Aleksandr Abramov, Sergei Abramov. Horsemen from Nowhere
страница №7
...and cut blood vessels.It could wound deeply, even kill. True, we were in the same situation, but
our skills differed. The blades of our swords struck in the same way, our
shirts both freely opened up our bodies to the opponent. But my tight short
sports shirt couldn't match his white silken shirt, like the one Paul
Scofield played Hamlet in.
We crossed swords. I recalled yet another one of my instructor's
warning: do not attack too soon, not until your opponent has just for an
instant lost his feeling of distance. Wait until he opens up. But Bonnville
did not open up. His sword buzzed around my chest like a wasp, ready to
sting. But I retreated and parried blow after blow. What luck that he fought
with his left hand, I anticipated all his movements.
Bonnville was obviously reading my thoughts.
"With my left all I can do is stitch boots," he said. "Would you like
to see my right?"
He took his arm out of the sling and tossed the sword over to his other
hand. Its blade flashed, knocked mine aside and hit me in the chest.
"That's the way it's done," he boasted, but did not have time to
continue.
Somebody, unseen, reminded him:
"Use your left, Bonnville, your left! Take away the right!"
Bonnville obediently switched hands. The red spot on my chest was
spreading.
"Bandage it," said Bonnville.
I was stripped of my shirt and my shoulder was bandaged. It was not a
deep wound but a lot of blood was flowing. I flexed and extended my right
arm: there was no pain. I could still play for time.
"Where did you study?" asked Bonnville. "In Italy?"
"Why? What makes you think so?" "Your defence is very much like the
Italian way. But that will not help you."
I laughed and almost let him pass, for he was waiting for me on the
right. I hardly had time to back down, his sword only slid along my
shoulder. I parried it upwards and, in my turn, dealt
a blow.
"Well done," he said.
"There's blood on your hand."
"Nothing to worry about."
His sword again whirled about me. I parried, retreated, and my fingers
gripping the handle felt like ice. I repeated to myself, "Don't fall, the
main thing is not to fall, don't fall!"
"Don't drag it out, Bonnville," said the invisible voice, "there are
not going to be any retakes."
"There won't be anything," Bonnville replied, retreating a bit and
giving me a breathing spell. "I can't get him with my left."
"Then he'll get you. I'll change the plot. But you are a superman,
Bonnville. That's the way I have devised you. Act! Courage, man!"
Bonnville again stepped towards me.
"So there was a conversation," I said with a snigger.
"What conversation?"
This was again a robot that forgot everything with the exception of his
ultra-task. Suddenly I felt a wall at my back. There was no room for further
retreat. "The end," I thought to myself helplessly.
His sword again caught mine, flashed back and then ran into my neck. I
did not feel any pain, but something gurgled in my throat. My knees gave
way, I fell on my sword, but it slipped from my hands. The last I heard was
an exclamation as if from another world:
"That's it."
* PART FOUR. CONTACT ESTABLISHED!
Chapter XXIV. AWAKENING
What followed I saw as fragments, a disconnected sequence of nebulous
white patterns. The white spot of the ceiling above me, white curtains at
the windows that did not darken the room, and white sheets at my chin. In
this whiteness I suddenly recognized some sort of nickel-plated cylindrical
surfaces, long tubes that coiled like snakes, and some faces bent over me.
"He's conscious," I heard.
"I see. Anesthesia."
"Everything's ready, Professor."
All this conversation was in French, fast French that penetrated to my
consciousness or skimmed across a chaos of obscure coded terms. Then
everything was blanked out-light, thoughts, everything-then again a fresh
awakening in white. Again unfamiliar faces bent over me, polished surfaces
of scissors or a spoon, a wrist-watch or a needle. At times the nickel gave
way to the transparent yellow of rubber gloves or the rosy sterility of
hands with close-cut nails. All of this lasted only a short time, then again
dropped into darkness where there was no space, no time, only the black
vacuum of sleep.
Then the pictures gradually straightened out as if someone at controls
were bringing them into focus. The peaked strict face of the professor in
white cap faded into a still more drawn face of the nurse in white headgear.
I was fed broth and juices, my throat was swathed and I was told not to
talk.
Somehow, however, I got out the words:
"Where am I?"
Rough hands of the nurse clamped down on my lips.
"Silence. You are in the clinic of Professor Peletier. Take care of
your throat. Do not talk."
Once, a very familiar face bent down towards me with tinted glasses in
gold frames on.
"You?" I exclaimed and did not recognize my own voice, neither hoarse
nor the scream of a bird.
"Tss.. .." And she too covered my mouth, but so carefully, so lightly.
"Everything's all right, my love. You are getting well but you must not
speak yet. Be silent and wait. I will return soon, very soon. Now go to
sleep."
I slept, and woke up again, and I felt my throat become freer, I could
taste the broth they gave me; then again the jab of a needle, again the dark
emptiness until finally I woke up for good. I could speak, yell, sing-and I
knew it, there wasn't even any bandage.
"What is your name?" I asked my usually stern-faced guest in the white
cap.
"Sister Therese."
"Are you a nun?"
"We are all nuns in this clinic."
She did not stop me from yelling "hurrah", and I asked her without
hidden guile, "So the Professor is catholic, isn't he?"
