He pulled out of the mob and looked for the notice. It was beyond the desk, on the wall between it and the canteen. Men were sleeping here on bundles on the floor. He leaned over them and read it.
MITLAKINO (Chukotskiy Poluostrov)
Construction workers required.
Mining experience essential.
Union rates according to grade.
Work permit and employment record required.
Transport, food and accommodation provided.
Chukotskiy Poluostrov. The Chukotka Peninsula. Way east; as far east as you could go. It was south he wanted. But there would be no way south for thirty-six hours. With this mob stuck here for days there was no guarantee he’d get a flight even then.
He pondered this and pushed through to the bar. The bar, he saw right away, was out of hard drink: crates of empties were stacked behind it, the two women working there in angry argument with men leaning over to see what was beneath. Some of the men, he saw, had formed tight drinking groups of their own and were taking swigs from personal bottles passed around.
The end wall of the canteen was papered with an enormous map of Siberia and he made his way to it, trying to think what was for the best. To get as far away as possible was obviously best — but as far east as the Chukotka peninsula? Still, if it was the only place planes were flying. From there, with the blizzard over, he should be able to fly south — and to Magadan. Its supplies probably came direct from Magadan: the principal town for the Chukotka region. Better than staying here, anyway.
Mitlakino he had never heard of, but he saw its position, on the peeling edge of the map, the sheet greasily fading out by the light switch, but ringed in red ballpoint. The name itself had been handwritten in, partly on the wall — evidently nothing there yet, still in course of construction.
From Baranikha, also ringed on the map, it was a long way. According to the scale, something over 800 kilometres. But what of it? A direct flight would take only a couple of hours.
‘What’s a problem, brother?’ The drunk had found him — had found him abruptly, pushed backwards out of a ring of drinkers. ‘Greedy bastards!’ he told the drinkers. ‘What’s a problem?’
‘No problem,’ Porter said. ‘You going to Mitlakino?’
‘Sure going Mitlakino. Know plenty fellows Mitlakino. Good fellows, Chukchees, not greedy bastards. Listen, what kind a fellow you, brother? You not Chukchee?’
‘No,’ Porter said. The man strongly stank. ‘Evenk.’
‘Evenks all right. Listen, you got something to drink?’
‘I got something for me,’ Porter said.
‘You good fellow. Let’s have drink. Call a plane soon.’
‘How soon they call the plane?’
‘Soon. On a board. Just time little drink.’
‘Just a minute,’ Porter said, and went to see the board, the man dragging behind him. On the board the Mitlakino time was now up, the only one up. It wasn’t so soon.
Mitlakino 1800.
The airport clock showed 1615.
‘Okay,’ Porter said, ‘we’ll have a little drink. Only put your papers away, you’ll lose them.’ The man was still clutching the sheaf in his hand. ‘And we don’t want anyone sharing, we’ll find a place of our own.’
They found a place in the boiler room. The notice on the door said keep out, but it wasn’t locked. The one he’d tried first had electrical flashes on it and was firmly locked.
The boiler room was hot and he helped the Chukchee off with his backpack and skis before settling on the floor and producing the bottle from his grip. It was his last bottle, only one swig gone, and the man’s eyes lit up. ‘You good fellow,’ he said.
By ten to five only a quarter was left in the bottle and the Chukchee, after a little desultory singing, was nodding.
‘I like a man can take a drink,’ he said.
‘You a man can take a drink?’ Porter asked him.
‘Sure I take a drink,’ the Chukchee said.
‘I take a drink,’ Porter told him, and glugged at the bottle. He took nothing from it but he held it up, examining it owlishly. ‘That’s a good drink,’ he said. ‘I don’t see you take a good drink.’
The Chukchee took a good drink. He took all of it and showed the bottle, and smiled foolishly, sliding sideways. Porter watched, awaiting the first snore.
Yes. Out for the count. And for some hours.
It was just on five, and now there was little time.
He took the Chukchee’s papers, checking to see the ticket was there, and also the backpack and skis. He collected his grip, switched the light off, and went rapidly back through the crowded hall.
1705 on the wall clock. 1800 on the flight board.
He stowed everything in the bobik and drove out of the car park. The snow was still gusting, but now at him, from the south. He went back up the hill, to the rise from where he’d first seen the town; the river and the valley now on his left. The rock cliffs were to his right and he searched them, looking for a gap. He remembered there had been frozen waterfalls, dropping into a chasm, and soon he saw one.
He got out of the car and peered down, with the torch. Smooth icy bulges in the rock. No obstructions. And no sign of bottom. But deep. It wouldn’t be seen for months, if then; smashed to nothing by the summer torrent.
He transferred what he needed to the backpack. Almost nothing left in the bobik’s tank, but one jerrican still full. This he threw into the chasm, together with the grip. Then he took the keys out of the ignition, pulled the wheel hard over, let the brake off and pushed it backwards downhill. It ran slowly away from him, ran easily, and went over easily — good little bastard, good to the end, and he watched as it simply went, vanished, without trouble. Above the wind he heard a muffled thud, and another, and then nothing.
He hitched the backpack on, and undid the skis. They were work jobs, short and wide, for rough ground; the sticks bound up with them. He buckled the skis to his boots, had a look at his watch — 5.25 — and took off.
He was back in the car park in fifteen minutes, took two more to get the skis off and strapped under the backpack, and was inside the airport building in time to hear an announcement boom from the loudspeakers.
‘Mitlakino — final call! All passengers for Mitlakino, Mishmita and Polyarnik, go at once to the aircraft! Last call for Mitlakino. Departure in fifteen minutes for Mishmita, Polyarnik and Mitlakino. Passengers go at once to the aircraft.’
A knot of stragglers was still going through and he joined them. Not a direct flight, then. And something puzzling in the names. Mitlakino he’d only heard of a couple of hours before, and Polyarnik not at all. But Mishmita? Vaguely familiar.
He handed in his ticket and filed through. The plane was an ancient three-engine Yak, the short-take-off crate of the north. Inside was pandemonium, a struggling mass of skis and backpacks. Sixty or so men were aboard and he found himself crammed next to a buttoned-up Russian, evidently a professional man, lips pursed at the noisy and undisciplined natives.
‘Go inside — I get off first,’ the man gruffly ordered, and took the aisle seat.
‘Where you get off?’ Porter asked him, companionably.
‘Mishmita.’
‘Don’t know Mishmita. What’s Mishmita?’
‘Mys,’ the Russian curtly told him. ‘Not mish. Mys. Mys Schmidta.’
‘Ah.’
Mys Schmidta — Cape Schmidta! Last seen on the chartroom table of the Suzaku Maru; he’d watched a plane take off from the air strip there; had drawn the captain’s attention to it while checking the ship’s position on the chart himself. From there to the mouth of the Kolyma, forty-seven hours. Now he was reversing his tracks — truly going back the way he’d come.