It was simple.
He even knew where to look for the plans for the device. Part of Mt.
Lincoln held a filing room containing duplicates of the most highly classified war-related documents, for the reference of the president. It was there that this most classified of documents would be kept— there that he would find his answer.
Rozhdestvenskiy felt the motorized rowboat bump
against the far shore of the lake. The ride was over. . . .
Rozhdestvenskiy felt like a graverobber, like an unscrupulous archeologist invading the tomb of a once- great Pharaoh—and perhaps it was a Pharaoh's tomb, the tomb of the last real president of the United States. He discounted this Chambers; he had taken the power, but by all reports from the late quisling Randan Soames, Chambers had taken the power reluctantly.
The power had not been given him as it was to other American presidents—such a strange custom, Rozhdestvenskiy thought as he shone the light of the torch across the gaping mouth of a partially decomposed U.S.
Marine. To hold free elections and trust the mass of the people to select a leader who was accountable to them.
'No wonder they didn't prevail,' Rozhdestvenskiy murmured.
Voskavich asked, 'Comrade Colonel?'
'The Americans—their absurd ideas of doing things— it accounts handily for their failure.' The thought crossed his mind, though, that Soviet troops were now retreading to regroup for the fight against American Resistance on the eastern seaboard. Their failure had not yet been completely recognized.
Voskavich stepped across the body of the dead Marine, saying, 'These men were trapped here—perhaps locked inside.'
'That is not the American way. They were probably happy to have died in the service of their country. Give the devihhis due, Voskavich.'
Rozhdestvenskiy picked his way over the bodies, seeing ahead of him at the end of a long corridor what he thought was the room.
It recalled the Egyptian tomb analogy to his mind— fhese Marines, priests of the order, guardians of the Pharaoh, who was their high priest. The priests of De
mocracy—an outmoded religion, Rozhdestvenskiy thought. But he did not smile. Despite himself, he was saddened to see the death masks o[ these priests, the anguish, the sorrow, the shock. He wondered what loved ones they had left behind, what dreams they had held dear. They were young, all of them, these priests.
He stopped before the 'temple.' There was a combination lock on the vault like doors, 'I shall need experts in this sort of thing—immediately,'
Rozhdestvenskiy ordered.
'Yes, Comrade Colonel,' Voskavich answered, starting to leave. The younger man paused, turning to Rozhdestvenskiy. 'Should I leave you here, Comrade?'
'The dead cannot hurt me,' Rozhdestvenskiy told him. Voskavich left then and Rozhdestvenskiy stood amid the bodies, by the sealed doors, studying the faces.
In not one of them could he find disillusionment. They had died for something important—what was it? Rozhdestvenskiy wondered. . . .
A sergeant, a corporal and two lieutenants had labored over the locking system ofthedoors,formorelhanahalf hour, and now Voskavich turned to him, saying, 'Comrade Colonel—they are ready.'
Rozhdestvenskiy only nodded, then touched his black-gloved right hand to the door handle, twisting it. Pulling it open toward him, he shone his light inside. He felt like Carter at the discovery of Tutankhamen. No golden idols were here, but file cabinets, unopened, unlike the ones in other parts of the complex. There was no pile of charred papers and microfilm rolls in the center of the floor.
'No tomb robbers have beaten us»' he remarked,
then stepped inside. He walked quickly through thedark-ness, the light of his torch showing across the yellow indexes on the file drawers.
He found the one he wanted—the ones. There were six file drawers marked 'Project ,-C/RS.' He opened the top drawer to pull out the abstract sheets at the front of the file. He read them, then closed his eyes, suddenly very tired.
'Voskavich, these drawers are not to be looked in. I will need carts for removing the contents after they have been boxed. Bring the cartons here and I will do that personally.'
'Yes, Comrade Colonel Rozhdestvenskiy,' Voskavich answered.
'Leave me here—alone.' And Rozhdestvenskiy, when the last one of them had left, switched off his torch and stood in the darkness beside the file drawers. He knew now what the Eden Project was. The Americans never ceased to amaze him.
'I wasn't born here. Most of the rest of them were, and their parents were born here, too, and before that,' the woman told him.
'What the hell does that mean, lady?' Rourke asked her, exasperated, smiling as he spoke through tightly clenched teeth while the men and women and children of the town who had made up the knot of humanity in the town square were now breaking up, going home.
'My name's Martha Bogen.' She smiled.