"The Professor will burn in hell," she replied without a smile, "but he
knows that we are the most skilled nurses. That is our vow."
"I'll probably burn in hell too," I thought and so changed the subject.
"How long have I been in the clinic?"
"This is the second week after the operation."
"So he's an atheist?" I sniggered.
She sighed, "These are all the affairs of God."
"And the rose clouds too?"
"In the Encyclical of His Holiness they are proclaimed to be made by
human hands. The creation of our brethren of the Universe created in the
image of God."
I saw that His Holiness had given way to the lesser evil, casting his
lot with the anthropocentric hypothesis. That was the only way out for the
Christian world. But for science? What hypothesis did the Congress uphold?
And why is it that I still don't know anything about this matter?
"Is this a hospital or a jail?" I raged. "And why am I being starved
with sleep?"
"Not starved but treated. This is sleep therapy."
"Aren't there any newspapers around here? Why can't I have something to
read?"
"Complete cut-off from the outside world is also part of the treatment.
When the course of treatment is over, you'll have all the papers you want."
"And when will that be?"
"As soon as you are well."
"And when.. .."
"Ask the Professor."
In a way, this was funny, but I wasn't getting anywhere so I decided an
attack from the flank.
"Well, I certainly am much better, don't you think so?"
"Yes, definitely."
"Then, why am I not allowed visitors? Or have I been forgotten?'
You have to be a nun to stand up to a patient like that. Sister Therese
withstood it all, except once. Something like a smile even ran across her
imperturbable lips.
"Today is visitor's day. It begins in. .." and she looked at her watch,
whose reflections I had seen so many times during my awakenings, "in ten
minutes."
I got through those ten minutes as submissive as a lamb. I was even
allowed to sit up in bed and talk without looking at the clock, my vocal
chords had healed completely. But Irene said:
"I'll do the talking, you ask questions."
But I didn't want to ask anything, I just wanted to repeat "dearest,
dearest, dearest" .... It was funny how it all happened: no explanations, no
sighing, no hints, no play. The whole preparatory work was carried out by my
opponent Bonnville-Mongeusseau. I wonder whether Irene knew about that. Yes,
it turned out, she did. She got it all from Zernov. She herself during all
this time was in a kind of trance, a dream yet not a dream, a complete
blot-out of all memory. She woke up, it was morning, drowsiness. She was
drowsy, didn't want to get up.
"And you meanwhile were bleeding to death in Zernov's room at the
hotel. Luckily he got here in time, you were still breathing."
"Where did he come from?"
"From below, from the hall. He himself had been knocked almost
unconscious, his whole body was beaten up. Miracles! Almost as if you had
come back from the crusades."
"Must have been somewhat later. The sixteenth century, I believe.
Swords without sheaths, and slender blades fast as lightning!"
"Why? Did you fight? You're some musketeer! You have to know how!"
"We were taught a bit in the institute, movie people have to know
everything. That's when it came in handy."
"Very helpful on the operating table."
"But I was ambushed. Behind was a wall, a ditch on one side. And he was
good!"
"Who was this?"
"Mongeusseau. Try standing up to an Olympic champion. Remember the guy
with the eye patch at the table d'hote?"
Irene was not surprised.
"He's here in the hotel right now too. And he's together with Carresi.
Incidentally, I took him for a movie actor, for some reason. With the
exception of us, these two are the only guests that did not leave the hotel
after that night. Boy, that was some panic! And the doorman even committed
suicide, he hanged himself."
"Which one?" I exclaimed.
"That one, the baldheaded one."
"Etienne?" I asked to make sure. "Why?"
"Nobody knows. He didn't even leave a note. But I think Zernov has some
suspicions."
"Marvellous," I exclaimed, "A dog's death for a dog."
"You have suspicions too?"
"I don't suppose anything, I know!"
"What?"
"It'd take a long time to tell. Not now."
"Why are you hiding things from me?"
"Certain things need not be revealed now. You'll learn about them
later. Don't be offended, it's for the best. Now tell me what happened to
Lange. Where is he?"
"He's left. It seems he's left Paris for good. He got into some kind of
a fix too." She laughed. "Martin for some reason put him through a
meat-grinder, you wouldn't recognize him now. At least not during the first
few days. There was talk it'd develop into a diplomatic scandal, but nothing
happened. The West Germans were quiet as mice. Martin's an American and the
right hand of Thompson. Local Ribbentropites find that too hard a nut to
crack. Then Lange himself all of a sudden relinquished all claims. He said
you couldn't deal with a madman. Newsmen attacked Martin for an explanation
and he served up whiskey and reported that Lange wanted to get the Russian
girl away from him. He meant me. A lot of fun and laughter but there's
something mysterious behind it all. Martin has now left together with
Thompson. Don't look so surprised. That's a long story to tell too. I've
collected all the paper clippings, you can read them. There's also a note
for you from Martin, but not a word about the fight. But I think that Zernov
knows something on that score. Yes, tomorrow he's speaking at the plenary
session. All the reporters are waiting like sharks, and he keeps putting it
off. All because of you, incidentally. He wants to have a talk with you
first. Right now. Surprised again? Really, I mean it, right now."
