"My men aren't moles," the fire general barked.
"We won't need your men for that, Comrade General. A team of miners from the Donetsk coalfields is already on its way. Now. As to the fire in the graphite itself?"
The fire brigade commander said, "The helicopter drops are helping. Another fifty tons of sand are needed, though, at least."
"Comrade Colonel?"
The Air Force officer rapped out, "Of course. We have requested another squadron of men and machines; they should be here in the morning. With them, we will continue the drops on schedule."
Istvili looked at the fire brigade commander, who shrugged. "If that is so, then perhaps we ought to have more volunteers to fill the sandbags. Also my men can't get through the rubble near the reactor building."
"Have it bulldozed away!"
"To be sure, Comrade Istvili," the fireman said mildly, "but to where? Some has already been dumped into the pond—"
"Good God, man," Sheranchuk cried. "Not the cooling pond! We've poisoned enough water already."
"So I have said, but then, where?"
Since no one else spoke, Sheranchuk said, "There's a foundation dug for another reactor on the other side of the station. I doubt it will ever be built now; can't you shove everything in there?"
"Do it," said Istvili, turning to gaze at Sheranchuk again. He asked the meeting at large, "Is there anything else we need our hydrologist-engineer for at this time?"
Sheranchuk said quickly, "There is something I need the meeting for, at least." "And what is that?"
"It is simply impossible to accomplish anything in a two-hour shift a couple of times a day. I request permission to work for longer periods." "How long?"
"As long as I have to! Four hours at a time, at least." Istvili drummed his fingers on the table, looking around. "How are your white-blood corpuscle readings, Comrade Sheranchuk?"
"Who can tell? They simply take it and go away somewhere. At least they have not told me I am in danger."
Istvili nodded. Then he sighed. "Permission granted," he said. "Now let us see how we stand for materiel. . "
Chapter 21
Except perhaps for the anniversary of the October Revolution (which occurs in November, because of the changed calendar), the paramount public holiday of the Soviet Union is on the first day of May. It is called International Labor Day, or more frequently simply "May Day." There is no village in the USSR so small that it does not have at least a celebration on May Day, and in the largest cities the event is an immense production.
"But we can't watch it on the TV," Candace Garfield told her husband reasonably, "because we don't have one in this delightful little toilet you found for us, and they'll just charge us extra if we want to use the one in the living room, and it's in black and white anyway."
"Well, hell, hon," said her husband, also reasonably — it was only eight in the morning, and they were both still being reasonable—"who wants to watch it on TV? We might as well be home in Beverly Hills if that's all we want to do. We'll go on into town, and—"
"And walk to the subway, right? Because those buses don't ever run?"
"They were running all right yesterday, honey. It was only like on Sunday and Monday that we couldn't find one."
"And today's a holiday, right? So they probably won't be running at all."
Garfield opened his mouth to respond a touch less reasonably, because his own temper was beginning to run short after four days on their own in Kiev. They were saved by a knock on the door. "Oh, poop," said Candace, "that's Abdul for the rent. Wait a minute till I get something on."
Abdul was who it was, although his name was surely not Abdul. He was some sort of Arab in some sort of diplomatic post at some Arab consulate — for four straight days he had managed to avoid telling them which nation paid his salary.
He was a constantly smiling slim young man, no more than thirty. This time, as always, he greeted them with a cheery "Good morning to the both of you!" and an outstretched hand. As always, he took Garfield's hundred-dollar traveler's check, and returned the change in rubles. He had every reason to smile, Garfield thought. The agreed-on bed-and-breakfast rate was sixty-five dollars American each day. The thirty-five dollars' worth of rubles Garfield got back in change were always calculated at the official rate, and Garfield was quite certain the man got his own rubles from one of the furtive young men who hung around the tourist hotels, at no more than twenty-five cents apiece instead of the official rate of over a dollar and a half.
Of course, they hadn't had much choice. It was not really that bad a room — in fact, it was reasonably nice, especially by Soviet standards — even though they didn't have a bath of their own. It was in a new and attractive building. They were in a sort of diplomatic ghetto; you got into it through a gate, and when you arrived in a taxi a militiaman peered in to make sure no locals were sneaking into the place reserved for foreign residents of Kiev. There did not, unfortunately, seem to be any Americans or even English or Canadians in the compound, and their host had urged them (still smiling, but very emphatically) to avoid contact with the neighbors as much as possible. "Is not against Soviet law exactly, no, but still is a matter for discreetness, please."
That May Day morning, though, when he had carefully paid out Garfield's twenty rubles and some odd kopecks in change, he lost the smile. Looking at them seriously, he said, "I am very sorry to bear ill tidings, but all things must end. Tomorrow must be last day of you to be here. Due to the changed circumstances, I am required to leave and must close down my flat."
"What changed circumstances?" Garfield demanded. The man only shrugged.
"Now, come off it," barked Candace from the table. "Where are we supposed to go? You've got to let us stay here just for a couple of nights, anyway!"
"But it is impossible," he explained, once more smiling broadly. "Your luggage? Yes, if you like, you may leave it here until you call for it — no later than six tomorrow evening. And now I must leave at once to prepare for our May Day reception, and then we must pack for departure. My good wife will now have your breakfast ready. It has been very great pleasure to know you, really. And, oh, yes, for the extra hours in your room due to leaving the luggage, that will be additionally twenty-five dollars American."
Breakfast was like each of the other three mornings they had spent in the diplomatic flat, with the silent, pregnant wife serving them the same soft-boiled eggs, thick slices of bread, and strong tea, except that this time while they were still at table a swarthy man knocked at the door. He and the diplomat's wife talked in low voices for a while — it was not an Arabic language, Garfield thought, but almost certainly not Russian, either. Then the man handed her a thick wad of currency. The woman counted it all over twice, then fished a set of car keys out of her apron pocket and gave them to the man. A moment later the Garfields heard the sound of a car starting in the courtyard below. Through the window Garfield saw the man driving away in Abdul's huge old canary-yellow Mustang convertible.
As they walked out of the compound, nodding familiarly to the cop at the gate, Garfield said, "Abdul's not going to come back here at all. He sold his car."
"So?" asked his wife, peering toward the avenue where there might have been, but was not, a bus.
"So nothing," said Garfield cheerfully, deciding on the spot not to press the question of what "changed circumstances" caused Abdul to flee with his wife. "Look, there's no use trying to get a bus, and it's only about a twenty-minute walk to the Metro."
"Next time I go anywhere with you," Candace said grimly, "I pack my Adidas. Dean? This little adventure is beginning to get bor-z «g. I think it's time to go home."