Read Online Who's on First by William F. Buckley - Free Book Online Page A

broke in. “We’ve put together”—he took a file from the drawer of an antique buffet and opened it as they walked into the formal living room—“everything we could find, every public reference, every bulletin; we did as much poking about in Moscow as we could. Our guy asked some routine questions here and there, and here it is: They were married in April 1954. Both Tamara and Kapitsa have had three promotions in the last two years. She is now a full-fledged associate at the aerodynamics laboratory, and he is one of its six research directors, working under General Bolknovitinov. The whole thing is under the general supervision of Academician Nesmayanov, then of Korolyov, the General Groves in the situation, who reports to the chiefs of staff and directly to the Kremlin.
    â€œThe Kapitsas have an apartment at the Tyura Tam compound. No children. No notoriety of any sort, that we can come up with. And listen—Kapitsa and his wife have already been abroad. Last year, as part of a scientific exchange visit, Viktor went to Rome with a Russian delegation and delivered a lecture. Tamara was with him, and handled the slides during Viktor’s lecture. We found out, in Rome, that the group—there were thirty of them—traveled together everywhere, from the conference, to the hotel, to the sight-seeing places, to the restaurants. There were no incidents, no irregularities, nothing.”
    â€œAnd Tamara was with him,” Vadim said, as if to himself. “That is bad, that is very bad.”
    â€œWhy do you say that?” Trust asked.
    â€œBecause if Tamara was with Viktor, and both in a foreign country, it would have been good if they went for asylum, political asylum. If they didn’t, they were scared. Or”—he looked down—“or they do not want to leave Russia.”
    Trust got up. “It’s late, Serge—what the hell, Vadim. We’ve got a lot of detail to go over tomorrow. I’m going to go over a few things with … Julian, here.”
    Vadim rose. “I too am tired. But”—he looked mischievously at them—“not so tired as to not to take myself upstairs maybe a little vodka-soda. You wish me to bring you something from the kitchen?”
    â€œNo thanks,” Blackford volunteered. “Maybe later.” Blackford found himself, rather unexpectedly, on his feet. The least he could do, he reasoned, in deference to someone who had spent eight years in Gulag, and emerged spiritually whole, so far as one could judge. And Blackford tended to judge quickly, though his judgments, while always impatient, were not always reliable.
    â€œI like him,” he said simply to Anthony, after Vadim had gone off noisily to bed.
    â€œI like him, too. There’s something about him I’d guess Gulag brought out.”
    â€œThis one’s a pisser, isn’t it?”
    â€œYeah, the brass in Washington are entitled to be pretty desperate if they figure the Soviet Union is going to outperform us in space.”
    â€œThose goddam Russians,” Blackford mused. “Send people off to slave-labor camps and the next day put ’em to work creating a scientific breakthrough. Maybe we ought to tell them we bought the atmosphere from the Indians, and we’re sorry, but No Trespassing.… You don’t suppose, Anthony, the Russians are superior to Americans?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œMaybe communism makes sense?”
    â€œYeah, right: We might ask Rufus to conduct a seminar.”
    â€œDid you travel with Vadim?”
    â€œWe came separately. We arrived two hours before you did. I’ve read his security record. Lives absolutely alone, orders everything he can get his hands on in Russian. He had become reclusive at his little farm in New York. Only Kapitsa could have brought him back into action. He’s never got over Vorkuta, the guys who grilled him told me, and I think it’s clear that’s