“Maybe you’ll be white,” Paul added.
“Or a party member,” Lewis retorted. “Or a guy who hates cars.”
The three laughed.
“In any event,” Paul said, “if we change something and come back, our reality would indeed be permanently changed. That doesn’t prevent there from being an infinite number of realities; there is always that theory. And the two kind of tie in.”
Amanda nodded soberly. “Where Lee won at Gettysburg.”
“And Hitler got nukular weapons,” Lewis added. “Like that neo-Soviet civil administrator in Tex-Arkana would have said.”
The three laughed again, but softer this time.
After a moment, Paul asked quietly, “How did it all happen?”
Lewis looked at him quizzically. “How did what happen?”
Paul gestured around the room. “This. All this. How did the Reds take over?
“You know the history,” Lewis answered in a bewildered tone. “Weren’t you just listening to Dr. Hutch here?”
Paul shook his head. “I don’t mean the military history. I know about Ché Guevara and the Malay Peninsular. Even with all that how the hell did we allow them to not only take over, but actually be supported? Tell me why people in Kansas or Missouri or Ohio for Christ sakes support the Reds?”
“Fear,” Amanda answered without hesitation. The pair turned to her.
“People are afraid,” she continued simply. “They are afraid of war, and of being attacked. Fear is history’s great motivator for inaction. People who are afraid will trade their liberties, their freedoms, their basic political essence for not being afraid again, for what they perceive as security. And evil forces are always ready to take advantage of that. That’s how Hitler came to power. And after what happened to China, the chemical weapons here, and that dirty bomb in St. Louis, when what, 3,300 people died, Americans were too willing to trade their freedom, their liberties, hell, their very way of life as Americans, in order to feel safe again. The Reds promised that. And on some level, they have delivered it.”
The table grew quiet again.
After a while Amanda asked softly, “So, we’ll be ready in a few weeks?”
Paul shifted uncomfortably. “We do have a slight funding issue. We need more money to get fuel to conduct a few more tests. We have some fuel but not enough to run more experiments on animals, and then test it on one volunteer, and then send us all back. We don’t have enough for all that.”
“Is the department that short funded?” Amanda asked.
The two men looked at each other for a moment before Paul answered slowly.
“It’s not exactly department funding. There is no way we could justify that amount of money. We are being funded, we’re getting our money from… contributors. And right now they are in the dark and money has been cut off unless they are brought in.”
There was a pause before anyone spoke. Finally, Amanda broke the silence.
“This isn’t good,” she said.
“No,” Paul agreed. “It isn’t good at all.”
In front of the red brick apartment house in Dorchester Natasha Nikitin ducked out of Nigel’s BMW. “Thanks for a great evening,” she said, casting a quick smile through the open passenger door.
Nigel hesitated, disappointment etched across his face.
“It’s still early,” he tried.
Natasha glanced at her watch and laughed. “Nigel, it’s twelve thirty.” She pouted and cocked her head sideways. “I’m really tired, maybe some other time, though?”
“I say, are you sure I shouldn’t at least walk you in?” He glanced around the street. “This isn’t the greatest neighborhood.”
“The door is right here. I’m fine. I’m just tired after some really great dancing. Promise you’ll call me tomorrow?”
Nigel brightened. “Sure, I’ll wake you up!”
Natasha threw him another smile, slammed the door shut and walked up the sidewalk without looking back. As she fished through her pocketbook she listened for the sound of either the car being shut off or accelerating away. She smiled to herself when she heard neither. What a gentleman! She let herself into the foyer and closed the door behind her. She stood waiting in the darkness until she heard the BMW pull away from the curb. She looked out the foyer’s side window, and watched the car’s brake lights come on at the corner and the car turn left. She gave it a few more seconds and then let herself back out the front door. She turned right in the direction in which Nigel had just driven off and began walking briskly.
It was a little over six blocks to the Dorchester post office. Nigel was right, it wasn’t a great neighborhood but Natasha had little concern for her safety as she hurried along. She checked her watch again. Main post offices were supposed to be open for full service all night—an improvement from the Soviet system—but she knew that the Dorchester service window might not be manned after 1:00. She reached the building before one. As she swung open the front glass door she was relieved to see a clerk reading a newspaper. He started when she entered but quickly relaxed upon seeing her. She read his nameplate: Sean Murphy.
“Can I help you?” he asked, folding the Herald.
Natasha swung her pocketbook off her shoulder and onto the counter. She reached inside and removed a thick yellow envelope heavily sealed with tape.
“I want to send this P.C.,” she said, rummaging inside her pocketbook.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but I’ll have to see some… Oh, I’m sorry, yes of course, Agent Nikitin,” Murphy said as he saw the ID badge Natasha was now holding in front of him. “We can send this out ‘Priority-Confidential’ right away. It should be there by Monday.” Murphy reached under the counter, opened a drawer, and removed a stamp. He rolled “Priority-Confidential” in red across the front and back of the envelope and then turned and gently laid it in a bin behind him.
“Thank you, Comrade,” Natasha said. She cast one last look at the bin and turned and walked out the front door.
Murphy watched her walk out the door, focusing on her legs. A pair of six-inch heels would look good, he thought. With straps, of course.
After the door had swung shut Murphy turned and retrieved the yellow envelope. He hefted it in his hands and then walked out back. In the warehouse workers slowly pushed wheeled bins back and forth. At a rear workstation three men sat hand-sorting mail while a supervisor hovered nearby. There were only a few post offices in the Northeast District that still weren’t automated and Dorchester was one of them.
As Murphy walked across the cement floor the supervisor broke away from his duties to meet him. Together they walked to the far corner of the warehouse. They said nothing until they reached the wall.
“What’ve you got?” the supervisor asked.
Murphy held out the envelope. The supervisor took it and studied the back side with the thick tape across the flap. The red “Priority Confidential” stamp had been applied below the tape.
“You should have seen the hot little Russkie number who dropped this off. Short skirt and killer legs. Not 30 years old. I could teach her though.”
“Not 30?” the supervisor asked, surprised. “And she had an Agency ID on her?”
Murphy nodded. “I swear, no way she was 30.” He indicated the envelope. “You think Eckleburg will want to see that? The doc says he wants to see everything Agency that comes out of here. See. I rolled the stamp below the tape just in case.”
Rather than answering the supervisor turned the envelope over. He studied the address and then laughed. “This isn’t going to Vodkaville. Look at the address. ‘Vladimir Romanov, Karl Marx University, Eichenstrasse 10, Leipzig, DDR.”