Zernov appeared as fast as they do in movies. He wasn't alone. He was
accompanied by Carresi and Mongeusseau. He couldn't have produced a greater
effect. I opened my mouth as I recognized Mongeusseau and did not even
respond to their greetings.
"He recognizes you," said Zernov to his companions in English. "And you
wouldn't believe it."
Then I went off the handle; luckily it was easier to go off the handle
in any other language except Russian.
"I have not gone mad nor have I lost any of my memory. It would be hard
to forget the sword that cut my throat."
"And you remember the sword?" asked Carresi, for some reason overjoyed.
"It's the last thing I'll forget."
"And your own?" Carresi even rose to his feet, he was so excited. "From
Milan, a steel snake at the guard coiled round the handle, remember?"
"Let him remember," I said maliciously, nodding in the direction of
Mongeusseau.
The latter did not seem offended, nor was he embarrassed in the least.
"I've had it since 1960. The prize of Toulouse," he replied
phlegmatically.
"That's where I remember it from. Both the blade and the snake," put in
Carresi again.
But Mongeusseau was not listening.
"How long did you last?" he asked, looking at me with interest for the
first time. "One minute, two minutes?"
"More," I said. "You were fighting with your left hand."
"Makes no difference. My left is much weaker, hasn't the lightness that
is needed. But in training...." For some reason, he did not finish the
sentence and changed his tone of voice: "I know your swordsmen, I've
encountered them in contests, but I don't remember you. You weren't taken
off the team, were you?"
"I gave up fencing," I said; I didn't want to let him know too much. "I
gave it up a long time ago."
"Too bad," he said slowly and looked at Carresi.
I never found out what he was sorry about: about my losing interest in
swordplay or that his fight with me took him more than two precious minutes
of the champion's time. Carresi noticed my perplexed look and laughed:
"Gaston wasn't present at the fight."
"What do you mean, wasn't there?" I asked in astonishment. "Who was
then?"
I cautiously ran my fingers over the slanting healed slit across my
throat.
"Blame me," said Carresi in confusion. "I thought the whole thing up at
home lying on my couch. Gaston, who was synthesized and given an identically
synthesized sword, is the fruit of my imagination. How it was done, I
certainly do not understand. But the real honest to God Gas-ton never even
touched you. So don't be angry."
"Honestly, I don't even remember you at the table dhoti," added
Mongeusseau.
"False life," Zernov reminded me of our talk on the stairs. "I allowed
for modelling of suppositions or imagined situations," he explained to
Carresi.
"And I didn't allow for anything," Carresi objected impatiently. "I
didn't want to have anything to do with that world-wide scandal. At first I
simply refused to believe it, like those flying saucers, then I saw your
film and was petrified: that was it! For a whole week I could not think of
one single thing except that. Then I got used to the idea, like you get used
to something unusual and quite far-fetched but repeated a sufficient number
of times. Professional interests took me away from common sense and a good
heart: even on the eve of the Congress I could think of nothing except my
new picture. I wanted to revive an historical film, not Hollywood syrup and
not a museum piece, but something re-evaluated by the eyes and minds of
people of today. I chose the age, the heroes and, as you people put it, the
socio-historical background. Then at the restaurant I found a 'star' and
convinced him. There was only one thing he didn't like: fighting with his
left hand. But, you see, that was my lookout, strange as it may seem. I
remember him at fencing contests. The sword in his right hand-it would be
too professional, he wouldn't be able to enter the image. Now in the left
hand, he was a God! There were threats and mistakes and anger with himself
and a miracle of naturalness. I convinced him. We parted. Then I lay down in
my hotel room, thinking. A red light bothered me. The hell with it, I closed
my eyes. And I imagined the whole scene, the road high above the sea, the
rocks, the vineyards, the white wall of the Count's park. And then this
craziness: the hirelings of Gaston-he's Bonnville in the play-stop some bums
on the road. Well, not bums, tourists, if you like, outsiders, in a word.
The age is changed and the plot too. I want to throw them out but I can't,
they're just stuck there. So then I switch round and include them too. This
produces a new plot, very original: say, the bums are wandering actors. Now
Gaston, quite naturally, at home is thinking about the film, not about the
plot but about himself, his dilemma of fighting either with his left or his
right. Mentally, I get into an argument with him: I get excited, try to
convince him, then demand subordination. Period!"
"I saw that," I recalled. "A pile of crimson foam near the road, and
then you stepped out like a devil from a box."
Carresi closed his eyes, obviously trying to visualize what he had
heard and was again pleased.
"Now that's an idea! A marvellous angle for the plot. Let's restore
everything that happened and exactly the way it occurred. In short, do you
want to play together with Gaston?"
"Thanks a lot," I said hoarsely, "I don't want to die a second time."
Mongeusseau smiled politely but with a certain amount of guile.
"In your place, I would refuse too. But drop in to see me on Rivoli for
a friendly visit. We'll cross swords. Don't be afraid, they're only for
training. Everything according to regulations, outfit and masks. I want to
try you out a bit, and find out how you stood up so long. I'll work with my
left on purpose."
"Thanks," I repeated, but knew that I would never again see him.
Chapter XXV. ASSIGNMENT: GREENLAND
When the producer and the swordsman had left, a strange uncomfortable
silence set in. I contained myself with difficulty exasperated by this
unneeded visit. Zernov laughed, waiting to find out what I would say. Irene,
noticing at once the import of the pause, remained silent as well.
