Chapter 3. Malenkigrad

 

Francis Rodano was at his office early the next morning, which was Monday and the beginning of the week. That he had worked on Sunday was common enough not to surprise him. That he had slept at all during the night just completed did.

When he arrived, half an hour before the official start of the day, Jonathan Winthrop was already there. That did not surprise Rodano, either.

Winthrop walked into Rodano's office within two minutes of the latter's arrival. He leaned against the wall, the palms of his large hands hugging his elbows, his left leg crossing his right, so that the toe of his left shoe was digging into the carpet.

"You look worn-out, Frank," he said, his eyebrows hunching low over his dark eyes.

Rodano looked up at the other's shock of coarse gray hair, which routinely deprived him of any claim of his own to splendor of appearance, and said, "I feel worn-out, but I was hoping it didn't show." Rodano was very aware of having gone through the morning's rituals thoroughly and carefully and of having dressed with considerable judgment.

"It shows, though. Your face is the mirror of your soul. Some agent in the field you'd have made."

Rodano said, "We're not all made for the field."

"I know. And we're not all made for desk work, either." Winthrop rubbed his bulbous nose as though he were anxious to file it down to normal size. "I take it you're worried about your scientist, what's his name?"

"His name is Albert Jonas Morrison," said Rodano wearily. There was this pretense at the Department of not knowing Morrison's name, as though everyone was anxious to emphasize that the project wasn't theirs.

"Okay. I have no objection to your mentioning his name. I take it you're worried about him."

"Yes, I'm worried about him, along with a lot of other things. I wish I could see things more clearly."

"Who doesn't?" Winthrop sat down. "Look, there's no use worrying. You've handled this from the start, and I've been willing to let you do so because you're a good man. I'm perfectly satisfied you've done all you could to make this work because one thing about you is that you understand the Russkies."

Rodano winced. "Don't call them that. You've been watching too many twentieth-century movies. They're not all Russians, any more than we're all Anglo-Saxons. They're Soviets. If you want to understand them, try to understand how they think of themselves."

"Sure. Anything you say. Have you figured out what's so important about your scientist?"

"Nothing, as far as I know. No one takes him seriously except the Soviets."

"Do you think the Soviets know something we don't?"

"A few things, I'm sure, but I haven't any notion of what they see in Morrison. It's not the Soviets, either. It's one Soviet scientist - a theoretical physicist named Shapirov. It's possible that he's the guy who worked out the method of miniaturization - if the method has really been worked out at all. Scientists outside the Soviet Union are ambivalent about Shapirov. He's erratic and, to put it kindly, eccentric. The Soviets are all gung-ho on him, however, and he's all gung-ho on Morrison, though that may just be another sign of his eccentricity. Then the interest in Morrison recently graduated from curiosity to desperation."

"Ah? And how do you know that, Frank?"

"Partly from contacts inside the Soviet Union."

"Ashby?"

"Partly."

"Good agent."

"At it too long. Needs to be replaced."

"I don't know. Let's not retire a winner."

"In any case," said Rodano, unwilling to fight the point, "there was a sudden multiplication of interest in Morrison, on whom I'd been keeping tabs for a couple of years."

"This Shapirov, I suppose, had another brainstorm about Morrison and persuaded the Russ- Soviets they needed him."

"Perhaps, but the funny thing is that Shapirov seems to have dropped out of the news recently."

"Out of favor?"

"No sign of that."

"Could be, Frank. If he's been feeding the Soviets a line of garbage about miniaturization and they've caught on to it, I wouldn't want to be in his shoes. These may be the good new days, but the Soviets have never learned to have a sense of humor about being made to look or feel foolish."

"It could be that he's gone underground because the miniaturization project is heating up. And that could also explain the sudden desperation about Morrison."

"What does he know about miniaturization?"

"Only that he's sure it's impossible."

"It makes no sense, does it?"

Rodano said carefully, "That's why we let him be taken. There's always the hope it will shake up the pieces and that they may then come together in a new way that will begin to make sense."

Winthrop looked at his watch. "He should be there by now. Malenkigrad. What a name! No news of any plane crash last night anywhere in the world, so I guess he's there."

"Yes - and just the wrong person to send, too, except he was the one that the Soviets wanted."

"Why is he wrong? Is he shaky ideologically?"

"I doubt that he has an ideology. He's a zero. All last night I've been thinking that it's all a mistake. He lacks guts and he's not very bright, except in an academic sense. I don't think he can possibly think on his feet - if he ever has to. He's not going to be smart enough to find out anything. I suspect he'll be in one long panic from beginning to end and I've been thinking for hours now that we'll never see him again. They'll imprison him - or kill him - and I've sent him there."

"That's just middle-of-the-night blues, Frank. No matter how dumb he is, he'll be able to tell us whether he watched a demonstration of miniaturization, for instance, or what it was they did to him. He doesn't have to be a shrewd observer. He need only tell us what happened and we will do the necessary thinking."

"But, Jon, we may never see him again."

Winthrop placed his hand on Rodano's shoulder. "Don't begin by assuming disaster. I'll see that Ashby gets the word. If something can be done, it will be done and I'm sure the Russ- Soviets will hit a sane moment and let him go if we put on enough quiet pressure when the time comes. Don't make yourself sick over it. It's a move in a complex game and if it doesn't work, it doesn't work. There are a thousand other moves on the board."

Morrison felt haggard. He had slept through much of Monday, hoping it would rid him of the worst of his jet lag. He had eaten gratefully of the food that had been brought in toward evening, had partaken even more gratefully of a shower. Fresh clothing was given him that fit rather indifferently - but what of that? And he had spent Monday night alternately sleeping and reading.

And brooding.

The more he thought of it, the more convinced he was that Natalya Boranova was correct in her estimate that he was here only because the United States was satisfied to have him here. Rodano had urged him to go, had vaguely threatened him with further career troubles (how much deeper in trouble could he possibly get?) if he did not go. Why, then, should they object to his having been taken? They might object on principle or feel there was the danger of setting an undesirable precedent, but apparently their own eagerness to have him go had overruled that.

What, then, would be the point in demanding to be taken to the nearest American consul or in making wild threats of American retaliation?