Алексей Николаевич Толстой - The Garin Death Ray

Behind the high, dark walnut doors Chemical King Rolling sat in his sanctuary amidst diagrams, cartograms and photographs. Filtered visitors passed softly across the thick carpet of the anteroom, took their seats on leather chairs and glanced nervously at the walnut portals. There, behind those doors, the very air in the king's office was of unbelievable value for it was saturated with thoughts that cost fifty thousand dollars a second.

What human heart could beat calmly when, amidst the reverent silence of the anteroom, the massive bronze door handle in the form of a claw holding a ball suddenly moved and through the walnut doors appeared a little man in a dark-grey jacket, with the world-famous beard covering his cheeks, a man agonizingly ungracious, almost a superman, with a yellow, unhealthy face that was reminiscent of his world-renowned trade-mark: a yellow circle with four black bars... Opening the door slightly the king would fix his eyes on the visitor and say with a strong American accent, "Entrez."

Holding his gold pencil with two fingers the secretary asked (with excessive politeness):

"Won't you be so good as to tell me your name?"

"General Subbotin, Russian emigre."

The general angrily straightened his shoulders and wiped his grey moustache with a crumpled handkerchief.

The secretary, smiling as though the conversation touched on the most pleasant and most friendly matters, made a rapid note on his pad and then asked with extreme caution:

"May I ask, Monsieur Subbotin, the object of the talk you wish to have with Mr. Rolling?"

"Something of extraordinary importance."

"Maybe if you were to tell me I could put it briefly to Mr. Rolling?"

"You see, my object is a very simple one, so to say... a plan. ... Mutual advantage..."

"The plan concerns chemical warfare against the Bolsheviks, I presume?" asked the secretary.

"Absolutely right... I intend to propose to Mr. Rolling...."

"I'm afraid," the secretary interjected with charming politeness and his pleasant face even registered pain, "I'm afraid that Mr. Rolling is somewhat overloaded with such plans. This week we have received a hundred and twenty-four proposals for chemical warfare against the Bolsheviks from Russians alone. In our portfolio we have an excellent plan for a simultaneous chemical air attack on Kharkov, Moscow, and Petrograd. The author of the plan very cleverly places his forces on the territories of the buffer states-—very, very interesting. The author even provides a precise estimate of the cost: six thousand eight hundred and fifty tons of mustard gas for the annihilation of the inhabitants of those three cities."

General Subbotin turned a deep red from a rush of blood to his head.

"Then what's the matter, mister what's your name," he interrupted the secretary. "My plan's just as good, but that's brilliant, too. You must act! You must go over from words to deeds... What's the hold-up?"

"My dear general, the trouble is that Mr. Rolling does not yet see any return for his outlay."

"What d'you mean—return?"

"It would be no trouble at all for Mr. Rolling to drop six thousand eight hundred and fifty tons of mustard gas from aircraft, but a certain expenditure would be involved. War costs money, doesn't it? In the plans that have been presented to Mr. Rolling he finds nothing but expenditure. Unfortunately no equivalent, that is no profit, from acts of sabotage against the Bolsheviks is indicated."

"Why, it's as clear as daylight... profits, colossal profits for anybody who will give Russia back her lawful rulers, a lawful, normal social system—mountains of gold are in store for such a man!" The general, like an eagle, peered from under his brows fixedly at the secretary. "Then I must also show the profit?"

"Yes, give the exact figures, credit on the left, debit on the right, a line and a balance with a plus sign that might interest Mr. Rolling."

"I see," the general snorted, pulled his dusty hat over his eyes and walked determinedly to the door.

The general had no sooner left than the voice of the errand-boy rose in protest at the door, followed by another voice expressing the desire that the devil might take the boy; Semyonov appeared in front of the secretary, his coat unbuttoned, his hat and stick in his hand, and a chewed cigar in the corner of his mouth.

"Good morning, old boy," he said hastily to the secretary, throwing his hat and stick on to the table, "let me straight in to the king, will you?"

The secretary's gold pencil hovered in the air.

"But Mr. Rolling is very busy today."

"Nonsense, old boy... I've got a fellow waiting in my car who's just arrived from Warsaw... Tell Rolling we've come about the Garin business."

The secretary's brows flew up and he immediately vanished behind the walnut doors. A moment later his head appeared round the door. "Monsieur Semyonov, come in please," he hissed in a caressing whisper. And he himself pressed the claw and ball door handle.

When Semyonov confronted the Chemical King he was not particularly flustered, firstly, because he was a boor by nature, and secondly, because at the present moment the king needed him more than he the king.

Rolling's green eyes pierced him through and through. Unperturbed, Semyonov sat down opposite him on the other side of the desk.

"Well?" asked Rolling.

"We've done the job."

"The drawings?"

"You see, Mr. Rolling, there has been a slight hitch___"

"I asked where the drawings are. I don't see them," said Rolling viciously, slapping the table lightly with his hand.

"Listen, Rolling, we agreed that I should not only bring you the drawings but also the apparatus itself... I've done an awful lot... I found people... I sent them to Petrograd. They got into Garin's laboratory. They saw the work of the apparatus... And then, the devil alone knows what happened... In the first place there were two Garins."

"I assumed that from the very beginning," said Rolling contemptuously.

"One of them we managed to remove."

"You killed him?"

"If you like, something of that sort. In any case he died. That should not worry you; he was liquidated in Petrograd and was a Soviet subject, so it doesn't matter. But then his double appeared. We made a tremendous effort..."

"In a word," Rolling interrupted him, "the double or Garin himself is still alive and you haven't brought me either the drawings or the apparatus itself, despite the money I have spent."

"If you like I'll call Stas Tyklinski, he's sitting in the car outside; he took part in the whole business and can give you the details."

"I don't want to see any Tyklinski, I want the drawings and the apparatus... I'm surprised at your boldness, to come here empty-handed..."

Rolling was convinced that the coldness of those words and the killing look he gave Semyonov when he stopped speaking would shrivel up that lousy Russian emigre, but Semyonov, nothing daunted, stuck his well-chewed cigar into his mouth and continued in his glib tones:

"If you don't want to see Tyklinski you needn't—it's no pleasure, anyway. There's another thing, Rolling, I need money—some twenty thousand francs. Will you give me a cheque or cash?"

For all his tremendous experience and his knowledge of people, Rolling had never before in his life come up against such insolence. Something like perspiration appeared on his fleshy nose, so great was the effort he made to keep his temper and not hurl the ink-pot in Semyonov's freckled face... (And how many valuable seconds had been lost through this useless conversation.) Controlling himself he reached out towards the bell.

Semyonov followed the movement of his hand.

"The fact of the matter is, Mr. Rolling," he said, "Engineer Garin is at the moment in Paris."