"Angry?" asked Zernov.
"Positively," I said. "You think it's fun being polite to that
murderer?"
"Mongeusseau is not to blame, even indirectly," Zernov continued.
"That's what I have just figured out."
"Presumption of innocence," I taunted.
He did not respond.
"It's my fault, I got you two together on purpose, don't be angry. I
wanted to correlate the model with the source. For my paper I had to have a
perfect check on what was modelled, whose psyche. And what is more
important-the memory or imagination. Now I know. They have dipped into both.
The other one simply wanted to go to sleep, probably going over Carresi's
proposition lazily: not too much work, it would seem, and the pay not so
bad. But Carresi created, he was the one who contrived the conflicts, the
dramatic situations, in a word, the illusion of real life. It was the
illusion that they modelled. And rather exactly, incidentally. Remember the
landscape? Vineyards on the background of the sea. More exact than a
photograph."
I involuntarily touched my throat.
"And this? Another illusion?"
"That's an accident. While experimenting they probably did not even
realize that it was dangerous."
"I don't get it," Irene interrupted, continuing her own thoughts,
"there must be something else to all this, and not life. Biologically it
can't be life, even if it reproduces life. Life can't be made out of
nothing."
"Why out of nothing? They probably have some sort of building material,
a kind of primary matter of life."
"The red fog?"
"Perhaps. So far nobody has found any explanation, nobody has even
advanced a hypothesis," Zernov sighed. "Don't expect hypotheses tomorrow
from me either. I'm simply going to express a supposition of what is
modelled and why. As to how it is done-that's beyond me.. .."
I laughed.
"Somebody will get to an explanation. Live and see."
"Where?"
"Where do you think? At the Congress naturally."
"You won't see anyone."
Zernov smoothed his straight light hair. He always did that before
saying something unpleasant.
"It won't work," I said maliciously. "You won't hold me here. I'm
well."
"I know. The day after tomorrow you will be discharged. And in the
evening you can pack your suitcases."
He said it so firmly and decisively that I jumped up out of bed.
"A recall?"
"No."
"So it's to Mirny again?"
"And not to Mirny either."
"Then where to?"
Zernov was silent, smiling, he gave a quick sidelong glance at Irene.
"Suppose I don't agree?" I said.
"You'll agree. You'll be all too eager. In fact, you'll grab at the
chance."
"Come on, Boris Arkadievich. Where to?"
"Greenland."
My face obviously spelled such disappointment that Irene burst out
laughing.
"He doesn't jump, Irene".
"No, he doesn't."
I lay back on purpose.
"There's no dope to make me jump. But why to Greenland?"
"There'll be dope enough," said Zernov and winked at Irene.
Irene, imitating the TV news announcer, began:
"Copenhagen. Our special correspondent reports that pilot observers of
the United States polar station at Soenre Stremfiorde (Greenland) have
detected a curious artificial or natural phenomenon to the north of the
seventy-second parallel of latitude, in the area of Simpson's expedition.
..."
I rose up on my pillows.
".. .over an extensive ice-covered plateau, blue kilometre-long
protuberances have been observed. Something in the nature of a diminished
Aurora Borealis, only along an enormous ellipse in a close band of blue
fire. The tongues of flame merge roughly at an altitude of one kilometre
forming the surface of an immense octahedron. That's it, isn't it, Boris
Arkadievich?"
I fell back on the bed.
"Now are you ready to jump, Anokhin?"
"I seem to be ready."
"Now listen. Reports of this 'aurora' have appeared in all the papers.
The octahedron shines for hundreds of kilometres. It cannot be approached
either on foot or on tractor: our familiar invisible wall repulses all
oncomers. Aircraft have been unable to come down from above, they are turned
aside. The suspicion is that this is a powerful field of force that the
space beings have set up. Now do you jump?"
"Definitely. Boris Arkadievich, that means they are already in
Greenland."
"Have been for some time. But deep in the interior of the plateau they
seem to have something new. Fire, yet instruments nearby do not register the
slightest increase in temperature. Neither is there any rise in atmospheric
pressure or in ionization. Radio communications are not interrupted even a
few metres away from the protuberances. Geiger counters are suspiciously
silent. Strange camouflage, rather like a kid's kaleidoscope. The flashing
of broken glass and that's all. The photos we have don't seem to make sense.
A clear sky on a sunny day reflected in enormous crystalline facets of a
crystal. But the 'horsemen' go through like birds into a cloud. But real
birds bounce back like tennis balls. Attempts were made with pigeons,
complete failure."
I was bitterly jealous of my colleagues for getting in to shoot that
scene!
Zernov was not so elated, he thought there might be great danger in the
whole affair. He said: "You know what the activities around this thing are
now called? 'Operation T' after our friend Thompson. He himself says that
this is a personal search for contact. He says that before he took over,
everything had been tried, and in vain: light signals, radio waves,
mathematical codes, and all manner of figures traced in the sky by jet
planes. The horsemen refuse to respond. But he says he'll make contact. So
far nobody knows with what media, and he isn't communicative either.
