Or if he had come, maybe it wasn’t in the Tatra.
The Tatra was the likeliest, the only, vehicle they had to go on. But perhaps it wasn’t the Tatra. Had Tchersky reported Tatra parts missing? What the devil had they reported?
Tchersky was contacted and reported that the transport company was still checking discrepancies. As yet nothing pointed significantly to any particular type of vehicle. When it did they would call in immediately.
The general decided to hang on till midnight. But half an hour later two calls from Tchersky changed his mind. The first was a response to his order for out-of-area vehicles, and it came from a strange area. A militia post at Bilibino had reported a native passing through in a bobik soon after five this morning. The man had claimed to be a road mechanic on goldfield duties, but no road station had any knowledge of him, or of his bobik.
The second related to country air strips, and was from a source still stranger. The general took the phone himself and his eyebrows shot up. ‘They’ve found him where? Say it again. Spell it.’ But even as spelt, he’d never heard of it and he looked round at his staff. ‘Baranikha?’ he said.
55
For Porter, pulling out of the ditch at six o’clock that morning, Baranikha had still been far ahead. He was not clear how far ahead. Something over 300 kilometres, the little atlas showed; but with mountains all the way and a twisting road it could be very much farther. In any case, he needed more fuel.
By 10 a.m. he had it, and two more road stations were behind him. He had also had a fantastic surprise. All the trucks were running here! Not in his direction, for he had overtaken nothing, but the other way. The road to Bilibino had been the danger — all long-distance traffic halted there. They hadn’t expected him to get beyond it. But now he was beyond it, running free. And here everything was normal.
The exhilaration had temporarily lifted his fatigue; but now exhaustion had set in again. He had driven over a thousand kilometres. He was light-headed, seeing double.
Somewhere ahead and to the right a halo of light became two haloes, and one again. Then two. In the snow flurries he tried to focus. He was running beside a frozen stream but there had been no bridges for the past hour. The fuzzy light ahead showed activity of some kind; there had to be a linking track to it over the stream.
Presently, almost abeam, he saw there were two haloes: a floodlit aerial railway on a mountain slope above, and below it a bucket chain dumping ore into a line of trucks. He saw also that the track from this operation ran to the stream, and the highway and, thank God, to a bridge connecting it with the highway. He took himself under this bridge, leaden with fatigue, and immediately switched everything off and got into his bag.
A quarter to eleven. Two full hours’ sleep, he decided.
And before one, to time, awoke. There was still half a flask of coffee left, and he swilled a mouthful round. He was faint with hunger. Plenty of food left, he saw, as he pulled the bag towards him; he had moved too fast, too continuously. He cut himself some bread, and unwrapped the salami, and looked at the coarse paper for a moment, wondering if she’d found the other one yet …
A lifetime ago.
He chewed his food and tried to think when it was. All Sunday he had worked on the bobik; Sunday night she’d brought the battery. Early Monday he’d left. Had driven all day, all night.
Only yesterday. And already over a thousand kilometres away. And with two more road stations behind him he must be nearing his destination.
He pulled the atlas across and found Baranikha again.
All the contour shades still purple. He traced the road he was on. A major river must be coming up. Once he hit the river, the road ran beside it straight to Baranikha — the river itself carrying on to the Arctic. He had turned north again. Now he had to fly south. Several short flights south.
He followed the pages south through the atlas. Nakhodka was so far there was no point in plotting it yet. But he saw where he had to head. Magadan first. Not the place itself but some small spot near it. Polar Aviation’s flights touched down at many country stops. And Magadan wasn’t so far now, maybe 1500 kilometres. Two or three hops. He could make it today.
He checked out the road and in a few minutes was moving again, into snow.
Twenty kilometres along, the headlights of a convoy came towards him: a Tchersky convoy. The big Kamas flashed their lights at him as they lumbered past, and he flashed back.
2 p.m.
At 2.30 he picked up the river, pulled in and checked with the atlas again.
The scale was so small it was hard to tell but it looked no more than thirty or forty kilometres to Baranikha now. The colour faded to green in the area around the dot, indicating some kind of valley; probably accounting for the siting of the town. The airport would be in that valley. He started up again and proceeded more slowly, looking for security checks. So far he had seen nothing, but still — his registration plate was a strange one here.
The river coiled away presently, not so straight as on the map, but the road ran dead straight. The river was now below, still to the right. It dropped quite far below, yes into a valley, wide-ish, flattish. The high ground was to his left, fold on fold of it, an occasional frozen waterfall showing the chasms in between. The road had been built on a straight ledge of rock running between what was evidently a marsh on the right and the jagged peaks on the left.
It rose and fell slightly now with the contours, and quite suddenly, on a rise, he saw the lights of the town below. And very close below. Hazy in the snow, but not more than three or four kilometres. The road ran straight downhill to it: a toytown neatly laid but in the valley. Smoke-pluming factories; lit-up apartment blocks. And an airport, with runway, control tower, adjacent buildings, car park.
He sat and watched it for some minutes. There didn’t seem to be a barrier. He drove cautiously down, entered the car park and cruised round. No militia; no people even; just a few vans and battered work buses, all crusted with snow. He stationed the bobik nose out, put a few necessities into the grip, and picked his way across the rutted ground into the airport building.
A shabby hall, very grimy, crammed with people. His heart sank at the sight. They had all, obviously, been here a long time. Every seat was taken and everywhere people were sleeping — on chairs, benches, the floor. The air was thick with tobacco smoke and a hubbub of noise. A knot of men bunched round the check-in desk, and a denser crowd round a bar at the far end of the hall. There was a canteen there, all the tables full; card games, domino games, a man playing an accordion.
What the hell! All flights stopped, evidently. Were they looking for him here, too?
He made his way to the check-in desk, saw the flight board on the wall. A list of destinations: all times blank.
A heavy smell of sweat rose from the gang here; working men, many of them native, short skis and rucksacks strapped to their backs. He picked one who looked like a Chukchee.
‘What’s going on, brother?’ he asked.
‘They’re giving out the tickets. For Mitlakino.’
‘What’s the hold-up?’
‘No hold-up. The blizzard isn’t heading there.’
A blizzard: not him, then. ‘How about Magadan?’ he said.
‘Magadan?’ The man stared at him, and he saw now that he was drunk. ‘Magadan out. Everything south been out for days. And for another thirty-six hours. They laid you off here?’
‘Sure, laid off. What’s this other place — Mitla what?’
‘Mitlakino. Work there. See a notice.’ The man was swaying, and was jostled aside by others returning through the crush with papers.