Man Who Wanted Tomorrow (6 page)

Kurnov stared at him, staying silent.

“Have you been down to the camps at Potma recently?” dangerously enlarged Mavetsky, realizing his mistake and needing a comment from the other man. Mavetsky was a fool, decided Kurnov. The minister knew precisely what his movements were, so the question was pointless. It was a juvenile attempt to cover himself on tape.

“The Americans had some interesting theories, though,” he sidestepped.

Mavetsky shrugged. Despite Kurnov's suspicions, there had been no initial malice in the question about the Potma labor-camp. It had occurred to him spontaneously to see how mentally alert Kurnov was, and he had thrown the query out unthinkingly. Which had been stupid. It didn't do to be shown to be a person who discussed such things so easily.

“Will you accept the invitation to be at Houston for the link-up?” asked Kurnov. He knew that would be the point of his summons before the minister.

“I don't know. What do you think?”

“I'd like to go,” said Kurnov, consciously attempting to sound casual. “The Houston communications are good. Electronically, they've established a good investigation pattern. I shall be able to get instant voiceprints for each day's conversation, to enable immediate testing for any tension. One of their astronauts is a trained doctor. He'll be conducting electroencephaloeranhs and cardiac readings in flight for transmission to Houston …”

Kurnov cut off, abruptly. He'd already submitted a lengthy memorandum to the minister, containing all the points. There was a danger in over-stressing the advantages.

“You seem very
keen
” said the minister.

Kurnov felt a lurch. The face stayed expressionless, of course. Often Kurnov had reflected on the advantages of having had such complete plastic surgery. There had been some small nerves carelessly destroved, which had worried him at first. Even now, he realized, it might create some slight deformity as he got very old, but at the moment he looked far vounger than his fifty-nine years, and enjoyed being able to hide any emotion. Long ago he had learned how unsettling people found it.

“I've always been enthusiastic about my work,” he said, easily.

Mavetsky was anxious to recover from the earlier blunder.

“Surely our own communications are equal to those of the Americans?”

“Unquestionably,” agreed Kurnov, anticipating the other man's reaction. “All the more reason for my going to America. I know exactly the detail that will be available here. But we can't be sure what will go into Houston, unless I'm there, ensuring they can't conceal anything. If I have their complete records to compare against those we take at Baikonur, my part of the research will be guaranteed.”

It was unarguable logic, realized Mavetsky. Kurnov was manipulating him, he decided, angrily.

“They will expect to have someone here, for the same reason,” threw back the minister.

“Undoubtedly,” agreed Kuraov again. “That's part of the agreement, anyway. But I've met every one of their team. Only two speak Russian and then so badly it is almost laughable. For most of the time in any control center, they won't understand what is happening.”

Kurnov
had
prepared himself well, conceded Mavetsky. He was a very formidable man.

“One is inclined to forget how fluent you are in so many languages,” said Mavetsky, carelessly.

“One should never overlook something to their advantage,” returned the smoothfaced man and the minister frowned. On a recording, what had been a remark of some sarcasm would appear naïve.

“Obviously you should go then,” said Mavetsky, tightly.

It had been stupid to jump so quickly, realized Kurnov. He was approaching the most difficult part of the interview and now the other man was antagonized. Perhaps one day, he thought, accepting the psychological failing, he'd be able to control the need to prove himself constantly superior to everyone.

“I thought I might be able to encompass several things on one trip,” he said. To attempt a casual tone would only have alerted the other man, so he didn't bother.

Mavetsky looked up, like an animal sniffing the wind to detect danger.

“Like what?” he said, cautiously.

It was time to make concessions, decided Kurnov. He wondered if he could disarm the other man.

“There have been one or two things I've found curious in the last few months, during my visit to Potma,” he said.

Mavetsky just avoided the smile of satisfaction. The tape wouldn't be damaging now.

“Curious?” he probed.

