As the conversation got lively, Ross leaned over and whispered to Eveleen, "That Irina. She into some kind of dance?"
Eveleen's brows arched. "Ballet." She grinned. "About as many years as I studied martial arts. If not more."
Ross awkwardly whistled the Yilayil equivalent of praise.
And from the doorway came another whistle—liquid and pure, and correct in intonation.
"Misha!" the cry went up from the Russians.
Misha lounged against the doorjamb, his coat slung over his shoulder, his shirt open at the neck. Ross eyed the familiar waving blond hair and rakish smile, trying to hide his instant reaction of dislike and distrust.
Misha laughed, said something in Russian, then immediately turned to Saba and Eveleen, bowing debonairly. Ross forced himself to just sit, but inwardly he thought, If that jerk tries to smooch either of them, Eveleen had better paste him one, or else I will.
"So much beauty in my beautiful country! It is poetry for the senses." He kissed Saba's hands, and then, sending a laughing glance Ross's way, bent and kissed Eveleen's as well.
Eveleen snorted a soft laugh, and then took her hands back.
Misha turned to the group and said, "I was sent along, obedient dog that I am, to guard the equipment the Americans contributed. But I assure you I was most diligent with my tapes. So, how far are the rest of you in this accursed tongue?" And he added a fast phrase in Yilayil, whistling and droning expertly.
Ross saw Eveleen whispering a translation to herself; he didn't even try. On the other side of the room the Colonel nodded once in silent approval, and then Saba leaned forward and responded, her intonations correct, as far as Ross could hear. Ashe added a short phrase.
"Chalk one up for us," Ross muttered under his breath.
Eveleen smothered a grin behind her hand. "I wonder if we'll find out if he was sent because he was in trouble or because he's the expert?" she whispered back.
"Somehow I doubt the second choice—despite the grandstanding." Ross leaned forward to sip more of the strong Russian coffee.
"Are we ready?" Misha asked, looking around.
"We leave tomorrow," Vera, the redhead, said. "You timed your arrival close, Misha."
"Ah, Zina said she'd have my ears for breakfast if I was late." Misha dropped into a waiting chair.
Ross glanced over at Colonel Vasilyeva; though she had, at the very first dinner, invited everyone to call her "Zina" he'd found her too formidable for that. But she smiled now, the kind of smile a fond parent would bestow on a favorite child.
Irina leaned over to touch Misha's arm, and she addressed him in rapid Russian.
"English," Vera said quickly, giving Irina a look of challenge.
Misha sat back, smiling. "Not a way to show our gratitude for the technical gifts, yes?"
Viktor Ushanov, one of the other time agents, said something quietly in Russian, and Misha sent an appraising glance at Ashe and Ross, all the irony gone from his face.
"English, English," the Colonel said. "Tomorrow we all begin speaking Yilayil, but tonight, we relax, and we practice the tongue of our guests."
The rest of the dinner conversation was innocuous; after dinner was over, while everyone was milling around the coffee service, Ross made his way to Ashe. "Did you get what was going on when our new boy came in?"
"Nothing bad," Gordon said. "My Russian is pretty rusty, but it was pretty clear that Valentin is coming down hard on our side. He's the young hotshot tech, and I guess Milliard gave the Russians everything they asked for, equipment-wise."
Ross nodded trying for fairness. "No small item, if they're still recovering from what the Baldies did to 'em."
Gordon nodded, his manner approving, then turned away.
The rest of the evening, Ross circulated, trying to get a feel for these new team members. The mission was beginning to take on a sense of reality at last.
The two oldest agents, one man and one woman, spoke very poor English. They were also the quietest and most dour—like Russian agents of old stories, almost, though both were in fact scientists, and would be staying at the base camp in the present, monitoring the time-transfer equipment and making tests. Still, Ross learned their names: Gregori Sidorov and Elizaveta Kaliginova.
