was up now. The Yak joined him.
“He had friends?”
“Vladovka is known to be a rather solitary man.”
“The other two cosmonauts on that flight?”
“One, Rodya Baklunov, died during an experiment on earth. He was a biologist. The other, Vladimir Kinotskin, works at Star City. It’s all in the file before you.”
“Final question,” said Rostnikov, tucking his notebook into his pocket and picking up the mug. “Why has it taken a year before anyone contacted me about this mention of my name in outer space?”
“That,” said the Yak, “you will have to ask Stoltz. And remember, do not question Vladovka when you find him. Simply find him and report his whereabouts to me.”
“And,” Rostnikov added, “I am to see to it that he remains where I locate him, or bring him to you if I believe he will run.”
“Precisely.”
