Peter Higgins - Truth and Fear

It was Kantor. General Rizhin, Commissar for Mirgorod City Defence, was Josef Kantor.

When Florian came, Lom was nursing his untouched aquavit and watching his own reflection in the darkened window. Florian sat opposite Lom and put his astrakhan hat on the table between them. He looked worried. A waitress bustled over but he waved her away.

‘Chazia is here already,’ he said. ‘The train arrived last night. Late. We must have heard it pass. It didn’t stop in the town. They went straight through and into the mountain. Travelling at speed.’

For the second time in an hour Lom felt the bottom drop out of his world.

‘Maroussia?’ he said. ‘What about Maroussia?’

‘I don’t know. Somebody said there was a woman travelling with Chazia. It could be her.’

‘We have to get into the mountain,’ said Lom. ‘We have to do that now. Tonight .’

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘We haven’t got time to figure this out for ourselves,’ Lom continued. ‘We need some assistance here.’

‘Yes,’ said Florian.

‘Someone who can get us past whatever security they have out there. Someone who can take us right to Chazia.’

‘The name of such a person,’ said Florian, ‘is Yakov Khyrbysk. Professor Yakov Khyrbysk, director of the Foundation for Physico-Technical Machines. Professor Khyrbysk spends his days working inside Foundation Mountain but he has an apartment in the Sharashka district, in a building called the Foundation Hall. It’s not more than a mile from here. By this time of the evening he will be at home. He is not married and lives alone. I have his address. He is not expecting us. I do not suggest we telephone ahead.’

The Foundation Hall where Khyrbysk had his apartment was the tallest building in Novaya Zima: a tall slender blade of steel and glass, a triangular sliver of black ice speckled with bright-burning windows. In the snow-crusted square in front of the Hall stood a floodlit construction of crimson-painted steel: a single swooshing curve reaching hundreds of feet high, a steeply climbing arc of power and ambition and freedom and speed, hurtling up. It looked like nothing so much as the track of a rocket launching into the dark sky, and at the point of the curve, where the rocket might have been, was a squat, massive snub-nosed bullet-shape. It was speeding away from the planet. Escaping the gravity well. Lom remembered the hoarding at the gate into the town: THE VLAST SPREADING OUT ACROSS THE STARS.

Lom and Florian took the wide shallow apron of concrete steps two at a time and pushed open the wooden double door. Inside was a spacious entrance hall panelled with rich dark wood and thickly carpeted in plush brick red. A woman of about fifty in a crisp dark blue uniform tunic was watching them from behind a reception counter. She had short iron-grey hair and her face was powdered. She sat in a cloud of lavender eau de toilette and watched them suspiciously. Behind her on the wall was a noticeboard, a painting of the mountain in sunshine, the tubes of a pneumatic mail system and a large plate-glass mirror without a frame.

‘No visitors without an appointment,’ the woman said. ‘Do you have an appointment?

Florian went up to the counter, confident, purposeful. He was Captain Vorush Iliodor. He held out his warrant card for inspection.

‘We are here for Professor Khyrbysk,’ he said. ‘Commander Chazia requires his presence urgently. You will call him down for us.’

The woman frowned.

‘It is late,’ she said. ‘The professor does not receive visitors at home. He starts early in the morning. You may leave a message with me.’

‘We are not visitors,’ said Florian. ‘He is required. Now.’

The woman glared at him, pale grey eyes blazing, points of pink flushing her cheekbones. In the mirror behind her Lom could see the electric switch under the counter.

‘The professor is unavailable,’ she said, reaching for the telephone. ‘Someone else will assist you. I will call Dr Ferenc. He will—’

Lom pushed past Florian, lifted the counter lid and stepped quickly through. Put his left hand down to cover the emergency call switch before she could get to it.

‘We have no time for this,’ he said. ‘I am an investigator of the Political Police. My colleague is Captain Iliodor of Commander Chazia’s personal staff. You will take us to Professor Khyrbysk’s apartment. You will do this yourself. You will do this now. You will call nobody. You will trigger no alarms.’

‘You cannot order me! Where are your uniforms? Where is your police warrant? There are procedures. You have no authority here. The professor—’

‘The authority of the Vlast is everywhere,’ said Lom. ‘The Vlast is authority. There is no other. What is your name, citizen?’

The woman hesitated.

‘Tyrkhovna,’ she said. ‘Zsara Tyrkhovna.’

‘You will take us to the professor immediately, Zsara Tyrkhovna . Instantly. ’

Still she hesitated.

‘You would prefer to join one of the long trains, perhaps?’ said Lom. ‘Would you like to take a journey into the mountain, Zsara Tyrkhovna? That can be arranged. We could give you that choice perhaps. Choose now.’

Tears were coming to Zsara Tyrkhovna’s eyes, though they weren’t there yet. She didn’t know what to do.

‘Loyalty is creditable,’ said Lom. ‘Defiance and stupidity is not.’

Her shoulders slumped. She looked ten years older.

‘Come with me,’ she breathed.

They took the mirrored and chrome-plated lift to the top floor. The twentieth. More thick carpet in the hall, recessed lighting, pot plants and paintings on the walls: abstract constructions of circles and cones in primary colours, slashed across by thin black straight lines. This is the future! they said. The total universal truth of form and speed! No people and no skies!

There was only one door. It opened almost instantly at Zsara Tyrkhovna’s tentative knock. The man who appeared in the doorway was wide and bulky. He had a broad creased face with a heavy stub of a nose, an imposing brow and a mat of wiry black curly hair cut short. Small pale blue eyes appraised Lom and Florian with sharp, watchful intelligence. He was wearing a dark blue dressing gown over a white shirt open at the collar. The gown looked like it was made of silk: real silk, not some petroleum-derivative substitute.

‘I’m so sorry, Yakov Arkadyevich,’ said Zsara Tyrkhovna. ‘These men… they say they are the police. They insisted. They threatened me… I didn’t know what to do. I shouldn’t have—’

Florian produced his identification.

‘Commander Chazia requires Professor Khyrbysk to come with us now,’ he said. ‘It is a matter of urgency. She cannot wait.’

Khyrbysk took Florian’s card and studied it carefully for a moment. Considered it and came to a conclusion. He nodded almost imperceptibly, as if to himself, as if some hypothesis of his own had been confirmed.

‘Don’t upset yourself, Zsara,’ he said. His voice was deep and complex. ‘Everything is in order. You’ve done all that you should, and more. I am grateful. You can leave us now.’

‘Should I telephone someone?’ she said. ‘I should tell Shulmin what is happening. No, Shulmin is not here. Ferenc then. I will call Ferenc. He will come.’

‘There’s no need to trouble Leon, Zsara. Really no need. Everything is fine here. Go back to your work.’ He stood back from the door. ‘Please, gentlemen, come in.’

They followed Khyrbysk into his apartment. It was over-warm and brightly lit, and the white walls were hung with certificates of academic distinction and more paintings. The floor was covered with a thick light blue carpet. There were a few pieces of expensive-looking furniture and rugs in the modern geometric style. The curtains were drawn shut across wide windows.