Short fiction complete, p.155
Short Fiction Complete, page 155
I blinked with surprise and automatically looked over my shoulder at the technician standing by to operate the air lock. He was busy admiring the four new videos Sam had brought, wondering what was in them as he studied their labels.
“What are you talking about?” I meant to say it out loud, but it came out as a whispered croak.
Sam flashed a cocky grin at me. “Come on, everybody knows you guys are making gem-quality diamonds out of methane gas in your zero-gee facility. Pump a little extra methane in and make me a couple to sell Earthside. I’ll split the profits with you fifty-fifty.”
“Impossible,” I said. Softly.
His smile became shrewd. “Look, Greg, old pal, I’m not asking for military secrets. Just a couple stones I can peddle back Earthside. We can both make a nice wad of money.”
“The diamonds we manufacture are not of gemstone quality,” I lied.
“Let my friends on Forty-seventh Street decide what quality they are,” Sam whispered.
“No.”
He puffed out a sad sigh. “This has nothing to do with politics, Greg. It’s business. Capitalism.”
I shook my head hard enough to sway my entire body.
Sam seemed to accept defeat. “O.K. It’s a shame, though. Hell, even your leaders in the Kremlin are making money selling their biographies to Western publishers. Capitalism is creeping up on you.”
I said nothing.
He pulled the helmet over his head, fastened the neck seal. But before sliding down his visor, he asked, quite casually, “What happens to you if Zworkin finds out what’s on the videos you guys have been watching?”
My face went red. I could feel the heat flaming my cheeks.
“Just a couple of little diamonds, pal. A couple of carats. That’s not so much to ask for, is it?”
He went through the air lock and jetted back to his own craft. I would have gladly throttled him, at that moment.
Now I had a real dilemma on my hands. Give in to Sam’s blackmail, or face Zworkin and the authorities back on the ground. It would not only be I who would be in trouble, but my entire crew. They did not deserve to suffer because of my bad decisions, but they would. We would all spend the rest of our lives shoveling cow manure in Siberia or running mining machines on the Moon.
I had been corrupted, and I knew it. Oh, I had the best of motives, the loftiest of intentions. But how would they appear next to the fact that I had allowed my crew to watch disgusting pornographic films provided by a capitalist agent of the CIA? Corruption, pure and simple. I would be lucky to be sentenced to Siberia.
I gave in to Sam’s demands I told myself it was for the sake of my crew, but it was to save my own neck, and to save my dear family from disgrace. I had the technicians make three extra small diamonds, and embedded them in the ice cream when Sam made his next visit.
This was the exact week, of course, when the USSR and the Western powers were meeting in Geneva to decide on deployment of space weapons. Our own Red Shield system and the American Star Wars system were well into the testing phase. We had conducted a good many of the tests ourselves, aboard Mir 5. Now the question was, Does each side begin to deploy its own system, or do we hammer out some method of working cooperatively?
Sam returned a few days later. I did not want to see him, but was afraid not to. He seemed happy and cheerful, and carried no fewer than six new videos with him. I spoke to him very briefly, very coldly. He seemed not to be bothered at all. He laughed and joked. And passed me a note on a tiny scrap of paper as he handed me the new videos.
I read the note in the privacy of my cubicle, after he left. “Good stuff. Worth a small fortune. How many can you provide each week?”
I was accustomed to the weightlessness of zero gravity, but at that instant I felt as if I were falling into a deep, dark pit, falling and falling down into an utterly black well that had no bottom.
To make matters worse, after a few days of progress, the conference at Geneva seemed to hit a snag for some unfathomable reason. The negotiations stopped dead, and the diplomats began to snarl at each other in the old cold war fashion. The world was shocked. We received orders to accelerate our tests of the Red Shield laser that had been installed in the laboratory module at the aft end of our station.
We watched TV news broadcasts from every part of the world (without letting ground control know it, of course). Everyone was frightened at the sudden intransigence in Geneva.