The rest spoke English with varying abilities, as they all chatted about scientific developments and some of the problems endemic to secret governmental projects. Nothing classified or politically touchy—just the sometimes funny logistical glitches and exasperating hassles inevitable when dealing with bureaucrats. Those were apparently universal. Renfry became quite loquacious—willingly trading stories with his Russian tech counterparts. From there they moved on to subjects of general interest: movies, television, music, sports.
When the evening ended, Ross was in a good mood.
As he and Eveleen settled into their room, he asked, "So what did you think?"
Eveleen went to the window again, looking out. Then she turned around. "A whole evening of just chatter, but I don't think the time was wasted."
Ross grinned. "That Colonel—Zina. I've got to get used to that. She's no fool."
Eveleen nodded. "The other night, at the folk festival. Tonight. Somehow these Russians seem less and less like aliens, and more like, well, like us."
"Human," Ross said.
"Considering where we're going," Eveleen added, "that's a distinction that might just preserve our lives."
CHAPTER 8
WHEN THE BLEAK sun rimmed the eastern horizon the next day, Gordon Ashe and his Eastern and Western agency colleagues were squeezed onto worn bench seats aboard a rattletrap of a cargo plane that might have seen service during the Second World War.
He looked down through a window at St. Petersburg dwindling rapidly away between two huge bodies of water, then the plane banked and headed north.
Conversation was minimal; the plane was not heated, and everyone seemed to prefer huddling into their coats, sipping at warm drinks. Just as well. Gordon sat back, watching his breath cloud, as he considered the twist their fortunes had taken.
Were there going to be problems with Misha and Ross? Young as he was, Misha had quite a reputation on both sides of what used to be the Iron Curtain. Of course, Gordon knew that Ross had a reputation as well. Gordon knew a little Russian, and he'd overheard some of them talking about Ross the other night. They all knew the story about Ross's burned hand—how he got it, and why.
There were not many who had survived direct encounters with Baldies. Ross was one—and Misha was another. In fact, if reports were accurate, Misha had apparently delighted in acting as a decoy in order to draw the Baldies off. What had happened to the Baldies he'd fooled wasn't clear, but Kelgarries, in a private conversation just before the team's departure, had wondered if the violence of the Baldies' attacks on the Russians had something to do with the kinds of games the humans might have been playing with the inimical XTees.
Apparently Misha had insisted on being included on this mission. It argued not just a dedication to tough causes. Agents on both sides, supposedly, only found out about missions for which they were being considered. Misha's knowing about this one meant either a high status, despite his young age, or an uncanny ability to winnow out secret information.
Was his reckless courage going to be an asset—or a liability? What were his real motivations for wanting to be sent on this mission?
And what caused the almost palpable tension between Misha and Ross?
Misha's sudden laugh punctuated the silence. Gordon lifted his head, listening.
"… not since I was small. One fall through the ice was enough," Viktor was saying in Russian.
Misha retorted, "Floe hopping was the biggest spring sport in my village."
"It was the only spring sport in your village," Irina said, deadpan.
Misha laughed again. "True!"
Gordon listened to Misha's melodious tenor voice, wavering about what he ought to do. He wanted the team to be safe. Of course. But
they also had to work together, and trust one another.
He grimaced, wishing that he knew why the Russian agent had insisted on being included in the mission. Zina Vasilyeva had been noncommittal; it was Milliard who had said something about some sort of relationship with one of the missing scientists. After watching Misha's flirting for an evening, Gordon was convinced Misha had a relationship of some sort with every single female in the Russian agency. Yet whenever Misha had gotten too outrageous, Zina had spoken a soft word, and the blond agent had raised his hands in truce, and subsided.
Gordon glanced over at the gray-haired woman, who was busy with a laptop computer. What kind of internal politics had the Russians been working through?
The engine sputtered suddenly as a buffet of wind hit them hard. The juddering vibration increased suddenly, causing Saba to glance up and Eveleen to look worried. Only the Russians seemed unconcerned.
