Harry Turtledove: A World of Difference

But Tsiolkovsky was just as fragile. “So the territory Viking saw was really on the east side of Jotun Canyon, then, not the west?” Irv asked. At Bragg’s nod, the anthropologist went on.

“What is the west side like, then? Are the Russians going to try to fly Tsiolkovsky down into badlands? If they are, I say we call them, and the hell with Houston. I wouldn’t do that to anybody.”

Bragg frowned, but then his face cleared as he thought it over. “That’s fair,” he said. “We’ll find out.” He folded the map and stuck it into a breast pocket of his coveralls. It was not nearly detailed enough to show him what he needed. He pulled the NASA Photographic Atlas of Minerva off a shelf; the Velcro that held the book in place let go with a scratchy sound of protest.

The mission commander riffled through the pages till he found the plate he needed. He held the book open. Five heads craned toward it. “Looks to be flatland and low hills, same as we’ll be landing in. None of the miles and miles of scree and boulders you see around the edges of the polar caps, and no big erosion features. They aren’t taking any worse chances than we are.”

Frank Marquard studied the photo with a professionally appraising glance. When he said, “He’s right,” Irv knew that any chance to overturn Bragg’s decision was gone.

So did his wife. “All fight, Emmett,” Sarah said. “But if they don’t trust us once we’re all down on Minerva, they’ll have reason now.”

“They don’t trust us now,” Bragg answered. “And you know what? I don’t trust them, either. That’s all right. The best way to deal with ‘em is to keep one hand on your wallet. That way you never lose track of where it is.”

Sarah snorted. The Marquards went back to the labs in the rear section of Athena to return to whatever they had been doing. And when Tolmasov called from the Tsiolkovsky, nobody said anything about code groups.

When she and her husband were in the almost privacy of their cubicle, though, Sarah Levitt said, “I still don’t like it, Irv. Not just that we didn’t tell the Russians, but that word about the changed coordinates came through today the way it did. It just seems too pat somehow.”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “That bothers me, too. It’s almost as if Houston’s known all along that the coordinates they gave out to everybody weren’t the right ones, and just decided now to let us in on it.”

He had meant the words as a joke, but once out they had an appalling ring of probability to them. He felt Sarah’s slim frame stiffen. “I wish you hadn’t said that,” she told him. “I don’t- want to believe it.”

“Likely it isn’t true,” he said, though he doubted that himself.

“Give me one good reason why not.” Sarah’s tone said she did not believe he could come up with one.

But he did. “When was the last time the United States was able to hang on to a secret for thirteen years?”

“A point,” she admitted at last. “Not a very consoling one, but a point. You pick the oddest ways to make me feel better.” “Did you have something else in mind?” he asked hopefully. “No,” she said after a small pause. “I’m tired, I’m grouchy, I wouldn’t enjoy it much now, and I don’t think I could make it much fun for you.”

“You’re very annoying when you make sense, you know,” he said. That coaxed a small, almost reluctant laugh from her, but she went to sleep all the same. After a while, so did Irv.

Oleg Lopatin’s face, Tolmasov thought unkindly, was made for frowning. Those eyebrows-the colonel still thought of them as Brezhnev brows, though the Chairman was seven years dead and thoroughly discredited-came down like clouds covering the sun.

“You should have asked the Americans about the coded message,” Lopatin said.

“I did not see how I could, Oleg Borisovich. They have never asked us about any we receive. And besides,” Tolmasov added, unconsciously echoing Emmett Bragg, “I did not think they would tell us. They would have sent it in clear if they did not care whether we heard it.”

“You should have asked them, anyway,” Valery Bryusov said. “Why do you say that, Valery Aleksandrovich?” Tolmasov asked, more sharply than he had intended. The linguist did not usually speak up for Lopatin. If he did, he probably had a good reason. Tolmasov wondered if he had missed something.

Bryusov tugged at his mustache. The gesture had become a habit of his in the months since he had let it grow. It was red-blond with a few white hairs, a startling contrast to the hair on his head, which was about the color of Tolmasov’s.

He tugged again, then said, “We send things in code because it is our habit to send things in code. Even Oleg Borisovich will agree, I think, that it would not matter much if the Americans found out what was in a good many of them.”

Lopatin’s frown got deeper. “I suppose that may be true in a few cases,” he admitted grudgingly. Tolmasov knew it was true. He was a trifle surprised the KGB man did, too. Lopatin went on, “What of it, though?”

“The crew of Athena must know that, too,” Bryusov said, ticking off the point on his finger like the academician he was. “They must have studied us as we studied them. They, though, boast of how open-to say nothing of prodigal-they are with information. If they send in code, then, it must be something unusual and important, and so worth asking about.”

“You may have something at that,” Tolmasov said. “Let me think it over; perhaps next time we talk with Athena I will put the question to Bragg. Heating what he says could be interesting, I suppose.”

“My congratulations, Valery Aleksandrovich,” Shota Rustaveli said. “Even a theologian would be proud of reasoning that convoluted. Here it may even have reached the truth, always an unexpected bonus.”

“Thank you so very much, Shota Mikheilovich,” Bryusov said.

“Always a privilege to assist such a distinguished scholar,” Rustaveli replied, dark eyes twinkling. Bryusov scowled and floated off to find something to do elsewhere. Tolmasov smiled at his retreating back. If he didn’t know better by this time than to get into a duel of ironies with the Georgian biologist, it was nobody’s fault but his own.

“You would talk with the Americans, too, then, Shota Mikheilovich, and try to find out what Houston sent them?” Lopatin asked.

“Oh, not me. They find my English even worse than you do my Russian.” Rustaveli deliberately exaggerated his slight accent. He hung in midair, upside down relative to Lopatin and Tolmasov. It did not seem to bother him at all.

“Will you ever be serious?” Lopatin growled.

“I doubt it.” Whistling, Rustaveli sailed down the corridor after Bryusov.

“Georgians,” Lopatin said softly.

“He’s good at what he does.” Tolmasov meant it as a reproof, but was not sure it came out that way. Down deep, he thought the KGB man had a point. Rustaveli was the only non-Russian on Tsiolkovsky. Everyone else found him indolent and mercurial, very much the stereotypical man of the south. He found them stodgy and did not try to hide it.

“Let us see how well he does in Minervan weather,” Lopatin said. “Him and the Americans both.” He chuckled nastily and mimed a shiver.

Tolmasov nodded. After Smolensk, no. winter held much in the way of terror for him.

But Rustaveli had come back. “About the Americans I do not know, Oleg Borisovich,” he said, exquisitely polite as always, “but I will do well enough. If I should have trouble, perhaps Katerina will keep me warm.”

It was Tolmasov’s turn to frown. Russians credited Georgians with legendary success with women. Shota did nothing to downplay the legend, and even though he and the doctor had quarreled, the way her eyes followed him made Tolmasov wish she looked at him like that. She gave herself to Tolmasov these days, and he was sure she enjoyed what they did together. Still, somehow it was not the same.