The Russian—so it was most convenient to think of him, at least for the moment—stood with Lanier on the porch, waiting for the wink of a shuttle’s lights. The night sky was a smear of aluminum dust across solid black, depth upon depth of stars. The air had cleared since the Death, Earth’s natural healing mechanisms removing most atmospheric traces of the conflagration. There were few pollution sources anywhere now, even with the Recovery well along. Hexamon Technology was non-polluting, self-contained.
The first lights they saw were not in the sky, but along the road leading up the side of the valley to the cabin. Lanier pursed his lips and met the Russian’s glance with a shrug. “My wife,” he said. He had hoped to get the Russian away before her arrival.
The rugged All-Terrain Vehicle, modeled after types used by the first investigators on the Stone, ground its tires along the gravel drive to one side of the cabin and stopped, its electrical motors cutting abruptly. Karen swung down from the cabin in the automatic glare of the outdoor floodlights, saw Lanier on the porch and waved at him. He waved back, feeling older just looking at her.
In their life together, he had seen her age a decade or two, grow old along with me, then regress under therapy, the same therapy he had turned down. She looked a youthful forty at most.
“I’ve been in town,” she called out in Chinese as she dragged her duffel from the rear of the ATV. “We’re setting up an artificial social network, so the—” She saw the Russian and stopped on the porch steps, biting her lower lip. She looked over her shoulder at the drive; no other vehicles. Then she queried Lanier with one raised eyebrow.
“This is a visitor. His name is Pavel,” he said.
“We have not met,” the Russian said, stepping forward and extending his hand. “I am Pavel Mirsky.”
Karen smiled politely, but her instincts had been aroused.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, shifting her eyes to her husband. She glanced between them quickly, brow furrowed.
“I’m fine. His name,” Lanier repeated with some deliberate drama, “is Pavel Mirsky.”
“I know the name,” she said. “Wasn’t that the Russian commander on the Stone? Went with the precincts down the Way…didn’t he?” Her eyes fell accusingly on Lanier: What is this? She had seen pictures of Mirsky in the history tapes. The game was up. She recognized him. “You look just like him.”
“I hope I haven’t disturbed you,” the Russian said.
“He’s a son, a look-alike?” she asked Lanier.
He shook his head.
She stood on the top step, hands clasped before her. “You’re sure everything is all right? You’re joking with me.” She climbed up one step, paused again. Then, in Chinese, she asked Lanier, “Who is this man?”
In Chinese, Lanier responded, “He’s a good imitation, if not the real thing. I’m taking him to meet with Korzenowski.”
Karen walked slowly before them, examining the Russian, biting her lower lip. “Where did you come from?”
The Russian looked between them. “I have not explained that yet,” he said. “Better to wait until it all comes out.”
“You can’t be Mirsky,” Karen said. “If you’re trying to hoodwink my husband…All we heard would have to be a lie.”
Surprisingly, Lanier hadn’t considered that possibility. He had not, of course, actually seen Mirsky go down the Way.
“No lies,” the Russian said. “I am pleased to finally meet you. I have always thought your husband a fine man, a true leader, with sound judgment. I congratulate both of you.”
“Why?” Lainer asked.
“On having found each other,” the Russian explained.
“Thank you,” Karen said sharply. “Have you offered our guest any refreshment, Garry?” She carried her duffel into the cabin. Her suspicion had turned into anger.
“We’re expecting the shuttle any minute,” he answered. “We’ve eaten a little, and had a beer.”
The Russian smiled at the mention of the beer. His enjoyment had been obvious.
Karen made various small noises in the kitchen, then continued her interrupted conversation through the screened window opening onto the porch. “We’re going to get twenty or thirty village leaders and political science students from Christchurch and fly them to Axis Thoreau. It’s going to be a kind of conference, all in city memory, to establish social ties it would take years to make otherwise. They’ll all act as if they were family afterwards, if it goes well. Think of all politicians having family ties with each other, and their constituents? It could be wonderful.” Her tone had changed; now she was ignoring the mystery.
Lanier suddenly felt exhausted. All he wanted was to lie back on the old couch before the cabin’s fireplace and close his eyes.
“Here comes the shuttle,” the Russian said, pointing. A blip of white soared across the opposite side of the valley, then swooped in low, just above the trees. Karen returned to the porch, face strained, and looked up at her husband.
“What in hell are you doing?” she demanded in an undertone. “Where are you going?”
Lanier shook his head. “To the Stone.” Everything was losing its edge of reality. Nothing seemed very probable. “I don’t know when we’ll be back.”
“You shouldn’t go alone. I can’t go with you,” she said. “I have to be in Christchurch tomorrow.” She glanced at Lanier. Karen was no fool, but she was having a difficult time shifting gears. Her expression said that she knew just how odd this really was; and how important it might be. “Maybe you can explain to me after you get to the Stone?”
“I’ll try,” Lanier said.
“I am sorry for the disruption,” the Russian said quietly.
“You shut up,” Karen cried, turning on him. “You’re just a goddamned ghost.”
At that, Lanier smiled. He put his hand on Karen’s shoulder, both to reassure her and stop her from saying more. The gestures come easily enough, he thought. Why not the feeling?
They were off, cushioned in the free-form white interior of the shuttle, flying high above the dark Earth. In the sky, staring out across the black, ridged horizon, where bloom of stars met mountains, Lanier felt free. He hadn’t flown in years, had almost forgotten the feeling. As soon as the shuttle pointed its blunted nose straight up, and the view through the transparency in the hull tilted, his exhilaration changed to an opposite dread.
Space.
How nice just to fly in the thin film of air, and avoid the larger issues. Flying was like a marvelous kind of sleep, above the hard reality of waking, but below the greater blackness of death…
Across the aisle, the Russian stared straight ahead, not bothering to examine the view, as if he had seen it all so often it could not affect him one way or the other. The Russian did not look thoughtful. He did not look concerned. There was no way to know what all this meant to him, or how he felt about the meeting with Korzenowski…or about returning to the Stone.
If he was Mirsky, his return to Thistledown should hold a true emotional charge. The last time he had entered the Stone, it had been through a fury of projectiles and laser beams, as part of the Russian invasion force, just before, perhaps as prelude to, the Death.
Lanier realized that if this was Mirsky, then from that fateful moment until he came to the valley, he had not seen Earth again.
The flight, smooth and quiet, seemingly effortless, did not reduce Lanier’s sense of unreality. If he is Mirsky, where has he been since—what has he seen?