Gordon sat back, letting out his breath slowly. He was glad when the plane banked again, and started dropping down. Through the window they could see the White Sea, just barely, a ghost outline through thick white clouds. The world this far north was shades of gray and silver and white— definitely the land of winter.
The plane landed without a problem, and silent Russian workers appeared from a rickety shed and began unloading baggage into trucks. Apparently the scientific equipment had been sent on ahead by train, a precaution against being bumped and banged around in the air.
Someone handed around thermoses of hot, sweet coffee and spicy soup as they piled out of the plane and into the waiting trucks.
Soon they were zooming down a freshly plowed road into what seemed the middle of nowhere. Again, no one spoke much; the truck was unheated. Gordon hunkered in his corner, listening to the growl of the engine and the clash of gears, wondering when he would see the States again. If.
Not if, he thought, angry with himself for permitting even one defeatist thought. And since his own thoughts were lousy company, he turned his attention to the others.
A couple of the Russians murmured softly, their breath clouding in the frigid air. Gordon glanced over—and saw that they were playing cards on a upturned gasoline drum.
He watched idly, listening to the chatter. The Russians were talking about family members, it seemed; after a while he realized they were indulging in the same kind of "what if" he wouldn't permit himself.
He turned his shoulder and glanced at Ross, whose face was grim and stony, his unwavering gaze on his wife. Eveleen had headphones on, running to a portable CD player in her coat pocket. Gordon wondered if it was Yilayil language practice—or something altogether different.
Saba, as well, was listening to earphones. Gordon had no question about what Saba might be doing. Of course she was working ahead on Yilayil nuances. But that was part of her job.
Across from her, Case Renry sat with a laptop on his skinny knees, equally absorbed in his work.
Gordon's attention came back when the truck gave a roar and slowed.
Soon they piled out—to see, sitting out on a barren tarmac launch pad, a globe ship exactly like the one that had inadvertently taken him, Ross, Renfry, and Travis Fox to the other world.
Travis. There was another subject to brood about. Gordon hated to think about Travis lost forever—and he regarded it as his fault, no matter what his superiors said to the contrary. How many would go missing this time—under his command?
As he thought it, he realized that that was his real fear.
Not what would happen to him. But the fear that once again he'd lose an agent.
He shook his head; no use brooding. What he had to do was make damn sure that this time, everyone came back. Or he wouldn't.
Making this internal vow, he clambered out after the others.
"Whew," Ross was saying as he tipped his head back and grimaced at the globe ship. "Never thought I'd see one of these things again. Which was all right with me!"
Eveleen walked right up to the ship, and squinted at the dull, pearlescent hull. "Some kind of alloy?"
"Looks like a type of ceramic," Saba said, coming up on the other side.
"You'll have plenty of time to discuss this with Renfry and the other big brains during the trip," Gordon said, forcing an attempt at a light tone. "We'd better lend a hand in getting the gear stowed."
They all joined the line of Russians who were helping the truck driver to load equipment into the ship. Gordon saw Renfry and one of the Russians following a couple of crates with anxious looks—obviously delicate machinery of some type or other.
"At least the Russians seem to have made the inside a little more like home," Ross commented, peering up at the round opening as he muscled his load up the ramp.
"Could hardly be less," Gordon cracked, doing his best to lighten his own mood as he followed Ross inside.
Eveleen snorted a laugh.
"We bunk up here," Zina called down from the level above. "Choose where you wish to sleep. We did not assign."
This globe ship was slightly larger than the one he'd made the trip in before, Gordon noted. The Russians had fitted the big, circular space with movable panels, creating little double cabins that afforded a semblance of privacy.
Gordon hesitated, watching Ross and Eveleen go into one of the small cabins. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Saba hesitate, then she walked with dignity into the next cabin over. Gordon was free to join her—or not.
He looked around, saw that the other cabins were all claimed, and winced. A moment later Ross appeared as if propelled, followed by Eveleen, who whispered, "… make it any more difficult than it already is."
