Читаем Last Gasp полностью

Boris realized he was still holding the memorandum and ran his eye over it. subject: project arrow, which in plain language meant the Yenisei and Ob rivers diversion scheme. Boris was weary of the endless discussion, as well as having serious doubts about it. Diverting these two rivers, which at present poured 85,000 cubic meters of fresh water every second into the Arctic Ocean, would bring about a significant change in the salinity of the seawater, possibly leading to the gradual melting of the polar ice. Once started, a positive feedback would begin to operate and the process would accelerate until in ten or fifteen years time . . .

Who could say? Conceivably a catastrophe of global proportions-- not that the authorities seemed concerned one way or the other. Besides, this was a political, not a scientific, decision. The party chose only to listen to those who raised no objection to the scheme, and not being one of them, Boris Stanovnik found himself out of favor, his section whittled down to next to nothing, and his work spied on by a little sewer rat with bad breath who bit his nails.

When Nina had finished packing she prepared a meal, which they ate in the living room, this being the warmest place.

"Will Theo Detrick be there?" she asked him as they were finishing off their meal with syrniki--little fried cheesecakes--and drinking their tea.

"I've no idea," Boris replied. "It must be five years since I heard from him. He was in the Pacific at the time, still working on his precious diatoms."

"Such a pity you lost touch," Nina said sadly. "We could have visited him again; those six months in America were wonderful."

"Things have changed in fifteen years," Boris said grimly.

"Well, of course, dear . . ."

"I meant here."

"Oh," Nina said quietly. "Yes."

In those days, Boris reflected, he had been permitted to take his wife with him. Today he was allowed out of the country only if Nina stayed behind. In that sense he was fortunate: Scientists without close family ties never got the chance to travel abroad because the risk of defection was considered too great.

No doubt Malankov, he thought sardonically, had kept his masters fully informed as to Boris Stanovnik's political loyalty and the extent to which he could be trusted. Not that he had ever seriously considered defecting. America was a marvelous place to visit but he wouldn't want to live there.

Had his suspicions required confirmation, they received the official heavy stamp the next day at the airport. He was taken aside into a private interview room by two anonymous officials in drab suits, who examined every item in his luggage, paying especially close attention to the harmless contents of his briefcase.

"Where are you staying in Geneva?" asked one of them, a ferret-faced young man who despite his shabby appearance wore an expensive-looking digital wristwatch. He was out of the same mold as Malankov, one of an endless and identical series dedicated to serving the twin deities of party and state.

"Do you mean to say you don't know?" Boris inquired with mock surprise. But neither man, it transpired, had been issued with a sense of humor. Boris altered his expression and told them what they wanted to know in a sober voice. Play the game, he cautioned himself. Everything you say, no matter how frivolous, will be taken seriously and noted down in the file.

"You're to make a speech in Geneva," the young man said, sorting through the contents of the briefcase spread out on the table. "I don't see the text. Where is it?"

Boris pointed to a large leather-bound ring binder, a present from Nina. "Those are my notes. I don't prepare a set speech. I prefer to speak spontaneously," he said.

"But to the point, I trust," said the other man with a faint, cold smile. "Certain people will be listening and every word will be recorded."

"I'm flattered," Boris said with a perfectly straight face. What were they expecting him to do--denounce the Kremlin in public? "May I put my things away now?"

The young man straightened up and thrust his hands into the crumpled pockets of his suit, watching him without expression. "Have a pleasant stay in Geneva," he said, "and don't forget to bring back a present for your wife."

From his seat one over from the window Theo Detrick looked out at the huge streaked cowling of the inboard 22,000-horsepower engine of the Pan Am Boeing. The engine was slightly ahead of him, so he couldn't see the gaping turbofan mouth gulping in rarefied air 35,000 feet above Greenland. But he knew that every minute of the flight this one engine consumed thirty-four pounds of oxygen, which multiplied by four meant that the aircraft used up thirty-nine tons of oxygen every time it crossed the Atlantic.