"Yes. Yes. Yes. Entirely local. I know. Say no more on the telephone. There was nothing political to it. Evidence of espionage. What? All right. Tell the Vladivostok office to handle it. Put extra men on the American Consulate and all that sort of thing."
He put the phone down. His next-in-command awaited expectantly. The commanding officer deigned to talk:
"Terribly serious."
"Yes, Comrade Commander."
"N.K.A.R."
"You don't say!" The subordinate let his jaw drop in amazement. He had known of it long before the boss, but there was no point in repelling the boss' confidence. The telephone operator had already told him.
The commanding general lit a cigarette and then smiled. "But it's internal. Some of their Material got away—"
"Material?" The deputy commander honestly did not understand the term.
"The people they keep there. Not staff. The people they keep for the necessary tests — with their… their work. Some of them got loose. One or two are still missing. They shouldn't use politicals for that. Politicals are too mischievous, too bright. They ought to use deserters or prisoners of war. Common scum."
"I wish you'd told them so, Commander. They need practical advice like yours."
"I did tell them so, last year." The commanding general put out his cigarette. "Well, no harm's done. They asked for autonomy and they got it. Now they can chase their own laboratory material through the woods. We can't help them. They'd start telling Moscow, 'the MVD's moving in. The MVD's moving in.' And then the Fatherlet would fuss at us. Give them help if they ask for help, that's my motto. Come along. We can still see the parade."
"I talked to the Big Boy in Chita. He checked with Those People, you know who I mean. Well, Those People said to watch strangers but that they would do their own looking. If Those People want to do their own policing, we'd better let them do it. Just put on the ordinary emergency conditions. The one that inspects all travelers and picks up all passes for validation. And don't say any more about it. Don't even think about Those People. It isn't safe for you and me to butt in."
Dugan hid the motorcycle in a tree; he moved slowly through the woods, traveling only at night. At a police post, he stopped over long enough to rest and to mail a packet of letters wrapped in a jacket. To do this, he had to steal the stamps from the police post itself and to drop the parcel in a big letter-box on the chance that it might pass uninspected. The motorcycle, the package, and the stopover were noticed by different people; but these people, being unimportant people themselves, were not in on the secrets of the N.K.A.R. And the N.K.A.R. itself was not sure enough that the visitor was anything more than some escaping Material, which would not live long in any case. Someone had gotten out with the motorcyclist, but there was no evidence of his getting far. There had been a lot of disturbances and several crimes that May Day eve.
The stage was set for the birth of a brand-new Japanese officer, a Soviet prisoner of war.
"I never saw anything like that."
"A motorcycle."
"In a tree …"
"Why did They put it there?"
The two workers looked at the tree for a long time. It was unmistakably a motorcycle, lashed to two limbs well above the height of a man's head. But neither moved toward it. The tall, old worker said, "Let's leave it alone. Perhaps it's from Over There, and you know what happens if you even notice things from Over There. We never even came into this part of the woods, did we?"
"No, no, no, no," babbled the younger one.
"There's nobody here named Loginov," said the postmaster to his wife. "In fact, you might even say there's nobody here."
The wife waddled over to the counter and looked at the package which her husband was holding. He was still wearing his old overcoat. The courier postal launch had just left. The package was the biggest thing in the sack. She looked at the outside, though she could not read.
At last she declared, "No priest or gentleman wrote that."
"Lots of working class people can write well nowadays," said her husband, who saw some good in Communism.
"And what does it get them? I haven't seen a priest in sixteen years and two months."
"Shut up, old woman," said the old postmaster, rather kindly. The package was interesting. It was addressed:
Hold for Comrade I. Loginov
Due to Report for Work at Nakhtakhu this Summer Nakhtakhu, Maritime Territory, R.S.F.S.R.
He shook the package. Nothing rattled. Then he shook his head. "Drop it on the floor, Ivan," said the old woman, "accidentally, like."
Ivan lifted the package high above his head and brought it down with a slam against the floor, so that a corner of the paper wrapping burst open. The elaborate criss-cross of knotted string — four or five kinds of string, tied tightly together — kept the package intact except for the corner.
Husband and wife looked at the corner.
At last he spoke, "It's a jacket. A leather jacket."
"But it's an old one," she said.
"Who do you think Loginov will be?" he said.
"Leave it alone, leave it alone. Maybe there is no Loginov. Maybe it is just the inspector trying to trick you again. Here, put it up on the shelf."
The postmaster shoved the package up high on the shelf. Going to the table where his wife had already taken a seat, he murmured:
"Wish I had a jacket like that. Here by the ocean, it's cold."
"I know it," said the old woman, "but you leave that package alone."
"Come here, Corporal. Look what one of those bums has been doing. The nerve of him!"
The corporal hurried by, drying his face, chest, and back with a very worn towel.
The police private pointed to the edge of the wooden building. He dropped to his knees and waved his arm in a gesture showing the whole area underneath the floor. "He's been sleeping there. And eating there. He must have used that can for water. But I guess he's been gone a couple of days. It's not recent. No wonder our dog acted so funny."
"Who do you think it was?"
"Probably one of those Japanese from the lumber camp. They'd do anything to get out of work."
"Can I hunt him with the big dogs?" asked the private eagerly.
The corporal turned serious. "If he's Japanese, he's a foreigner, isn't he?"
"Yes, comrade," said the private disappointedly. He saw what was coming.
"And if he's a foreigner it's a matter of state security. I'd better do the hunting, myself."
"Yes, comrade," said the private.
The corporal suddenly grinned. "Don't look so gloomy! We'll do it together, tomorrow. I have four shells for the shotgun. If we don't find any Japanese, we may see some counter-revolutionary animals. Good for eating."
The young policeman's eyes shone. He was only eighteen. "But the Japanese…
"We'll never find him. They're like that — when they've loafed for a while, they go back to their camp."
Three Japanese officers, very shabby, sat in the hut reserved for the senior prisoners. Two were majors. One was a colonel. The colonel was speaking.
"My name," said Dugan, "is Tamazawa, Colonel Tamazawa Jotaro. I was executive officer of the Independent Mixed Brigade which was captured by the Russians at Eiko Bay. If we had managed to move south a few kilometers, we would have been taken by the Americans and I would be home now."