However, the core of the expedition has already been formed and has been
sent to Upernivik. That's where the Greenland expedition of Koch-Wegener
started out from in 1913. They are supported by a cargo-passenger aircraft,
a helicopter borrowed from the Tutie base, two tracked vehicles and
aerosleighs. Not so badly equipped, as you can see."
I still couldn't make out what sort of contact Thompson could expect to
make with the aid of helicopter and aerosleigh. Zernov smiled enigmatically.
"The news boys don't either. But Thompson is no fool. He didn't
corroborate a single statement attributed to him by the press concerning the
aims of the expedition or the means with which they hope to attain them.
Queried by journalists, not a single firm supplying him with equipment and
gear has responded. He has been asked whether he is taking along tanks with
gas of an unknown composition. Other questions: What are the instruments
recently loaded onto a vessel at Copenhagen to be used for? Does he intend
to explode, drill or break into the force field of the extra-earth-lings?
His reply is that the equipment of his expedition was checked by customs
officials and that nothing was found to violate the rules for bringing it
into Greenland. He knows nothing, he insists, about any special instruments
that were said to have been loaded at Copenhagen. The aims of the expedition
are scientific-research and he's going to count his chicks when they hatch."
"Where does he get the money?"
"Don't know? There's no big money here, even the 'mad men' of politics
aren't ready to place big sums at his disposal. He's not fighting communists
or Negroes. Of course, somebody is financing the thing, without a doubt.
Some newspaper syndicate they say. Like Stanley's expedition to Africa. A
sensational piece is playing, why not risk it."
I wanted to know whether his expedition was connected with some kind of
decision or recommendation of the Congress.
"He's broken with the Congress," Zernov explained. "Even before it
started he announced in the press that he does not consider himself bound by
its future resolutions. By the way, you don't even know what happened
there."
That was so, I didn't know what had happened at the Congress. I didn't
even know that it had taken place at the very time that I was being removed
from the operating table to my post-operative ward.
After the Security Council of the United Nations refused to discuss the
phenomenon of the rose clouds prior to a resolution of the Paris Congress,
correctly taking the view that the first word should come from science, the
atmosphere around the Congress became extremely heated.
It opened up like a world football championship. Trumpets, flags of the
nations, greetings from all scientific associations of the world. True, the
wiser ones kept quiet while the less cautious participants came out with
statements that the mystery of the rose clouds would be clarified in the
near future. Of course, there was no discovery of any kind, with the
possible exception of Academician Osovets' report. He advanced and
substantiated the thesis that the visitors were peace-loving beings from
space, and this set the course for other scientists. Pieces of wisdom were
bandied about. Zernov told roe some of them with hardly containable
disappointment. Opinions collided and hypotheses rose and fell. Some of the
conferees even took the 'clouds' to be varieties of flying saucers.
"Yuri, if you only knew how many dopes there are in science, people who
have long since lost the right to be called scientists!" said Zernov.
"Naturally, there were some well-thought-out speeches, and original
hypotheses, some bold conjectures. But Thompson left after the very first
meetings. 'A thousand shy oldsters won't cook up anything worth while,' he
said to waiting newspaper men."
Out of the entire Congress, he invited to this expedition only Zernov
together with the crew of the 'Kharkovchanka' and Irene. "We began together,
we'll continue together," said Zernov.
"I didn't begin," interrupted Irene.
"But you continued."
"Where?"
"On that same night in the hotel Homond."
"I don't get it."
"Ask Anokhin. He'll tell you a thing or two."
"About what?" Irene was concerned.
"That you are not you but your model created by the 'clouds' on that
ill-fated night."
"Quit joking, Boris Arkadievich."
"I'm not joking. Simply Anokhin and Martin saw you in St. Disier."
"Not her," I put in, "you've forgotten."
"I haven't forgotten, but I figured it would be better not to tell."
A nervous extended pause set in. Irene took off her glasses, collapsed
the bows automatically and again opened them-the first sign of nerves.
"Now I understand," she said accusingly to Zernov, "that you and Martin
were hiding something from me. What was it?"
Zernov evaded the question this time as well.
"Let Anokhin tell you. We believe that he is the only one who has the
right to tell you."
I replied to Zernov with a glance the force of a sword stroke by
Bonnville. Irene turned to him, then to me in a state of complete confusion.
"Is that true, Yuri?"
"Yes, it is," I sighed and said nothing.
To tell her what had happened in the officer's casino in St. Disier I
had to be alone with her, not here.
"Something unpleasant?"
Zernov smiled. The pause continued. I was really pleased to hear the
familiar creak of the door.
"The most unpleasant thing is to begin right now," I said and nodded in
the direction of the opening door, through which my angel in white with
hypodermic needle in hand was coming. "This is part of the treatment that
even friends are not supposed to view."
And the curative therapy of Professor Peletier again pushed me down
into the abyss of sleep.
Chapter XXVI. THE CONGRESS
I woke up the next morning, promptly recalled everything and got mad as
hell: I still had another day in the hospital. The appearance of my white
angel with a wheeled table containing my breakfast did not console me in the
least.
"Turn on the radio."
"We have no radio here."
"Then get me a transistor set."
"Out of the question."
"Why?"
"Everything is prohibited that can interfere with the normal well-being
of a convalescent patient."
"I'm already well."
"You will know about that only tomorrow morning."
The white angel was fast turning into a demon.
