Read Online Act of God by John Maddox Roberts, Eric Kotani - Free Book Online
Authors: John Maddox Roberts, Eric Kotani
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knows about the space sciences could be engraved on the head of a pin in letters a foot high. And as for the comet linkup," he shrugged helplessly, "I just can't feature the son of a bitch being interested at all. If ever there was a pure science project, it's that one. No military or intelligence potential at all. Sorry."
"Look into it," Sam said. "I know you don't take your instructions from my boss, but I think we're all missing something important here. See what your computers can turn up. Anything on the project or on Tarkovsky in particular. It could be something Nekrasov picked up on that nobody else noticed, some paper he published or presented years ago. Whatever else Nekrasov is, he's not dumb."
"You don't mind handing out hard ones, do you, Sam? Do you have any idea how much wordage a major scientist like Tarkovsky publishes in his professional lifetime? Not to mention that most of it's incomprehensible to anybody but his colleagues and a lot of it's under secret label to boot."
Sam patted him on the shoulder. "I trust you, Slats. I know you can do it. Besides, it's got to be simple or Nekrasov wouldn't have seen the implications."
"Get out of here," Novak said, wearily. "Dr. Tammsalu, I'm most pleased to have made your acquaintance. Come back some time without him. I'll be working on it."
On their way back to the District, a late-model Lincoln pulled up next to them at a stoplight. The driver stuck his head out the window and shouted, "Wanna trade cars?"
"No, thanks," Sam said. The light changed and the cars went their separate ways.
"Was he serious?" Laine asked. "That looked like an expensive automobile he was driving."
"Sure he was serious," Sam said, complacently. "But no way am I trading this beauty for some crummy Continental." He sounded as if his car had been insulted.
They stopped for a late lunch at the Marriott Inn Although Sam fretted and complained about the service, Laine found it incredibly prompt. In a Moscow restaurant, a quick lunch meant anything under two hours. As usual, Sam tried discreetly to pump her for information. She decided to pump him instead.
"I know that you, or at least the officials you work for, must have some reservations concerning my allegiance," she said over coffee. "How is it that I was allowed in on your discussion with Mr. Novak? I am sure it must have been highly confidential in nature."
"For one thing," Sam said, "since you've been turned over to me, it's my job to decide how far you're to be trusted. So far, you seem pretty plausible to me. Don't forget, I've worked with a lot of defectors. Some of them turned out to be phonies. You're measuring up pretty well, so far."
"Indeed?" she said, amused. "And just what makes you think I am not one of these phonies?"
"Well, I'd've been on my guard right away if you'd come on about how much you hate the Russians and how much you hate Communism and how you've always admired America and how you've always wanted to come here and help us destroy the evil Reds."
She laughed softly. "Do they really talk like that? The phony ones, I mean?"
"The dumb ones do. The smart ones are a little more subtle, but they can't seem to help thinking that something of that sort will allay our suspicions."
"Well, if you want to know, my feelings about the Soviets are a good deal more complex than that. For one thing, the antipathy between Russia and Estonia greatly predates Marxism. We've been enemies since the Middle Ages. I try not to let that cloud my judgment, but it is inescapable. Europe is far older than America, and we can't escape our history. Their takeover of Estonia in 1945 was just one episode in a long history of rivalry. The government they imposed is dreadful: Russians occupy most of the key positions. Lack of Party membership or patronage condemns you to second-class citizenship."
"No love lost between you and the Russians, then?" Sam said.
"I've worked and studied in Russia for a good part of my life. The Russians
"Look into it," Sam said. "I know you don't take your instructions from my boss, but I think we're all missing something important here. See what your computers can turn up. Anything on the project or on Tarkovsky in particular. It could be something Nekrasov picked up on that nobody else noticed, some paper he published or presented years ago. Whatever else Nekrasov is, he's not dumb."
"You don't mind handing out hard ones, do you, Sam? Do you have any idea how much wordage a major scientist like Tarkovsky publishes in his professional lifetime? Not to mention that most of it's incomprehensible to anybody but his colleagues and a lot of it's under secret label to boot."
Sam patted him on the shoulder. "I trust you, Slats. I know you can do it. Besides, it's got to be simple or Nekrasov wouldn't have seen the implications."
"Get out of here," Novak said, wearily. "Dr. Tammsalu, I'm most pleased to have made your acquaintance. Come back some time without him. I'll be working on it."
On their way back to the District, a late-model Lincoln pulled up next to them at a stoplight. The driver stuck his head out the window and shouted, "Wanna trade cars?"
"No, thanks," Sam said. The light changed and the cars went their separate ways.
"Was he serious?" Laine asked. "That looked like an expensive automobile he was driving."
"Sure he was serious," Sam said, complacently. "But no way am I trading this beauty for some crummy Continental." He sounded as if his car had been insulted.
They stopped for a late lunch at the Marriott Inn Although Sam fretted and complained about the service, Laine found it incredibly prompt. In a Moscow restaurant, a quick lunch meant anything under two hours. As usual, Sam tried discreetly to pump her for information. She decided to pump him instead.
"I know that you, or at least the officials you work for, must have some reservations concerning my allegiance," she said over coffee. "How is it that I was allowed in on your discussion with Mr. Novak? I am sure it must have been highly confidential in nature."
"For one thing," Sam said, "since you've been turned over to me, it's my job to decide how far you're to be trusted. So far, you seem pretty plausible to me. Don't forget, I've worked with a lot of defectors. Some of them turned out to be phonies. You're measuring up pretty well, so far."
"Indeed?" she said, amused. "And just what makes you think I am not one of these phonies?"
"Well, I'd've been on my guard right away if you'd come on about how much you hate the Russians and how much you hate Communism and how you've always admired America and how you've always wanted to come here and help us destroy the evil Reds."
She laughed softly. "Do they really talk like that? The phony ones, I mean?"
"The dumb ones do. The smart ones are a little more subtle, but they can't seem to help thinking that something of that sort will allay our suspicions."
"Well, if you want to know, my feelings about the Soviets are a good deal more complex than that. For one thing, the antipathy between Russia and Estonia greatly predates Marxism. We've been enemies since the Middle Ages. I try not to let that cloud my judgment, but it is inescapable. Europe is far older than America, and we can't escape our history. Their takeover of Estonia in 1945 was just one episode in a long history of rivalry. The government they imposed is dreadful: Russians occupy most of the key positions. Lack of Party membership or patronage condemns you to second-class citizenship."
"No love lost between you and the Russians, then?" Sam said.
"I've worked and studied in Russia for a good part of my life. The Russians
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