Pyotr Vassilyevich Baranovich was no longer puzzled by the American, Gant. At first, and during the first hour or more of his presence in the house in Tupolev Avenue, he had been increasingly puzzled by his behaviour. He had watched the man eat his meal, served by the woman who lived with Kreshin, a secretary from the finance office of the Bilyarsk project. He had watched the American, and had not understood him. He had studied him while they talked of his journey, and of Pavel — who was God knew where by now on the road to Kuybyshev, or in the hands of the KGB — and still been puzzled. Then they had begun to talk of the Mikoyan Mig-31, the Firefox as NATO called it, and he had seen the eager, dry hunger, like lust, in the man's eyes and he no longer was dubious about Buckholz's choice of pilot.
Gant, he understood, needed, for some deep reason of his own, to fly the airplane. This man seated before him had been bundled from America to England, then to Russia, from Moscow to Bilyarsk, like so much washing — and he had allowed it to happen to him because at the end of the journey, like a monstrous child's prize for good behaviour, was the shiny toy of the Mig.
Semelovsky had left them almost as soon as he had delivered the American, to return to his own quarters. They would not meet again until they reported to the hangar to prepare the aircraft for the weapons trials the following day. Kreshin and he, on the other hand, would pass through the security net into the factory complex together at two in the morning.
Baranovich was aware that the KGB would keep a careful watch upon himself and Kreshin and Semelovsky throughout the night. Without doubt, they would have orders to arrest them hours before the flight. That was only to be expected. But, until the work was done on the weapons-system they would not touch him. All they could do was watch from a car across the street. This was why Gant's presence in the house, so apparent a security risk, was in reality a safety precaution. It was safer than trying to hide him anywhere else in Bilyarsk. It was the last place they would look.
Baranovich had no intention of dwelling on his personal future. Like Gant himself, and like Aubrey in London, Baranovich accepted the slivers of time that were given to him, and did not seek to understand what might occur in the future hours and days. He had learned to live like that in Mavrino, and before that in the labour camps. He had known what he was doing when he had accepted the order to work at Bilyarsk, to develop the purely theoretical work that had already been done on a thought-controlled weapons-system, by a man now dead. The KGB had been aware of what they were doing when they released him to take up the appointment. Baranovich had lived on borrowed time for many years, almost since the end of the war — no, before that, he corrected himself, since a soldier lives on borrowed time, especially on the Russian front in winter. Because he had done so for the greater part of his life, it came as üo special occasion now to understand that he was living on borrowed time.
'How well have you been briefed?' he asked, settling himself to throw off the useless speculations about himself and the character of the American.
They were seated in Kreshin's living-room, small, warm and comfortable. The younger man had left them alone — Baranovich suspected that he and the woman were making love in the next room, perhaps with the desperation of the young to whom time, borrowed or otherwise, is precious. Kreshin would, perhaps, be trying to forget the hours ahead in the illusion of passion. Baranovich had told Gant that he could speak without being overheard. The house was indeed bugged — but for that evening the electronics expert had rigged pre-recorded tapes to supply innocuous talk and the noise of the television a background mutter, for the KGB listeners.
'I told you — I flew some of the Mig-25 copies we built in the States for a couple of years, then I spent months on the simulator flying the Mig-31,' Gant replied. In his turn, he was impressed by Baranovich. The man's patriarchal appearance, white hair and goatee beard, clear blue eyes, and unlined brow, demanded respect.
'No doubt your training, then, was thorough,' Baranovich said, smiling, puffing at his pipe, seemingly relaxed as if he and Gant were happily theorising in a university common-room. It had been a very long time, perhaps forty years, since Baranovich had been in such a room.
'It was,' Gant agreed. He paused, then said: 'The weapons-system… you need to tell me about that.'
Baranovich seemed unaffected by Gant's directness. In fact, he respected it. This was the time and place for such directness.
'Yes. It is not, I must say, my own development, though I have done most of the work on the electronics involved, the miniaturisation, and so forth.' He puffed at his pipe. 'You are literally plugged into the weapons-system. The sensors which respond to your thought-processes and your eye movements are built into the helmet you wear, into the shell and the visor. A single lead carries the brain-impulses to the firing mechanisms, which you manually plug into the console — you know where that is located on the panel?' Gant nodded. 'Good. What happens is not important as a process, only, for you, as an end product, a result. The radar system in the aircraft is specially developed to work in conjunction with the weapons-control — basically, it speeds up the firing-time. You receive an impulse quicker than the eye can respond, from the radar, which causes a reaction in your brain to which the weapons-system reacts. It makes the launching of air-to-air missiles, or the firing of the cannons, that much quicker… and, of course, for visual contact as opposed to radar contact, it places you seconds ahead of any other airplane or pilot. When your eyes see the target, the impulse is transmitted from the brain to the weapons-control — and whatever weapon you decide to launch, is launched and it allows your brain to guide the missile in flight to its target.'
Baranovich smiled at Gant's staring eyes. 'Don't worry, my friend — some of our Red Air Force pilots are very unintelligent. This system works only as you are wearing the helmet, and are plugged in. Besides,' he added with a smile. 'I cannot tell you more — it is top secret, eh?' Baranovich took his pipe from his mouth, and roared with laughter. Still smiling, he added: 'There is a master lock-out switch, by the way, which prevents you from blowing friends out of the sky with evil thoughts!'
After a pause, Baranovich sighed. His eyes seemed to be directed inwards, and when he spoke next, it was as if he were summarising a problem for his own satisfaction alone.
'Your government realises the importance of the weapons-system. It is the logical next step, and it has endless possibilities. I could tell them much, of course, except that they know they can never get me out of the Soviet Union. To steal the Mig is easier…' He sucked at the dead pipe, and continued. 'The United States has hardly begun to develop such a system. If it does not have one soon, then it will never be able to catch up with the flood of refinements and applications that will follow from what is, at present, still a crude electronic implement. So, they have to have the Mig, since they cannot have me. The applications could be endless, infinite as the system is refined. You, naturally, are interested only as a pilot, not as a scientist. At the moment, it employs conventional weaponry — who knows? Soon, the weaponry may leap ahead to match the thought-guided system…'
He looked sharply at Gant, who wiped the lack of interest from his face. There was a look sharp with pain in Baranovich's eyes as he said: 'Of course, I bore you. Perhaps it is self-pity. I would like to go on living, perhaps in the United States…'