"But I've got to know what is taking place at the Congress. Zernov is
speaking. Don't you understand? Zernov!"
"I do not know Monsieur Zernov."
She handed me a folder in red morocco.
"What's this?"
"Newspaper clippings that Mademoiselle Irene left for you. The
Professor allowed them."
That was bread for a person starving from lack of information. I opened
the folder, forgetting about breakfast and listened. Yes, I listened.
It was the voice of the world coming through to me, through nickel and
glass, through the white brick of the hospital walls, through the murk of
bottomless sleep and the beatitude of getting well. It was the voice of the
Congress with the opening speech of Academician Osovets that set the right
course for a reasonable and consistent stand of humanity relative to the
visitors from space.
"What is already clear?" said the Academician. "That we are dealing
with an extraterrestrial civilization, one from another planet. That its
technical and scientific level far surpasses our own. That neither they nor
we have been able to establish contact with one another. And also that its
attitude towards us is friendly and peaceful. During these three months the
visitors have collected and transported out into space the ice of all the
continents and we have not been able to intervene. What does this action
spell for humanity? Nothing but good. Climatologlsts will establish the
precise consequences of what has been done, but even now we can speak of a
considerable amelioration in the climate of the polar and adjacent moderate
latitudes, about the mastering of vast earlier inaccessible areas and of a
free settling of the population of the world. What is more, the extraction
of the terrestrial ice was accomplished without geological catastrophes,
Hoods or other natural calamities. Not a single expedition or ship or
scientific research station operating in these areas of glaciation suffered.
More, the guests presented humanity, as a by-product, with newly discovered
riches that were soon located. In the foothills of the Yablonevy Range, they
discovered vast deposits of copper ore, in Yakutia fresh diamond deposits.
In the Antarctic they discovered oil and in their own way drilled and put up
rigs of a very peculiar design quite unfamiliar to any of us." He concluded
in a burst of applause with the following words. "I can say to you that
right now in Moscow an agreement is being signed among interested countries
on the establishment of an industrial and trade stock company, with the code
name SJEAP, which stands for Society for the Joint Exploitation of Antarctic
Petroleum."
Academician Osovets also summarized the events connected with the
spacelings' modelling of phenomena in terrestrial life in which they were
interested. The list was so long that the speaker did not read it. It was
simply issued as a printed supplement to the report. I will cite only what
was commented on by the journalists at Paris.
In addition to Sand City/the "horsemen" modelled a resort town in the
Italian Alps, the French beaches in the morning, when they resemble the
mating grounds of seals, the square of St. Mark in Venice and a portion of
the London underground railway. Passenger transport systems attracted their
attention in many countries. They dived into trains, ocean and air liners,
police helicopters and even balloons participating in some kind of sporting
contest at Brussels.
In France they penetrated to some kind of racing event at the Parisian
cycle racetrack, in San Francisco, it was a boxing match of heavyweights for
champion of the Pacific Coast, in Lisbon, at a football game for the Cup of
European Champions (the players later complained that the red fog around
them was so thick that they could not see the opponent's goal). The fog was
the same during the games of the first round at the interzonal chess
tournament in Zurich, and for two hours at the Government Cabinet meeting in
the South African Republic, and for forty minutes the animals in the London
Zoo dined. The newspaper gibed that both events occurred on the same day and
that in both cases the fog did not disperse either the beasts or the
racists.
The Academician's list included a detailed enumeration of all the
factories and plants modelled by the cosmic visitors completely or
partially: sometimes a department, or a conveyor line, or simply a few
machines and tools characteristic of a given type of production and chosen
with unerring precision. Parisian journalists commenting this choice came to
some curious conclusions. Some said that the "clouds" were interested mostly
in outmoded types of machines that had not changed fundamentally over the
past century, and therefore least comprehensible to them, such as the
filigree working of precious stones or the designations of kitchen utensils.
Then a diamond-cutting shop in Amsterdam was modelled and a primitive
manufactory of toys in Nuremberg.
Other observers, commenting on the list of Osovets, noted the interest
displayed in services for the consumer. Wrote the correspondent of the
"Paris-Midi": "Have you noticed the quantity of modelled barbershops,
restaurants, fashion houses and television studios? Note the attention paid
to the choice of shops, stores, market places, fairs and even show windows.
And note the variation of modes of modelling. At times a "cloud" will dive
onto a site and leave immediately before there is time for a natural panic
to develop. At other times the cloud envelopes the objective slowly,
imperceptibly penetrating to every nook and cranny, and people do not notice
anything until the density of the gaseous cloud turns into visibility. And
even then there is something that prevents them from altering their
customary behaviour, something that represses the mind and will power.
Nobody experienced fear: barbers cut hair, clients leaf through illustrated
journals, movie cameramen make takes or conduct TV shows, the goalkeeper
snatches a difficult ball, and a waiter politely hands you the bill in the
restaurant. Everything round about has become red like the light of a red
lamp, but you continue your activities, only later realizing what has
occurred after the ''horsemen' have passed beyond the horizon carrying with
them your live imagination. Most of the time you don't even have a chance to
see it: the cosmic visitors demonstrated it to humans only during the first
experiments in fixation of terrestrial life. afterwards everything was
confined to films of red gas of varying consistency and tonality."