Zworkin summed up all our fears. “The imperialists want an excuse to strike us with their nuclear missiles before our Red Shield defense is deployed.”
I had to admit he was probably right. What scared me was the thought that we might strike at them before their Star Wars defense was deployed. Either way, it meant the same thing: nuclear holocaust.
Even thickheaded Korolev seemed worried. “Will we go to war?” he kept asking. “Will we go to war?” No one knew.
To make matters still worse, in the midst of our laser test preparations, Sam sent a radio message that he was on his way; he would rendezvous with our station in three hours, and he had “something special” for us.
The crisis in Geneva meant nothing to him, it seemed. He was coming for “business as usual.” Zworkin had been right all along about him. Sam was a spy. I knew it now.
A vision formed in my mind. I would personally direct the test of the Red Shield laser. Its high-energy beam would “happen” to strike the incoming American spacecraft. Sam Gunn would be fried like a scrawny chicken in a hot oven. A regrettable accident. Yes. It would solve my problem.
Except—it could create such a furor on Earth that the conference in Geneva would break up altogether. It could be the spark that would lead to war, nuclear war.
Yet—Sam had no business flying an American spacecraft so close to a Soviet station. Both the U.S. and USSR had clearly proclaimed that the regions around their stations were sovereign territory, not to be violated by the other side’s craft. Sam’s visits to Mir 5 were strictly illegal, secret, clandestine, except for his first “emergency” visit. If we fried him, we would be within our legal rights.
On the other hand—could the entire crew remain silent about Sam’s many visits? Would Zworkin stay silent, or would he denounce me once we had returned to Mother Russia?
On the other hand—what difference would any of that make if we triggered nuclear war?
That is why I found myself sweating in the laser laboratory attached to the aft end of the station, a few hours after Sam’s call. He knew that we were going to test the laser; he had to know. That was why he was cheerfully heading our way at this precise point in time.
The laboratory was chilly; the three technicians operating the giant laser wore bulky sweaters over their coveralls, and gloves with the fingers cut out so they could manipulate their sensitive equipment properly. But I was sweating buckets.
This section of the station was a complete module in itself; it could be detached and de-orbited, if necessary, and a new section put in its place. The huge laser filled the laboratory almost completely. If we had not been in zero gravity, it would have been impossible for the technicians to climb into the nooks and crannies necessary to service all the equipment.
One wide optical-quality window gave me a view of the black depths of space. But no window could withstand the incredible intensity of the laser’s high-power beam. The beam was instead directed through a polished copper pipe to the outside of the station’s hull, which was why the laboratory was always so cold. It was impossible to keep the module decently warm; the heat leaked out through the laser-beam channel. On the outer end of that channel was the aiming mirror (also polished copper), which directed the beam toward its target—hypothetical or actual.
I had calculated Sam’s approach trajectory back at the control center and pecked the numbers into my hand computer. Now, as the technicians labored and grumbled over their big laser, I gave them those coordinates as their target. As far as they knew, they were firing the multimegawatt laser beam into empty space, as usual. Only I knew that when they fired the laser, its beam would destroy the approaching Yankee spacecraft and kill Sam Gunn.
The moments ticked by as I sweated coldly, miserable with apprehension and—yes, I admit it freely—with guilt. I had ordered the technicians to program my numbers into the laser’s aiming mirror; the big slab of polished copper hanging outside the station’s hull was already tracking Sam’s trajectory, turning ever so slightly each second. The relays directing its motion clicked inside the laboratory like the tapping of a Chinese water torture, like the clicks of a quartz clock.
Then I heard the sighing sound that happens when an airtight hatch between two modules of the station is opened. Turning, I saw the hatch swinging open, its heavy hinges groaning slightly. Zworkin pushed through and floated around the bulky master control console to my side.
“You show an unusual interest in this test,” he said softly.