Out loud she said in a cheery voice, "How about if we females bunk together, and you fellows do the same? I know you and Gordon are used to each other's habits from old missions."
Ross rather sheepishly beckoned to Gordon, and Eveleen swung her bags into the cabin Saba had chosen.
Gordon did not hear the conversation between the two women, though he could hear the murmur of their voices.
Ross didn't say anything. He just stowed his stuff in a locker beneath the bunk he'd chosen, leaving the other one to Gordon.
Gordon got his stuff stashed neatly inside of a minute, and went out to see where he could lend a hand. He was not surprised to see that Renfry and the weedy Russian tech-whiz, Valentin, had chosen to bunk together. The Russian women had also paired off, the older two together, and the younger, and Misha and the dark-eyed silent Viktor had also chosen a cabin together, leaving the dour Gregori to bunk with the pilot, a quiet man in his forties who was introduced as Boris Snegiryov.
"We do not wait," Boris said almost immediately. "We lift soon. Get into your bunks. Strap in."
Gordon remembered that last trip. "I take it you haven't modified that plus-gees acceleration?"
"Two point sixty-seven gees," Boris corrected. "It is the same. We cannot interfere with the engines—we still do not completely understand them. We can only work around their given function."
"I don't need a second warning," Ross commented, waving a careless hand. "I'm for my bunk."
As soon as the equipment was stored to the techs' satisfaction, everyone retreated to their bunks, strapping themselves securely in.
Gordon listened to the sudden quiet. Neither he nor Ross spoke.
"We are lifting off," Boris reported over the intercom.
The first warning was the vibration. Gordon remembered that; his heartbeat accelerated.
The vibration increased steadily, until it became a low, subsonic moan that resonated through bones and teeth. Gordon shut his eyes—there was nothing to look at anyway—and waited.
The sound changed abruptly, and the cosmic hand swatted them, pressing him into his bunk.
His consciousness receded to a dim awareness of a virulently glowing red eye; suddenly it was the pit of a volcano he was falling into. He struggled against the nightmare, his body spasmed, and the pit dwindled and resolved into the red-lit numerals on a clock mounte
d near the door of the cabin.
But his inner ear thought he was still falling, so insistently that he barely noticed the aching of his body in every joint and socket. But he forced himself to unstrap and sit up—and immediately he floated free.
Grabbing the webbing of his bunk, he propelled himself toward the door. His stomach fought, but he recognized the zero gravity-induced nausea for what it was, and looked around, forcing his eyes to impose up and down on his surroundings.
It worked. After a few white-knuckled moments his innards settled, and he hit the door tab. "Ross?" He turned his head.
"Give me a minute." The agent gripped his bunk, his scarred hand showing white.
Gordon turned away and watched the door slide silently into the wall.
Somewhere he heard someone being sick; another person moaned, the baffling of the portable walls only muffling the sound.
A Russian voice called out, "Take your anti-nausea meds!"
A deep voice responded unhappily, "I cannot open my eyes."
Misha's laughter rang out. It sounded heartless. But then came his voice: "Here, Valentin. I'll find it for you—get on your bunk."
There was no sound from any of the women's cabins. Gordon hesitated, then tapped lightly at Saba and Eveleen's— grabbing hastily at a handhold to prevent himself from ricocheting back.
"Yes?" that was Eveleen.
"Gordon here. You all right?"
"We're fine."
Gordon handed himself up the ladder into the circular command center, where one of those cardboard-thin view-screens they'd nicknamed plates on their last journey now showed the blackness of space.
Boris was busy at a console that had been wired to the mysterious guidance console installed by the unknown makers of the ship.
A moment later Gordon was aware of a flicker at his side. He looked up, into Zina Vasilyeva's face. Her chin jutted slightly, but otherwise she seemed composed and calm.
"We are safely launched," she said. "Are your people all right?"
"Adjusting to free fall," Gordon said.
"Shall we turn our attention to making a schedule for our people?"
"Let's," Gordon said.