It was a series of pictures, but the cartridge of slides had been improperly loaded. There were gaps, frequent large gaps. Blank — car — blank… remember…
'What do you remember, Mitchell?' Aubrey asked once more. 'After you destroyed the second Firefox, what happened then? We know that you destroyed the two MiG-25Fs-you remembered that much. Do you still remember?' Gant nodded. 'Good. The first one you took out in the clouds, and the second one almost got you… but you survived and the aircraft survived… What did you do next? What did you do, Mitchell? Time is of the essence. We haven't much time to prevent it falling into their hands. What did you do with it, Mitchell?' The voice insisted. Yet it soothed, too. It was almost hypnotic. There seemed to be a window behind the doctor and the nurse, through which Gant could see… what was it? London. Big Ben? Yes, Big Ben. There seemed to be a bright patch of colour at the corner of his vision, perhaps flowers in a vase? He could see Big Ben — he was almost home — he was safe…
And Aubrey's voice went on, seductively soft, hypnotic, comforting.
'Where, Mitchell, where? Where did you land the aircraft? You can remember, Mitchell!.. try — please try to remember…?
'Ye — ess…' he breathed slowly, painfully.
'Good, Mitchell, good. You can remember!'
'Yes,' he enunciated more clearly. He was feeling better. Whatever had happened to him, he was on the mend. His memory had come back. Aubrey would be delighted, they might yet rescue the airframe from the bottom of the lake -
Lake-
No!
'No!' his voice cried an instant after his mind. 'No-!'
He was drowning and burning in the lake. His drug-confused memory had jolted awake against his utter terror of drowning. Wrapped in icy water, then in the same instant wrapped in burning fire -
His nightmare engulfed him.
'No-!'
Vladimirov stared at the interrogator, at the mimic bending near Gant, whose earpiece picked up every question suggested by the interrogator and the general, then he stared at the nurse, the doctor bending towards Gant, at Gant himself -
'What's happening?' he asked, then, more loudly: 'What the hell's happening to him?'
Vladimirov found himself staring at the slide projected on one of the white walls, the one opposite Gant. A London scene, looking across the Thames towards the Palace of Westminster and Big Ben. Now that Gant was screaming, over and over, that single denying word, the illusion seemed pathetic, totally unreal. Like the flowers someone had placed against the wall. Who would be fooled by such things, even under drugs? Gant was evading him again, evading him — !
He shook off the angry, restraining hand of the senior interrogator and crossed the room. Gant's eyes were staring blankly, his mouth was open like that of a drowning man, but instead of precious air bubbles it was the one word No! which emerged, over and over again. Vladimirov looked up, confused.
'What is it?' he shouted. 'What is it?'
The interrogator reached Vladimirov's side. The doctor was checking Gant's pulse, his pupil dilation, his respiration. When he had finished, he shrugged, murmuring an apology at the interrogator.
'Put him out '
'No — !' Vladimirov protested. He bent over Gant. 'He knows! He was about to tell us…' The mimic had moved away, removed his earpiece; anxious not to be blamed. 'Do something!'
'Put him out,' the interrogator repeated. 'Shut him up! We'll make another attempt later — ' He turned to Vladimirov. 'It's simply a matter of time. We have stumbled upon something that is interfering with the illusion. There's always a risk of tripping over something in a dark tunnel…'
The doctor injected Gant. After a moment, he stopped repeating his one word of protest. His head slumped forward, his body slackened.
'How long?' Vladimirov asked, and bit his lower lip. 'How long?'
'A few hours — this evening. We'll start from a different point. With more careful preparation. Think of it as mining for gold — only the last inches of rock lie between us and the richest seam in the world!' He smiled. 'Next time, he'll tell us.'
Dmitri Priabin shivered in his uniform greatcoat as he watched Anna's son playing football on the snow-covered grass of the Gorky Park of Culture and Rest. The bench on which he was seated was rimed with frost which sparkled in the orange sodium lights. Beneath the lights which lined the paths through the park, Maxim and his friends would play until it was fully dark, and then on into the night, if they were allowed. He felt indulgent, despite the cold, though he knew that when Anna arrived she would scold all of them, him most of all for allowing them to get cold and damp and tired. He smiled at the thought, and at the high, childish voices, the imitations of star players' protests and antics. He contented himself with occasional glances towards the gigantic stone porch and architrave that marked the main entrance to the park. Beyond it, traffic roared homewards on the Sadovaya Ring and along the Lenin Prospekt. Workers hurried through the park, one or two of them stopping for a moment to watch the boys' football game; stamping their cold feet, rubbing gloved hands before rushing on into the gathering dusk.
Maxim had new boots — Dynamo First Class — which Priabin had purchased for the boy's birthday the previous week. The ball also belonged to Maxim. He watched as Anna's son dribbled past two friend-opponents and slid it inside the tall metal rod which marked one goalpost. Maxim pranced, hands in the air, after he had scored. Another boy protested at offside while the very diminutive goalkeeper picked himself out of the snow after his desperate, unavailing dive for the ball. Priabin clapped his gloved hands, laughing, then looked at his watch. Time to go — at least to begin to round them up.
He glanced towards the architrave and the Communist Party symbols carved upon it. Then, from beneath the curving weight of the stone porch, he saw Anna Borisovna Akhmerovna emerge, and he found his breath catching, as it almost always did when he unexpectedly caught sight of her; when it was no more than a few moments before she would be at his side. Hurriedly, with a great show of concern, he stood up and walked through the snow, waving his arms, collecting the teams. All the time, he was aware of her approach, half-amused, half eager, almost to the point of desperation. He still could not properly catch his breath. The boys crowded reluctantly, protestingly around his tall figure. He continued to wave his arms in shepherding gestures, turning eventually to where he knew she had stopped. Red-faced and puffing, he knew he could easily have appeared to be one of the schoolboys. He was taller and heavier, but closer to their age-group than he was to the woman who stood on the frosty path, arms folded, head slightly on one side, appraising the group of which he formed the centrepiece.
'I didn't realise the time… you're late, anyway,' he protested. Maxim waved shyly, a gesture he could not prevent but which was muted out of deference to his friends and the rough masculinity of their recent activity.
'Who won?' she called.
'I — don't know,' he laughed.
'Maxim's team — lucky swines!' one boy explained.
'No luck in it!' Maxim retorted.
Priabin walked towards Anna, feeling his cheeks glow. She was wearing a fur coat and hat with long black leather boots. Her fair hair escaped untidily from the hat. Her face was pale from the cold. Priabin could not bear not to touch her, but contented himself with a peck on her cold cheek and murmured endearment. Her gloved hand touched the side of his face, briefly; his skin seemed to burn more heatedly afterwards.
'Come on — all of you,' she ordered. 'Collect your things. Change out of those wet boots before you go anywhere! No, no, coats on first or you'll all catch pneumonia!'