“Just odd, inexplicable behavior, from men finally realizing their lives have ended, even though their bodies continue to function. I felt it might translate to the effect upon a cosmonaut if his craft malfunctioned and he realized there was no way of rescue, although there was the support system to enable life to continue in space for a period of time.”

How had that idea occurred to him? wondered Kurnov. Suddenly he remembered. That bumptious
NASA
director had asked him whether Russians could survive with such knowledge. He had assured the man they could, he recalled. He hoped the American hadn't continued the discussion with Mavetsky.

It sounded plausible, determined the minister, but he felt Kurnov was floundering. This recording should be put to one side, with the others selected for easy reference if the need arose.

“I can't quite see …?” Mavetsky encouraged.

“There's a world-wide conference of prison psychiatrists and doctors, a fortnight before the space launch. We've got accreditation, but the party still isn't finally chosen …”

“And you want to go?” asked Mavetsky. Why? he wondered.

“It might be interesting,” said Kurnov. “The public sessions probably will be very dull. They usually are. But the benefits will come from private conversations and contacts.”

The hope was just detectable in the man's voice, thought Mavetsky. He was concentrating fully now. Something was wrong, very wrong. He would have to be careful. There might be difficulty from association.

“Strange you've never thought such conferences worth attending before,” said Mavetsky, gently. It would be wrong to frighten the man too soon.

“I haven't encountered the Potma manifestation before,” replied Kurnov. “Other countries may have done and conducted some research into it. If they have, I'd like to read their papers.”

He's suspicious, he thought, worriedly. It had been stupid to annoy him earlier. The man's vanity was malleable. It would have been so easy to have flattered him and smothered the doubt he was now feeling.

“I really think there would be benefit from attending,” he said. He was annoyed at the need to speak again. It put him at a disadvantage.

“I don't
doubt
your sincerity,” assured Mavetsky. Never before had he felt Kurnov to be so obviously discomforted. The minister was enjoying the encounter.

“Where is this conference?” demanded Mavetsky.

Kurnov didn't reply immediately, which was a tactical error. God, how badly he'd handled the entire interview, he thought. He wondered if Mavetsky's suspicions could be dangerous. Probably, he conceded. The man was a survivor. People like him remained because they were able to anticipate difficulties.

“Berlin,” he announced, simply.

Mavetsky stared at him, his face quite blank. He let the silence build up, knowing it would unsettle further the other man. He was reacting as Kurnov would in similar circumstances, Mavetsky decided. Any further discussion would be wrong. Mavetsky knew he had to end the winner.

“Right,” he concluded, dismissively. “Send me a full note …”

He hesitated, allowing the doubt, knowing the effect it would have upon Kurnov.

“… You know how it is, this mania for bureaucratic records. We'll discuss it finally next week.”

“I really think …” the scientist tried to enforce again, with just too much hope. Mavetsky raised his hands, cutting him off, then made an officious point of consulting his appointment-book, as if Kurnov were overstaying his time. He changed the halting gesture into an open-palmed movement of helplessness.

“… Like I said earlier … I've a busy life …”

Kurnov rose, anger knotted within him. Bastard, he thought. Like a randy dog sniffing lamp-posts for the scent of a bitch in season, Mavetsky believed he could detect an odor to pursue. Kurnov was sure of it. That persistent bubble of fear rose within him.

“Thank you for sparing me the time, minister,” he said, formally. Humility choked him, like a piece of meat badly chewed.

“Any time. You know that, Vladimir.”