"Nobody has suffered during all of this, and nobody has even had any
material losses of any kind," thus the Academician summarized. "With the
exception of a stool that vanished together with a double at a meeting of
polar men at Mirny, and the automobile of pilot Martin who rashly left it in
the modelled city, no one can name a single thing destroyed or damaged by
our cosmic friends. There was talk of a cycle that was left by a Czech
cyclist and disappeared near Prague during a race, but it was later found in
a parking lot during a rest period. Then there was an alpenstock taken away
from a Swiss guide, Fred Schomer, by his double who suddenly appeared in
front of him on an Alpine pathway. But Fred Schomer wrote to the editors
saying that nothing of the kind had taken place, that firstly, he was so
frightened he threw it away, and secondly, the same stick was returned to
him by the rose cloud that dived to the front door of his house. All of the
other cases reported in the press turned out to be simply the idle
imaginings of self-styled 'victims' or of the newspaper men themselves. The
rose clouds returned to space without having done any harm to humanity and
without taking anything with them except terrestrial ice and the conjectured
recordings of terrestrial life coded in some fashion in red fog. This,
incidentally, is a hypothesis that has not been proven in any way by
anybody."
Academician Osovets' speech met the approval of far and away the bulk
of the delegates. I did not read Thompson's speech, it had found no support,
and actually the debate turned into an exchange of queries and replies, not
in the least polemical and not even very bold or confident. There were
apprehensions for example that the peaceful nature of the newcomers was only
a manoeuvre and that they would return with quite different intentions.
"What kind?" the Academician would like to know.
"Aggressive."
"With the technological facilities at their disposal what purpose is
there in camouflage?"
"But suppose it's reconnaissence?"
"The very first encounters have demonstrated to them the difference in
our technical potentials."
"But have we shown them our potential?" Thompson asked.
"They've modelled it already."
"But we didn't even attempt to direct it against their attack."
"How can you call that an attack?"
"However, can you risk asserting that it will not follow?"
"In support of my assertions I cited numerous proven facts, while in
support of your contentions I hear only hypotheses."
After that ignominious discussion-that is, for the opponents of the
Soviet Academician-the "doubters", as they were dubbed, fought back in the
commissions, especially in the Commission for Contact and Conjecture that
soon became famous for its tempestuous sessions. Here, all manner of
hypotheses were advanced and straightway venomously countered. One
discussion merged into another, very often gradually straying farther and
farther from the original topic. This continued until the electric gong of
the chairman sounded. The journalists did not even work up their notes or
inject any hyperbolas, all that was needed was to cite verbatim.
I took at random one of the clippings and read:
"PROFESSOR O'MELLY (Northern Ireland):
I suggest an amendment to the formulation of Professor MacEdou:
ammonium and fluorine.
PROFESSOR MACEDOU (USA). I agree. That was mentioned at the press
conference.
PROFESSOR TAINE (Great Britain). As I remember it, at the press
conference it was suggested that the rose clouds were visitors from a cool
planet. For fluorine beings, a temperature of minus one hundred degrees
would be only a pleasant frost. I do not want to put it strongly but any
first-year college student would be able to correct the colleague who made
that statement. The problem of fluorine proteins....
VOICE FROM THE BACK OF THE AUDITORIUM. There's no such problem.
TAINE. No, there isn't, but there easily could be. The commission here
is one of conjectures and not scientific facts,
VOICE FROM PRESS CENTRE. Boy, this is boring.
TAINE. Why don't you go to a variety show if you don't like it?
Organo-fluorine compounds are activated only at very high temperatures. Or
has my colleague forgotten the difference between plus and minus? Fluorine
life is life based on a background of sulphur and not water. On 'hot'
planets, professor, and not cold planets.
MACEDOU (jumping to his feet). Who's that talking about water or
sulphur? Professor Dillinger, who is absent, had in view hydrogen flouride.
I am not surprised that he was misunderstood by newspaper reporters, but
what surprises me is the incomprehension of an outstanding scientist. It is
precisely hydrogen fluoride or fluorine oxide that can be the 'viable
solvent' at temperatures of not plus but minus one hundred and more degrees.
The rose clouds might also be visitors from a cold planet, gentlemen.
VOICE FROM BACK OF AUDITORIUM (speaker hides behind the man in front of
him). At what temperature, Professor, do they cut kilometre-thick layers of
ice?
TAINE. Another point in favour of the hot planet.
PROFESSOR GWINELLI (Italy). More likely in favour of the hypothesis of
gas-plasma life.
TAINE. It is difficult to believe that even in extraterrestrial
conditions gas could serve as a medium for biochemical reactions.
GWINELLI [heatedly). What about the famous experiments of Miller who
succeeded in synthesizing elementary organic compounds in a gaseous medium?
And the investigations of the Soviet Academician Oparin? Carbon, nitrogen,
oxygen and hydrogen are to be found in any corner of the universe. And these
elements, in their turn, form compounds that carry us up the ladder of life,
including the jump from the nonliving to the living. Then why should we not
conjecture that it is precisely in a gaseous medium that a life originated
that has risen to the heights of a supercivilization?
CHAIRMAN. Can you formulate your idea within the framework of the
hypothesis?
GWINELLI. Of course.
CHAIRMAN. Let us hear Professor Gwinelli at our next session....
