Stuart Kaminsky - Fall of a Cosmonaut

“Perhaps not, but …”

“You have information on Vladovka’s entire life,” said Stoltz, a bit impatiently. “We sent your office a copy of our file. Where he is from, who his friends and relatives are, and what he looks like. Why not start with his family?”

“I think, perhaps, our office has the case because others, State Security, have talked to them and come away with nothing. I will talk to his family, but first another direction.”

“The other cosmonauts,” said Stoltz.

“Yes.”

“Well, it will be but one meeting. Baklunov is dead. Cancer of the liver. He went quickly.”

“On the flight, he was …”

“… conducting experiments. He was a biologist. Very promising. His death was a tragedy for the program, for Russia,” said Stoltz. “Other questions?”

“What happened on that last flight that required an emergency rescue of Tsimion Vladovka and the others?”

“Test results came in,” said Stoltz. “Results of tests taken routinely on all cosmonauts. Sometimes the results take a long time to get to us. We learned of Baklunov’s cancer and were told that he had to come back for treatment.”

“Why did the others not stay in space?”

“Vladovka and Kinotskin had been on the mission for many months. A new team was ready. Since we were nearing the end of the Mir program and the expense of sending a shuttle to the station was so great, we would simply make the replacement planned for two months later and save the expense of another shuttle flight. Kinotskin will verify and give you details if you like.”

“And the cosmonauts who replaced them,” said Rostnikov. “I would like to talk to them.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange, but it may well take a while.”

“May I ask why?”

“Oh, two are out of the country, an extended stay in the United States to consult on their proposed manned space efforts. An attempt to continue to build relations with the Americans. Actually, I do not trust the Americans, but I do not make policy.”

“And the other cosmonaut who took over the mission?”

“Bobchek is in China now,” said Stoltz, looking across the square at two old men engaged in a bitter argument. “Went with our blessing, reluctant blessing, but a blessing nonetheless. He is a consultant to a computer-chip development company. Eventually they will discover, if they have not already, that Bobchek was the least bright of all the cosmonauts in the last forty years. His conciliative powers are negative. We could not plant a more effective agent with the Chinese to impede their electronic research if we planned for a decade. There are no plans for his return.”

Rostnikov nodded and began the awkward process of getting up. “You have no idea of why Vladovka would run, hide?” he asked. “No theory of your own?”

Stoltz shrugged. “Who knows? A woman perhaps. An offer from a foreign government, possibly the French, possibly the English. Vladovka knows a great deal about our space program.”

“A great deal that we have not shared with other countries and that they do not already know?”

“Who knows what other countries will pay for? The space race is on again. We are behind on launching a new station with the Americans. Vladovka could possibly embarrass us with what he knows of our problems. We would certainly survive such embarrassment but … You know. You have superiors. I have people to whom I must report. Those in charge; as you well know, have but a tenuous grasp on their power. Embarrassments can be used to destroy people.”

Rostnikov, now standing, nodded. He believed very little that Stoltz had told him. The man was too cooperative, too ready with answers. More was going on than Rostnikov was being told, or was likely to be told by Kinotskin, the one cosmonaut other than Vladovka who knew about the flight, but still …

The two men shook hands.

“I’ll call your office with a time and place to meet Kinotskin.”

“Soon,” said Rostnikov. “Preferably today.”

“We all want Vladovka found soon,” said Stoltz.

“Do you like Vladovka?” Rostnikov asked, his hand still in that of Stoltz. The hand he shook remained firm and strong, but Porfiry Petrovich felt something, the hint of a small, deep tremor perhaps.

“Does that make a difference?” Stoltz said, removing his hand.

“Who knows? The question came to me. I asked it. I’m curious. It is my job to be curious.”

“No, I do not like Vladovka,” said Stoltz, now meeting “eyes. “He is too much of a dreamer, too difficult to gauge. A botanist. He prefers the company of plants to that of people. I had the feeling he was elsewhere during many of our conversations, and he said odd things that he could or would not explain.”

“Like my name?”

“Yes, precisely, like your name. Where he got it or why he mentioned it in space to me, I do not know; he never said when he returned to earth, but I think it ironic.”

“How so?” asked Rostnikov.

“He chose the man who would track him down,” said Stoltz.

Rostnikov nodded and looked around the small park. Not far from here was an old Russian Orthodox church that had been sold to Jews who had, as inconspicuously as possible, converted it to a synagogue. The rabbi, a young Israelite named Avrum Belinsky, was a friend of “through tragedy. Several young Jews had been murdered in what had appeared to be an anti-Semitic act of terror. Rostnikov had found the murderers with Belinsky’s help. The crime had been one of greed and not of hate. Rostnikov and the young rabbi shared some secrets about the case. Perhaps Rostnikov and Iosef would walk over to see the rabbi after lunch.

“I’m going to join Iosef and Dovnikovich for lunch. Would you like to come, talk about weights and competition?”

“No, thank you,” said Stoltz. “I have to get back to our Moscow office. Every day is problems.”

Rostnikov nodded and said, “Then I look forward to your call and to seeing you again. I am sure I will see you again.”

It was Stoltz’s chance to nod before he turned and walked quickly away.

The Center for the Study of Technical Parapsychology was within easy walking distance of the Kremlin. There was no sign outside the gray-stone building indicating its purpose. Wedged in between an eight-story red-brick office building and an Atmospheric Research Center of hard concrete and proud sign, the Center for Technical Parapsychology remained relatively anonymous. It had once housed the offices of the International Institute of Communist Parties and Development. Since then it had gone through a massive renovation. The rooms they were shown were all on one floor, the second floor. The first floor was reserved for offices, meeting rooms, a library, and a business-and-records office.

Nothing in the brief explanation they had been given made much sense to Zelach, who simply adjusted his glasses and followed Karpo and the woman in the gray suit who wore glasses far more stylish than his. She was about forty, a bit on the thin side, and plain of appearance with short dark hair. She wore a white laboratory coat. She used no makeup and walked with her hands folded across her small breasts. Her one attractive feature, as far as Zelach was concerned, though he would not admit it to himself, was her ample mouth. She spoke slowly, deliberately, but it made no difference in Akardy Zelach’s comprehension.

“We, I mean the Soviet Union, were the first to officially sanction the study of psi phenomena,” Nadia Spectorski said as she had opened the door of the first room, which contained a wall of steel-colored machines, some with metal arms jutting out. “Do you know the term psi ?”

“Psi,” said Karpo, examining the room, “is the twenty-third letter of the Greek alphabet. It is a general term for the entire spectrum of paranormal phenomena.”