My insides blazed as if I had stuck my hand into the power outlet. “There is the crisis in Geneva,” I replied. “Moscow wants this test to proceed flawlessly.”
“Will it?”
I did not trust myself to say anything more. I merely nodded.
Zworkin watched the muttering technicians for a few endless moments, then asked, “Do you find it odd that the American is approaching us exactly at the time our test is scheduled?”
I nodded once again, keeping my eyes fixed on the empty point in space where I imagined the beam and Sam’s spacecraft would intersect.
“I received an interesting message from Moscow, less than an hour ago,” Zworkin said. I dared not look into his face, but his voice sounded brittle, tense. “The rumor is that the Geneva conference has struck a reef made of pure diamond.”
“What?” That spun me around. He was not gloating. In fact, he looked just as worried as I felt. No, not even worried. Frightened. The tone of voice that I had assumed was sarcasm was actually the tight, dry voice of fear.
“This is an unconfirmed rumor, mind you,” Zworkin said, “but what they are saying is that the NATO intelligence service has learned we are manufacturing pure diamond crystals in zero gravity, diamond crystals that can be made large enough to be used as mirrors and windows in extremely high-power lasers. They are concerned that we have moved far ahead of them in this key area of technology.”
Just at that instant, Sam’s cocky voice chirped over the stations’ intercom speakers. “Hey there, friends and neighbors, here’s your Hollywood delivery service, comin’ atcha.”
The laser mirror clicked again. And again. One of the technicians floated back to the console at my side and pressed the three big red rocker switches that turned on the electrical power, one after the other. The action made his body rise up to the low ceiling of the laboratory each time. He bounced up and down slowly, like a bubble trapped in a sealed glass.
A low whine came from the big power generators, which were in a separate module of the station. I could feel their vibration through my boots.
In my mind’s eye, I saw a thin yellow line that represented the trajectory of Sam’s spacecraft, approaching us. And a heavier red line, the fierce beam of our laser, reaching out to meet it.
“Got something more than videos, this trip,” Sam was chattering. “Managed to lay my hands on some really cute electronic toys—interactive games; you’ll love ’em. Got the latest sports videos, too, and a bucketful of real-beef hamburgers. All you gotta do is pop ’em in your microwave. Brought mustard and ketchup, too. Better’n that soy stuff you guys been eating . . .
He was talking his usual blue streak. I was glad that the communications technicians knew to scrub his transmissions from the tapes that ground control monitored. Dealing with Zworkin was bad enough. . . .
Through his inane gabbling, I could hear the mirror relays clicking, like the rifles of a firing squad being cocked, one by one. Sam approached us, blithely unaware of what awaited him. I pictured his spacecraft being hit by the laser beam, exploding, Sam and his videos and hamburgers all transformed instantly into an expanding red-hot ball of bloody vapor.
I reached over and pounded the master switch on the console. Just like the technician, I bounded toward the ceiling. The power generators wound down and went silent.
Zworkin stared up at me as I gently bumped my head and floated down toward him again.
I could not kill him. I could not murder Sam in cold blood, no matter what the consequences might be.
“What are you doing?” Zworkin demanded.
Putting out a hand to grasp the console and steady myself, I said. “We should not run this test while the Yankee spy is close enough to watch.”
He eyed me shrewdly, then called to the two dumbfounded technicians. “Out! Both of you! Until your commander calls for you again.”
Shrugging and exchanging confused looks, the two young men left the laboratory. Zworkin swung the hatch shut behind them, leaning against it as he gave me a long, quizzical stare.
“Grigori Aleksandrovich,” he said at last, “we must do something about this American. If ground control ever finds about him—if Moscow ever finds out . . .
“What was it you said about the diamond crystals?” I asked. “Do you think the imperialists know about our experiments here?”
“Of course they do! And this Yankee spy is at the heart of the matter.”
“What should we do?”
Zworkin rubbed his chin, but said nothing. I could not help thinking, absurdly, that his acne was almost totally gone.