VOICE FROM BACK OF AUDITORIUM (interrupting)... and Dr. Schnellinger
who is now in Vienna. He has a well worked out hypothesis of
intercommunications of the cosmic beings, something in the nature of direct
frequency modulation, irradiation of ultrashortwave impulses and even the
possibility of telepathic transmission via gravitational waves... .
LAUGHTER NEARBY. Nonsense!
VOICE FROM BACK OF AUDITORIUM
(persistently.) Excuse me for any inaccuracy in the formulations,
specialists will understand.
Professor Janvier in black silk cap rises. He is the oldest professor
of the famous French Poly-technical School. He holds on to his hearing aid
and speaks into the microphone.
JANVIER. Esteemed ladies and gentlemen. I would leave Dr.
Schnellinger's report until we have heard the hypotheses about those with
whom we are dealing: with living beings or highly organized biocybernetical
systems. In the former instance, direct telepathic communications might be
possible.
"I am not in possession of them, but there are apprehensions that all
these hypotheses are simply ingenious fabrications," concluded the Parisian
observer. "The number of hypotheses presented at the sessions of the
commission has already topped the hundred mark...."
I took another clipping from another verbatim report, but chosen with
the same humorous intentions and commented on in the same style. In the
third one, the author recalled Gulliver and condescendingly pitied people
who could not be like Lilliputians that do not concoct hypotheses. However,
after Zernov spoke, there was not a trace of any ironic condescension. When
I opened up the evening papers Irene brought me, their solidarity this time
was quite different.
"Riddle solved!", "Russians Penetrate Mystery of Rose Clouds," "Anokhin
and Zernov Establish Contact with Visitors", "Soviets Again Surprise the
World". Such were the headlines on the story about the conversion of modern
Paris into the provincial town of St. Disier of the time of Nazis
occupation, about the marvellous materialization of the movie plots of a
famous producer and about my clash with the first swordsman of France. The
latter was what captivated Paris completely. An ordinary cameraman and
amateur fencer crossed swords with Mongeusseau himself. And stayed alive,
that's what's important. That evening Mongeusseau was interviewed a number
of times and got his salary doubled for participation in the film. Newspaper
reporters squeezed Mongeusseau and Carresi dry and then attacked Peletier's
clinic; only the strict monastery regime there relieved me of yet another
press conference. Zernov was lucky. Taking advantage of the ritual
accompanying the opening and closing of Congress sessions, he slipped away
and grabbed the first available taxi to get out of town and visit a
communist Mayor, an acquaintance of his.
I did not find anything new in his report, which was given in detail
and with commentary. Everything had emerged clear-cut from our discussions
about what we had experienced. Yet the comment of even the most conservative
portion of the press was extremely flattering to us all.
On the first page of the "Paris Jour", next to photographs of myself,
Zernov and Martin, I read: "Two Russians and one American lived through a
fantastically thrilling night in a Paris hotel, a night that recalled to
life all the nightmares of a Gothic novel. By far not every person
instantaneously jerked out of the present world and plunged into the world
of materialized dreams and apparitions extracted from the depths of someone
else's memory would behave with such fearlessness, orientation in his new
surroundings and reasonable sequence of actions. This can be said of all
three participants of this fantastic Odyssey. But Zernov must be singled out
as the one who did the most. Boris Zernov was the first of the scientists of
the world to give the only possible answer to the query that has been
exciting thousands of millions of people on this planet Earth: why the
visitors ignore our attempts at contact and they themselves do not seek
communication with us. Zernov's answer is that there is a far greater
difference between our physical and psychical life and theirs (perhaps
immeasurably greater) than, say, between the organization, the biological
organization, and the psychic make-up of a man and a bee. What would happen
if we attempted to contact bees-they with their media and we with ours? Then
is contact possible between two still more diversified forms of life? We
have not found it, they have. They need not have shown us the models of
their world, yet they did. Why? In order to get to know our physical and
psychic reactions, the nature and the depth of our thought processes, our
capacity for understanding and evaluating their actions. They chose worthy
Argonauts, but only Zernov proved to be Odysseus: he comprehended the gods
and out-tricked them."
I read that article with such relish that Irene couldn't contain
herself any longer and said:
"I wanted to punish you for hiding things. Well, okay, I'll show it to
you."
And she showed me an opened cable from Umanak, Greenland.
"PARIS. Congress. Zernov. Heard your report by radio, staggering.
Perhaps here in Greenland you will make a new discovery. Expecting you and
Anokhin next flight. Thompson."
That was my happiest day in Paris.
Chapter XXVII. IMAGINATION OR PREDICTION
And most likely not only mine. Particularly when I told Irene.
At first she did not believe me. She grinned like a girl on her first
date.
"You're just joking."
I said nothing, then asked her:
"Your mother was in the Resistance movement. Where?"
"Our Foreign Office asked the French, and they don't know for sure. Her
whole group perished. And it's not known where or how."
"In St. Disier," I said. "Not so far from Paris. She was an interpreter
in the officer's casino. That's where she was captured."
"How do you know?"
"She told me so herself."
Irene slowly took off her glasses and folded the bows.
"You don't joke about things like that."
"I'm perfectly earnest. Martin and I saw her that night in St. Disier.
We were taken for English...
