Ben Bova - Voyagers

“I don’t want to call in anybody else if we can avoid it,” Tuttle said. “God knows there’s enough people involved in this project already. I don’t want to let anybody else know what we’re onto. Not yet.”

“Stoner will co-operate.”

“And he can get more photographs from Big Eye?”

“He helped design and build it. The telescope is being checked out by the NASA people at Goddard, before they officially turn it over to the university consortium that’ll run it. The official hand-over date is January first. Until then, the Goddard people are happy to help out an old pal. Stoner worked with those people for five years. They think they’re just helping out a guy who got laid off by shipping him some photos of Jupiter.”

“And Stoner himself won’t cause any trouble for us? He’ll stay where we’ve put him?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure? Absolutely certain?”

McDermott leaned his heavy forearms on the wobbly little table. “Listen to me. He’s got everything he needs up there at the house. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll get a girl for him—one of the students, a kid named Jo something-or-other. Hot stuff. She’ll go prancing up there and we’ll let nature take its course. She’ll keep him busy. And happy to stay where he is.”

Tuttle scowled disapprovingly. “That’s sinful.”

“It sure is.”

“Well,” the Navy officer said, “I hope she’s signed a security agreement, at least.”

Markov drowsed in the back seat as the car hummed through the gray October afternoon along the endless highway, kilometer after kilometer of flat, empty countryside. A thin coating of snow lay over the ground. The fields were bare. The trees stark and leafless against the dull sky.

Mother Russia, Markov mused, half asleep. The real strength of our nation: the soil, all its vastness, all its timeless power.

The sun was a dull yellowish blotch on the horizon when the car finally stopped at a chain link fence. A pair of soldiers stood by the gate. Except for their little wooden sentry house, Markov could see no structure anywhere. The fence seemed to be guarding emptiness, as far as the eye could roam.

The driver exchanged words with the soldiers and Markov opened his briefcase to show them his papers. They were very polite to him and quickly swung the gate open.

As the car accelerated along the blacktopped road, Markov realized that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. The dreary landscape stretched in all directions, empty and gray. His stomach rumbled. I might as well be going to Siberia, he thought. This land is exile for a Muscovite like me.

It was fully dark by the time they came to the second fence. The guardhouse there was bigger, and made of stone. Again soldiers looked over his papers, by the glow of a flashlight.

“Professor Markov, you are expected. One moment, please.”

The guard disappeared into the stone building. In a few seconds a young lady came bouncing out to the car, long hair flying, fur-trimmed coat unbuttoned.

“Professor Markov!” she exclaimed, opening the car door and scrambling in beside him. “We were getting worried about you; you’re quite late.” She tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Go straight ahead and take the second left.”

Before Markov could say anything, she turned back to him. “I am Sonya Vlasov…I am only a graduate student here, doing my doctoral thesis work, but the director asked me to be your guide.” She was almost breathless with excitement.

Markov paid no attention to the row upon row of huge radio telescopes that glinted metallically in the lights from the road. He saw only that Sonya Vlasov was young, eager, a little plump, and had enormous breasts.

“My personal guide?” He smiled at her in a fatherly way.

“Oh yes. Whatever you want or need, it will be my pleasure to see that you get it.”

“How very thoughtful.”

She pushed back her long, light brown hair with one hand, a motion that made her coat open even more.

“Welcome to the Landau Radio Astronomy Institute, Professor Markov!” she said happily.

Markov nodded graciously. Exile might not be so bad after all, he thought.

Stoner looked up from his frozen dinner and saw Jo standing in the kitchen doorway, a thick manila folder clutched in her mittened hands.

For a moment he didn’t know what to say. Dark anger rushed through him; he could feel its heat in his face.

“What are you doing here?”

She stood her ground. “I brought the latest packet of photographs from Goddard Space Center.” Her voice was low but steady.

“Brought me my homework. Thanks a lot.”

Taking a step into the kitchen, Jo said, “Professor McDermott needed somebody to carry things from the observatory to you. He told me to do it.”

Stoner said nothing.

“I had to get special clearance from the Navy.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Look—I didn’t think they’d do this to you.” Jo’s voice didn’t tremble, but he could sense the tension in it. And there was something in her face, something in those dark eyes of hers: guilt, or fear, or…what?

“What did you think they’d do?” he asked.

She shrugged inside her heavy wool coat. “I don’t know. I tried to warn you…to tell you that McDermott was uptight about you going to Washington…”

“How’d he find out, Jo?”

Her face fell. In a voice so low he could barely hear it, she answered, “I told him.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“He pressured me. I’ve been cutting a lot of classes to be out at the observatory. He said he’d flunk me out if I didn’t tell him what you were up to.”

He studied her. If she’s lying, she’s good at it. Anger was seething inside him. Or was it something else, something more? Anger usually left Stoner cold, his mind became as unemotional and unfeeling as an electronic computer. But now his hands wanted to grab and tear, his insides were jumping, blood pounding. Jesus, Stoner realized, it’s been months since I’ve gotten laid.

“Come on in,” he said, trying to make it sound calm. “Take your coat off. Sit down. Have some coffee.”

Hesitantly Jo entered the kitchen. She put the thick manila folder on the Formica-topped counter, pulled off her mittens, slipped out of the coat. Stoner went to the range, where the glass coffeepot sat, half empty.

“No coffee for me, thanks.” She took the stool across the counter from his and watched him pour himself a cup. “Are they treating you all right here? Is there anything I can bring you?”

“My car and the keys to it.”

“They won’t let me.”

He carried the steaming mug back to the counter and sat down facing her. “That old car’s the only thing I’ve got to show for sixteen years of marriage.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve become kind of attached to it.”

“But they’re treating you okay? They’re not giving you any hassles?”