So we allowed Sam aboard the station once again, and I took him immediately to my private cubicle.
“Kripes!” he chirped. “I’ve seen bigger coffins. Is this the best that the workers’ paradise can do for you?”
“No propaganda now,” I whispered sternly. “And no more blackmail. You will not return to this station again, and you will not get any more diamonds from me.”
“And no more ice cream?” He seemed entirely unconcerned with the seriousness of the situation.
“No more anything,” I said, straining to make it as strong as I could while still whispering. “Your visits here are finished. Over and done with.”
Sam made a rueful grin and wormed his right hand into the hip pocket of his coveralls. “Read this,” he said, handing me a slip of paper.
It had two numbers on it, both of them in six digits.
“The first is your private bank account number at the Bank of Bern, in Switzerland.”
“Soviet citizens are not allowed to—”
“The second number,” Sam ignored me, “is the amount of money deposited in your account, in Swiss francs.”
“I told, you I am not—” I stopped and looked at the second number again. I was not certain of the exchange ratio between Swiss francs and rubles, but six digits are six digits.
Sam laughed softly. “Listen. My friends in New York have friends in Switzerland. That’s how I set up the account for you. It’s your half of the profit from those little stones you gave me.”
“I don’t believe it. You are attempting to bribe me!”
His look became pitying. “Greg, old pal, three-quarters of your Politburo have accounts in Switzerland. Don’t you realize that the big conference in Geneva is stalled over—”
“Over your report to the CIA that we are manufacturing diamonds here in this station!” I hissed. “You are a spy; admit it!”
He grinned and spread his hands in the universal gesture of helplessness. “O.K., so I’ve passed some info over to the IDA. . . .”
“Don’t you mean CIA?”
Sam blinked with surprise. “CIA? Why in hell would I want to talk to those spooks? I’m dealing with the IDA.”
“Intelligence Defense Agency,” I said.
He shook his head in annoyance. “Naw—the International Diamond Association. The diamond cartel. You know, DeBeers and those guys.”
I was too stunned with surprise to say anything.
“The cartel know you were doing zero-gravity experiments in manufacturing diamonds. Once my friends in New York saw the quality of the stones you gave me, they sent word hotfooting to Amsterdam.”
“The international diamond cartel. . . .”
“That’s right, pal,” said Sam. “They don’t want space-manufactured diamonds kicking the bottom out of their market.”
“But the crisis in Geneva,” I mumbled.
Sam laughed. “The argument in Geneva is between the diamond cartel and your own government. It’s got nothing to do with Star Wars or Red Shield. They’ve forgotten all about that. Now they’re talking about money!”
I could not believe what he was saying. “Our leaders would never stoop. . . .”
Sam silenced me with a guffaw. “Your leaders are haggling with the cartel like a gang of housewives at a warehouse sale. The general secretary is talking with the cartel’s leaders right now, over a private two-way fiberoptic TV link.”
“How do you know this?”
He reached into the big pocket on the thigh of his suit. “Special video recording. I brought it just for you.” With a sly smile, he added, “Can’t trust those guys in Amsterdam, you know.”
It was difficult to catch my breath. My head was swimming.
“Listen to me, Greg. Your leaders are going to join the diamond cartel; they’re just haggling over the price.”
“Impossible!”
“Hard to believe that good socialists would help the evil capitalists rig the world price for diamonds? But that’s what’s going on right now, so help me. And once they’ve settled on their terms, the conference in Geneva will get back on track.”
“You’re lying. I can’t believe that you are telling me the truth.”
He shrugged good-naturedly. “Look at the video. Watch what happened in Geneva. Then, when things settle down, you and I can start doing business again.”
I must have shaken my head unconsciously.
“Don’t want to leave all those profits to the cartel, do you? We can make a fair-sized piece of change—as long as we stay small enough so the cartel won’t notice us. That’s still a lot of money, pal.”
