Frederik Pohl - Chernobyl

Emmaline could not imagine why in the world she had been asked here.

When Pembroke called to say he had been invited by Johnny Stark to the party-though it wasn't really Stark's party, just a friend's-and that she was invited too-"Yes, by all means bring a guest, and why not that very pretty American girl who was at the offices of Mir with you?"-Emmaline had been close to refusing. To be sure, it was an opportunity direct from heaven for a junior dip in Moscow, for such doors were very seldom opened to Americans from the Embassy.

But ten seconds of thought convinced her that she couldn't pass up the chance to be the only American diplomat in Moscow to be a personal guest of the famous (and mysterious) Johnny Stark. So here she was, rubbing elbows with the cream of Moscow's jet set, listening to a short young man with a very nearly punk haircut tell her how much he wanted to sing some of his Soviet rock songs in America.

At least the singer had maneuvered her over to the table with the food, and for the moment she was content to listen to his tortured attempts to define his music-"Not Prince, not the Grateful Dead, perhaps one could say a-a suspicion, is it?-of the Stones, yes"-while she ate as many slices of the perfectly red-ripe tomatoes and loaded thin-crisp toast with as much of the fresh black caviar as she could manage. She had long since lost sight of Pembroke, last seen talking earnestly to the man in the general's uniform through the translation of Johnny Stark's wife. The rock-singer man (at close range he was not all that young) did not require much conscious attention apart from an occasional nod of understanding.

That was welcome to Emmaline, because it gave her time to think about what she was doing here. It was certain that Johnny Stark had not made a point of having her invited simply because she was pretty, or even because she was black.

No. There was surely a reason, she told herself. People like Johnny Stark didn't do things on lighthearted impulse. Did he plan to get her drunk so that she would babble secret CIA plans into a hidden microphone? There was certainly enough champagne around for that, but no one was forcing her to drink to excess. Come to that, Johnny Stark was too sharp an article to expect any secrets from her, because he was undoubtedly aware that she wasn't the kind of person who would know any big ones.

There had to be some other reason for her presence here with Pembroke. Emmaline wondered wistfully if she would ever find out what it was.

She was so wrapped up in her imaginings that she didn't even realize the rock singer had gone off to find a more sympathetic ear until Johnny Stark himself touched her arm. He handed her a fresh glass of wine and said amiably, in perfecdy American English, "Are you having a good time among our Hollywood types? I hope so. That's your privilege, being the prettiest girl in the room."

She gave him a diplomat's smile, since he was talking diplomat talk. "I haven't met any Hollywood types yet."

Not counting yourself, she meant. Stark was wearing a black silk shirt open to his breastbone, with a heavy medallion on a heavy gold chain, and he looked like every Russian's image of a Hollywood producer. He said, "Well, that's what Teddy threw this party for, for some of the film people in town for their union congress. But I'm afraid a lot of them are still battling over the elections. Have you heard what they did today? They've thrown over the traces completely, elected that madman Elem Klimov First Secretary of the union."

Emmaline blinked. Soviet trade unions did not "throw over the traces." Such things never happened. She tried to place the name. "Is Klimov the one who made Go and See?"

"Yes, exactly. All rape and bloodshed. I suppose you could call it our equivalent of Straw Dogs or Apocalypse Now. He's quite mad, you know. Poor fellow, his wife was killed in a car smash-very tragic-and he still talks to her ghost every night. God knows what he'll do with the union." He glanced around. Still smiling, he went on. "Actually, I've been wondering if you'd like to see some of my ikons? I've promised to show them to our honored guest, and I thought you and Pembroke might like to come along. A car? Oh, we don't need a car. My place is just upstairs. What you in America would call the penthouse."

"Well," said Emmaline, trying to estimate what Stark had in mind, "I think I should at least say good-bye to my host-"

"Oh, Teddy's off somewhere. I'll do it for you later."

"Well," she looked around uncertainly, "what about Pembroke…"

"Already asked him," Stark grinned. "He was pretty gung-ho. He never expected a chance to spend a little time with a member of the Central Committee."

For Emmaline it was exactly as though someone had touched her with one of those electric tinglers unpleasant people goose girls with at veterans' conventions. She shuddered. Every muscle tightened. She hardly heard the name of the polite elderly man she was introduced to-was it Mishko? -because the reverberations of the words "Central Committee" drowned everything else.

Junior dips never ever got to meet members of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union.

She was only vaguely aware of the elevator Stark bundled the four of them into (though it was at least three times the size of the one for her own flat, and quite noiseless). She noticed that the room Stark led them into was huge and pleasandy air-conditioned, but that was only because she found that she was shivering slightly. She gazed unseeingly at Stark's ikons, though the one from (Stark told them) sixteenth-century Byelorussia was not only as large as the Mona Lisa and crusted in gold leaf, but had track lights discreetly playing on it. She didn't really recover her wits until she found herself sitting on an embroidery-upholstered chaise longue, next to a coffee table with the latest issues of The Economist, Der Spiegel, and The New Yorker, and Stark began to speak.

His tone was good-humored but rather serious. "And now, perhaps we can have a bit of serious, talk, eh? Off the record, as you say. To help us understand each other, so that we can help our countries do so. One moment," he added apologetically, and switched to Russian for Mishko's benefit, while at the same time opening a tiny freezer to pull out four icy glasses and a botde of straw-colored liquor.

When Mishko replied, Stark translated. "He says this would please him very much. He says that we can speak honestly if not absolutely openly-there are, of course, some things that even candid friends should not say to one another, and let us appoint one another honorary friends for this evening-especially when one of our little circle is in the diplomatic service of the United States."

He smiled at Emmaline tolerantly. So, she thought, I'm here unofficially so that I can report unofficially. But what? Mishko, watching shrewdly, cut in. He spoke in Russian, di-recdy to Emmaline. "You do not have to promise not to report this to your organs. I would not ask for a promise you couldn't keep. In any case, if you do, it will become a classified document in their files which no one will be allowed to read for twenty-five years, and by then it won't matter."

Stark translated swiftly for Pembroke, pouring icy vodka into each of the icy glasses. "I toast the antidrunkenness campaign," he said. "Please don't think I'm mocking it. I approve of it. I now limit my own drinking to two glasses a day, no more than two days a week, except on special occasions. This is one."

When they had all drunk, Mishko spoke. "If we are to speak candidly," he proposed good-humoredly, "let us start with small things. I have a small thing I have wanted to talk to an American about. It is your films. I have seen your White Nights and Moscow on the Hudson. In one of them, every Russian is evil. In the other, we are all half-wits. Why are there not any American films which sometimes show at least one Russian as a decent human being?"