Swanson explained what he had done. For weeks he had gone over the photographs, finding tell-tale lines of color difference in the trees, odd shadows which added up to the modification of natural terrain. Two photographs together showed shadow lines which hinted at camouflaged excavation, damaged trees showing power lines, a thickened brook hinting at water overflow.
The colors of the photographs ranged from pale greens to weird purples. Swanson explained:
"These aren't meant to pick up the actual colors, but to range from infra-red all the way up through the visible spectrum. We figured that the Russians would build their camouflage doctrine on the assumption of black-and-white photography or color perception by the naked eye. They couldn't fool us on the color pattern and the black-and-white pattern, not at the same time. See how this film shows up the differences in foliage tints?"
Dugan and Sarah nodded.
Swanson ran his finger along the patterns which neither of the others could see till he pointed them out; but it was amazing how clear each pattern remained, once it had been pointed out.
A fantastic city lay beneath the leaves. Swanson's voice rang with technical enthusiasm as he explained the enormous care which had gone into the building of Atomsk. Purely by air view, it would never have been detected. A renegade, a panicky Soviet pilot, and a Chinese coolie had had to show the way; otherwise it never would have been found.
Swanson said, very emphatically, "Do you see — they have hidden it from their own people, too? They have thousands of planes and thousands of pilots in this part of the world. They could not post Atomsk as a prohibited area without a million or so people finding out about it. They had to leave it so that even Russian aircraft would find nothing. The best way to keep a secret is to have no secret to keep, in the first place. No lights. No roads. No warnings. Just the empty forest, and on the ground the secret police shunting people this way and that with a thousand prohibited zones. Any one of them could have been Atomsk. But this one is it."
Sarah said, "If there's any question of needing more information, why don't we fly another plane in?"
"And fight?" said Dugan.
"Or have the pilot tried publicly and shot, with ourselves unable to explain it to his mother or his Congressman? Imagine the newsreel pictures. The world couldn't stand it, not the way things are going now."
Dugan stared straight ahead. "If they don't know what we know, but do know that we know a lot, they'll slow down. And if somebody gets in and botches things up for a while, they will know that we know. Their surprise will be gone. You agree, doctor, that they put it close to the Siberian coast so that their raiding aircraft — in the event of war — could throw heavy radioactive trash down on us even if they don't develop a bomb?"
Swanson's eyes lit up. "You figure it that way, too? That was my guess. If they did want to dump bomberloads of isotopes on us, they needed the plant near Vladivostok and the coastal airfields. But not too near. I suppose they have other cities farther back. But this one is the mischief-making place."
Dugan rose. "Can I take the pictures with me?"
"No," said Swanson. "I'll give you a map instead. It won't mean much, but you can always come back and look these over, right here."
"Thank you," said Dugan. "I may."
Swanson called the gate. They said goodbye to him. Sarah watched Dugan. Since his one break, when he had accidentally used the Japanese facial expression for commiseration she had found herself eyeing him protectively, making swift calculations as to how often he dared go off guard, even with herself. As they walked toward the gate she summoned up her courage and said:
"You did something wrong in there, Major."
He looked at her quickly, alert, smiling, not at all angry. With gay formality he asked, "What was it, Captain?"
"You looked Japanese when Swanson said he knew the pilot."
Dugan became serious. "Looked Japanese? How do you mean that?"
Sarah persisted. She felt intolerably shy, trying to tell him his own business, and admitting that she had been watching him so specially and so intently. She squeezed his arm, as if to make her words casually affectionate, and then felt herself more of a fool than ever. Dugan was smiling at her with nothing more than serious attentiveness. Her thoughts went out of focus when she tried to think of how many possible Dugans there were behind that commonplace manner; among them all, there must be one who understood her motives. She stammered and finally said, "I happened to be looking at you. When he said that his friend was killed, you let your face go blank."
"Deadpan," said Dugan flatly. "That's what a Japanese would do. And I did it?"
"Yes, and it even made your features look Asiatic, somehow. You didn't even look like an American."
She felt the muscles of his arm stiffen where her hand touched his sleeve. He kept his voice even, but did not look at her, nor smile, this time: "And do I usually look like an American to you?"
"Of course." She smiled up at him, trying to catch his eye. "A little strange, perhaps, but strange in a nice way." She felt reckless. "I'd even call you handsome. But when you had that one particular expression, it didn't fit. It gave you away."
Dugan stopped as they reached the jeep. He looked straight at her. "I like you, Sarah, and I hope you like me. But don't like me too much. I have things to do that don't leave me much time to be myself. Anyway, thanks for catching me. But you needn't worry. If I hadn't felt at home with you and Swanson, I'd have been on my guard. The expressions fit. I make them fit."
And what, thought Sarah, can I say to that? She was glad to be able to turn her back and to climb into the jeep beside the driver. Dugan clambered into the back seat, and off they went.
IV. MR. ANYBODY
General Coppersmith sent Dugan down to Yokohama to talk to a man who had some special and recent information about the Siberian-Manchurian border, both sides of which were controlled by the Communists, Russians facing Chinese. With Dugan definitely out of the way, he telephoned Colonel Landsiedel to come on over.
Meanwhile he gave Sarah dictation.
"The gamble is atrocious. Smooth professional half-criminal spies, like the Europeans who made a business of espionage, could not be persuaded to go into a half-Arctic wilderness with six divisions of police troops between themselves and the next safe place. And there is no point in asking the Japanese to do a job like this. They might get caught or end up on the wrong side. It had to be an American. Those tenses are all wrong, Sarah. Don't take it down."
"Yes, sir." She started to get up.
"No, don't go away. Just sit. I want somebody to talk to. You'll do." He looked down at the trim feminine figure, at her softly wavy brown hair, her gray-blue-eyes. She made the immaculateness of her uniform seem dainty instead of military.
Coppersmith knew why he was angry. He wanted to go himself. Twenty years ago, he would have fought for the chance. But he couldn't do it, now. He dared not risk capture; his mind was too full of things that the Russians wanted to know. Physically, he could not trot prodigious distances through rain and snow in the high latitudes. He could not move week after week among strangers, his life hanging on each casual word. This man Dugan was valuable, but he was still expendable. And Dugan, though no youth, was much harder and tougher than himself.
"Do you like him, Captain?" said Coppersmith. "You've been palling around with him."
Sarah looked serious. "Very much. He is a very humane sort of person. He likes everybody. But I don't know whether he has ever been candid. He's always on guard."