For a long time after Kurnov had left, Mavetsky sat, staring unseeingly ahead. He felt like an algebra student abandoned by a teacher in mid-course: all the signs were available, but he didn't know how to arrange them into a formula that would produce a solution. Assessed against Kurnov's known history, Berlin had to be the key, he decided. On impulse, he summoned the fastidious secretary and demanded Kurnov's file. It was returned within thirty minutes, rimmed with dust from the cabinet in which it had lain for so long. He unclipped the spiral holding the pages into position and spread them over the desk, creating a montage from which he hoped to spot the piece that made it incomplete. Before adopting Russian nationality, he read, Kurnov's name had been Klaus Reinhart. A graduate from the Berlin Medical School in 1938, he had been jailed in 1939 for organizing junior doctors against joining the Nazi party. Freed because of the war, he had been rejected as psychologically unsuitable for medical service on any front, instead serving in four prisoner-of-war camps. There were frequent references to operations he had performed repairing the damage caused by the S.S. butchers to extract information from inmates. And numerous commendations from the Red Cross about his work, often carried out in defiance of official Nazi orders. There was even a copy of an S.S. order committing him to Buchenwald concentration camp for the treatment he had given Russian prisoners. Luckily, the war had ended before that order could be put into effect.

He was, noted the minister, a native of Berlin. So what? That didn't give any clue for wanting to return to the city for the conference. Mavetsky turned the page, studying Kurnov's picture. Odd how little the man had aged, he thought in passing. He flicked without interest through the fingerprint file, then read the impressive list of Kurnov's achievements since his decision to settle in the Soviet Union. The minister pushed the file to one side and swiveled to look out over the capital. It was already quite dark, but the whiteness of the snow reflected what little light was left, giving the buildings an unreal glow. There was no clue in the file, he decided. Kurnov was unquestionably an anti-Nazi, properly recognized as a war hero whose work had subsequently proven invaluable to the Soviet Union, so properly earning all the honors and awards accorded him.

There was still something wrong in today's request. He was convinced of it. He went back to the file, shuffling it like a losing card-sharp desperately trying to locate an ace.

The space program was classified as top secret, Mavetsky knew. Therefore there would have been a detailed investigation into the man's background before he was allowed to become part of it. Accustomed to bulky, exhaustive character-documentation, the minister was surprised at the brevity of Kurnov's personal records. Several times it was noted that data confirming the information supplied were unavailable because all records had been destroyed by the blitz upon Berlin or were thought to be held by one of the other three occupying powers. Nearly all the information, Mavetsky realized, was that supplied either directly or inadvertently by the man himself. Unusual, decided the minister. Although well aware of the chaos and destruction of those last days in Berlin, he would have expected some corroborative evidence to have been available.

There were ten affidavits, he saw, from Russian prisoners, who had been interviewed in rehabilitation hospitals, attesting to Reinhart's treatment of them, often in open contradiction to the known instructions from superior officers. A brave man, thought the minister. Would Kurnov defy authority? he wondered. Of course he would, he answered himself, immediately. He did it practically all the time. He paused, reconsidering the thought. Although not so certain as the other critics, Mavetsky had always thought the man's defiance based upon arrogance, not principles. He found himself unsure whether Kurnov would flout a directive merely from conscience.

He stared down at the papers strewn over the desk. There was no answer there, he decided.

The pages were numbered and he began collating them in order to replace them upon the spiral. He stopped, staring down at Kurnov's picture. A brave man, he reflected, someone who knowingly faced death in a concentration camp rather than sacrifice the lives under his care. He looked away from the picture, back across the room, remembering the man's remarks about Potma. Kurnov's principles about human suffering had altered dramatically in thirty years, he realized suddenly. What he had not been prepared to accept in the extremity of war he was now able not only to countenance but participate in during peacetime. It was the jarring illogicality from the entire file. He read again the affidavits from the survivors. “Compassionate,” said one. “Humane,” asserted another. “Selfless disregard for personal safety,” listed a third. Never, thought Mavetsky, would he have chosen such words to describe the man who had sat before him an hour earlier. He started again replacing the affidavits, re-sealing the box, then sat back, forming a tower with his fingertips, parading the thoughts before him. An inadequate file, certainly. But not unusual in the circumstances.

A character now that did not reconcile completely with the prisoners' accounts of the man who had treated them over thirty years ago. Too flimsy to permit an official investigation, dismissed the minister.