Stuart Kaminsky - Fall of a Cosmonaut

The old scientist started in one corner of the room, picking up books, examining them, riffling through the pages, and making comments to Karpo and Vanga.

“ Unidentified Flying Objects, ” he said at one point, looking at a paperback book. “I wrote about this. Carl Jung wrote about this. Do you know what I wrote?”

“That the objects were not aliens but humans from the future,” said Vanga.

Tayumvat paused and looked at Vanga. “Yes, yes,” he said. “So, I am not completely forgotten. It is common sense. The ships come in two forms, saucers and cigar-shaped objects. My conclusion …”

“… is that they come from two different periods in the future. The cigar-shaped ones are not as far advanced as the saucers,” said Vanga.

“Correct. And why do these creatures have two arms, two legs, two eyes? Because they are evolved humans. Why would creatures from some distant galaxy look like us? Answer,” he said, looking at a pile of papers, “they would not. And why do they abduct humans and examine them? Because they want to find out about their ancestors, us. And,” he continued, going through more books, papers, and journals, “why do they avoid contact with humans?”

“Because they do not wish to alter history,” said Vanga.

“No,” said Tayumvat. “Don’t you understand Einstein? Time is already determined. Even if they were to come back and destroy us all, the time that is already in motion would continue. The time they affect would go on separately. If I can figure this, out, they can.”

“You believe this?” asked Karpo, watching Vanga carefully.

“No, I do not believe we have visitors from the future,” said Tayumvat. “I believe, however, that if these creatures do exist, my explanation is infinitely better than the theory of alien visitors. My great-grandson has one of those T-shirts, hideous, black with white letters. It says, Star Trek Is Right. What’s this?”

The old man was examining a notebook with the spirals on top. Vanga took a step toward him. Karpo held out a hand to stop him. Vanga stopped.

“Notes about people whose dreams have been scientifically proved to foretell the future,” said Tayumvat, flipping through the pages. “Interesting, the future foretold is not necessarily their own.”

“Yes,” said Vanga. “He was working with me on such a project.”

“All anecdotal,” said the old man, flipping quickly.

“We have hard research results,” said Vanga.

“I’d be interesting in seeing it,” said Tikon Tayumvat, with undisguised skepticism.

“I’ll be ready to publish soon,” he said.

“And the dead man? …”

“Bolskanov,” Karpo supplied.

“Bolskanov,” Tayumvat continued. “Your publication will include his name as co-author?”

Vanga had not considered this. He looked at the old man and then at Karpo. “He just did some of the research, under my direction. He has done none of the writing. Of course I will give him credit. I will dedicate the paper to him.”

“Let’s ask him for his side of this tale, which I have heard all too often,” said the old man, turning his back on Vanga now and continuing his search. “Oh, yes. This Bolskanov is dead. He cannot speak for himself. But perhaps I can speak for him.”

“What are you suggesting?” asked Vanga with great indignation.

“That it is convenient for you that the man is dead.”

“And you are suggesting that I killed him because I wanted to steal his work?”

“I had not considered it quite that way,” said the old man, turning again to face Vanga, “but it makes sense. It is a hypothesis. And what do you do with a reasonable hypothesis? You test it. We will test your hypothesis.”

“Inspector, I do not wish to stand here and be insulted,” Vanga said to Karpo, who stood close by his side.

“Then you may leave,” said Karpo.

“Or,” said Tayumvat, flipping through another book of notes which had been on top of a teetering pile, “you may sit.”

“But I can’t leave. I may be needed. I can check the computer.”

Vanga moved to the computer. Leaning forward he slipped the disk he had brought with him into the hard drive, hoping neither of the other two men had seen him. It was a desperate act but one he could not avoid.

“Do not turn that on,” Karpo commanded, taking Vanga’s arm.

Vanga straightened up immediately. “Yes, if you wish. I won’t turn it on. But … I just want to help.”

Tayumvat dropped the notebook in his hand on the floor and wove through the debris toward the desk. “Yes,” he said. “By all means. If this is so important to our friend, let us open it now.”

Karpo guided Vanga a few steps back while the old man sat and turned on the computer. The black screen went blue and then a series of icons began to appear, but the appearance was brief. The icons began to lose their clarity and fade.

“A virus,” said Tayumvat. “It is destroying all the information, all the files on the hard disk.”

“Can you stop it?”

“No. What is this? What is this?”

He moved the mouse to the words put away, and the disk Vanga had inserted popped out. Tayumvat reached for it.

“Don’t touch it,” said Karpo.

The old man’s hand stopped inches from the protruding disk.

“It’s not a booby trap,” Tayumvat said.

“But it may have fingerprints,” said Karpo.

Vanga had not really considered that.

Ivan Laminski drove the tan Mustang down the bumpy dirt road in the direction he had been given by the shopkeeper Podgorny. Next to Ivan sat the younger Moscow detective. Ivan wanted to talk, but it was clear that the man next to him did not. There was nothing on the radio. They were too far from any station to be able to pick one up on the Mustang’s radio.

In the back, the one-legged older Moscow detective sat looking out the window at the fields that extended back into forever.

“In the field is standing a birch tree,” Rostnikov said. “You know that song? The birch tree song?”

“No,” said Iosef.

“I think that’s it,” said Ivan, pointing to a house in a field in front of them and to the right.

Neither detective responded. Porfiry Petrovich was thinking of birch trees. Iosef was wondering what they were searching for and why.

Ivan found a smaller road to the right that seemed to head toward the house. He took it and drove slowly. When they pulled up next to the one-story wooden house, five people were standing in wait.

“Podgorny called to tell us you were coming,” said Boris Vladovka as Iosef and Porfiry Petrovich got out of the car.

“You are friends,” said Rostnikov. “I assumed he would do so if you had a telephone.”

“There are only two telephones in our town. Podgorny has one. We have one. If people wish to call outside, they know they are welcome at either of our houses.”

Rostnikov smiled at Boris Vladovka and his wife. A handsome dark woman, whose face showed the hard life she had lived, stood to the right, her hand clasping that of a small girl, no more than three, blond hair, clear skin. All were dressed cleanly but ready for a day’s work.

“Your son?” asked Rostnikov.

“Konstantin is there,” Boris said, pointing to a tractor in the distance. “We have work to do, but I understand you want to see a farm. We are happy to show you ours.”

Ivan, the driver, got out of the car, said hello to the Vladovka family, and declined an invitation to see the farm. He had seen many farms. He had no need of another.

Iosef and Porfiry Petrovich followed the family into the house and politely moved into the large living room, which held surreal-looking paintings.

“Tsimion’s work,” explained Boris. “I don’t understand what it means. Tsimion always said that it didn’t have to be put into words, explanations. The paintings, his poems, were just there to be felt. What was it he said?”