Frederik Pohl - Chernobyl

This time is was Raia, his fiancee. She squeezed in hastily, closing the door behind her. "The man from the milk store," she began, and Kalychenko groaned.

"What, has he been after you too?"

"But, Bohdan, isn't he right? Please! How many times have you told me how dangerous these radioactive chemicals can be? I am not concerned for the man in the milk store, or for you and me. Have you forgotten what I am carrying for you?" She spread the fingers of her hand over her still quite flat belly.

"I have not forgotten for one second, Raia," he said sourly.

"Then listen to what Zakharin says! I really think you should help him. Make the authorities understand what must be done!"

"Raia," he said patiently, "it is not our responsibility to make such decisions. In any case, do you really want Pripyat evacuated? If they send everyone away, then what? Thousands of people must be moved in that case. There will be immense confusion. Suppose you are sent to Kiev and I to Kursk or some other place?"

"Surely we can find a way to stay together."

He said seriously, "Yes, perhaps, sooner or later. But it could take time, and what about our wedding? Can we make arrangements for a reception in a train station? Where will our friends be?"

"People get married everywhere, Bohdan! So we won't be able to have a reception in the Red Room at the plant; all right, we'll get married anyway and have the party another time, after we all come back to Pripyat-"

"Come back to Pripyat? With all this poison falling all over? And when would that be?" He started to say more, but checked himself as he saw her eyes widen at his words. "All right," he said reasonably. "Let's think this out, step by step. I agree, perhaps you should leave, for the sake of our baby. The next question is, can I leave too? I don't know; perhaps they will want every hand on duty at the plant. But let us say I can. Very well. You leave now; I will follow when I can. Your parents in Donetsk will put us up if we marry there. So you can take a bus-"

"A bus! There aren't any buses, Bohdan. Even the streets are covered with white foam!"

"White foam?" Kalychenko disliked the sound of that. Foam on the streets meant that someone had decided the danger of fallout was quite real.

"Yes, foam, and no buses. Haven't you been outside at all? I went to the highway to see what was happening, and that's where the buses are, carrying militiamen and troops and firefighters. The highway is full of emergency traffic. No, please. The whole town must go or none of us will."

"I do not think this is a good idea," Kalychenko groaned uneasily. Raia sighed in exasperation, then held out a hand.

"At least let me see your arm," she ordered. He assumed a stoic expression as she unwrapped the scarf and pulled up the sleeve of his tunic. "Is it tender?" she asked, poking.

"No. Yes-there, a little."

She worked the arm back and forth gently, and then sighed. "Do you know," she said, "I think I have a sore throat this morning."

"Because you smoke too much."

"No, I don't think this is from smoking, dear Bohdan. Also my face-I can't describe it exactly-it tingles a bit. As though someone were poking tiny pins at it. I don't mean that it's painful. Simply strange."

"Maybe all those cigarettes are cutting off your circulation."

"But to my face? Well, if you don't think it's serious-"

She put the bandaged arm down. "There's no bruise," she said doubtfully. "You should see a medic."

"What, when there may be many people very much worse hurt?" He rose and said abruptly, "Excuse me, I must go to the bathroom." With the door closed behind him he felt better. These silly symptoms of Raia's were, of course, imaginary. He had never read of sore throat or pins in the face indicating exposure to radiation… but, of course, he told himself unhappily, he had never quite got around to reading all the stuff they threw at you when you came to work in a place like Chernobyl.

With Kalychenko out of the room Raia took out a Stewardess cigarette and inhaled the menthol smoke deeply. And at once she began to worry. Should she be smoking at all? Would it be bad for the baby? Her husband-to-be had informed her quite definitely that it was, but at the clinic they had only shrugged and talked about moderation.

She wished she had thought to ask at the clinic about radiation. But who could have imagined such questions were necessary? She touched her stomach hopefully, and worried. Until now the only questions seriously troubling had been whether her fiance would actually go through with the ceremony, and whether the child would have his blue eyes.

Now-would it have any eyes at all?

By the time Kalychenko came out of the bathroom, Raia had frightened herself into stubbornness. "You must come to the Party headquarters," she said firmly.

"And leave the telephone? What if I'm needed at the plant?"

She said reasonably, "How would they find you here? As far as the plant knows, you're still at the hostel for single men, isn't that so?"

"I think I informed the plant that I would be staying here," he said, although it was a lie. Actually, he had not thought it anyone's business if he temporarily borrowed this apartment from the friend who had followed his wife to Odessa, hoping to talk her out of a divorce. In any case, judging from some of the remarks Khrenov had made, even this telephone number was almost certainly somewhere in the Personnel and Security files.

"And in all this confusion will anyone remember that? No, really, Bohdan, if you're worried that the plant needs you, call them. But first come to the Party headquarters. There's nothing else to do, is there?"

Perhaps there wasn't. Kalychenko could think of no way out. He could not simply go on hiding in his friend's apartment as he had done all the previous day. In the long run he sighed, threw up his hands at his fiancee's gentle nagging and went reluctantly out to tell the man from the milk store that after careful consideration, he had decided that he would go along to talk to the people at the Party committee building. It was not that he thought it was a good idea. He simply didn't have a better one.

There were a hundred people in the crowd that marched doggedly through the streets to the Party headquarters. The white foam had caked solid and was soiled, and there was an unpleasant smoky, chemical, almost ammonia-like smell in the air. It was true enough that there were no buses on the streets this day. There was little traffic of any kind, with nothing coming in from outside the town. They strode along the center of the roadway itself, with no militia around to fine them for jaywalking. Zakharin was in the lead, with Kalychenko looking stern enough and determined enough as he strode along just behind him.

It was still early morning, not as much as ten o'clock, but it was a sullen, coppery-colored sort of day. There weren't many clouds. The sun was bright enough, even hot. But overhead, covering half the sky, was a thin pall of smoke from Chernobyl. Citizens who would normally be sitting in their bathrobes, drinking tea in comfortable relaxation on their day off, were peering out the windows or standing on the sidewalks; they called back and forth to the clot of men moving down the center of the street, and some joined the march. Most merely looked worried.

Outside the Party headquarters the flag was stirring listlessly in the breeze. A couple of older, exhausted militiamen stood in front' of the door. "What is the matter with you people?" one of them demanded. "Why are you making a disturbance at this critical time?"

"We want to speak to the Party secretary," Zakharin said boldly.

"On a Sunday morning? Are you out of your mind?"

"It is an emergency," Zakharin insisted.

The other militiaman said, "Of course it is an emergency, and the Party secretary is at his post of duty. Go back to your homes at once."