Shivering is a heating mechanism. Hold onto that.
He was also frightened.
There were two hazards to be avoided, an imminent death through exposure, and a delayed one through electrocution.
He looked into the dark woods. There were probably moose and timber wolves, and beavers in the frozen ponds. So far, however, there had been only a deathly stillness. As the evening progressed the clouds had thinned and the temperature was plunging downwards. A three-quarters moon was rising.
He looked at his watch for the tenth time in an hour. It had little luminous numbers and hands, and as a man who knew about radiation he had made sure the luminescence came from electron transitions and not radium.
He hadn't eaten for thirty hours.
So what? Survive the night. Then worry about your belly.
Having just looked at his watch, he did so again. It was twenty minutes to ten. The lights of a small town reflected off the water some miles to the south. Three point two miles to be exact. An hour's walk for a fit man with a briefcase on a good surface. Longer for a physical wreck who hadn't eaten for thirty hours and who peered fearfully into the dark woods between every step.
Petrosian had watched a solitary angler on a jetty, wondering in alarm if he intended to fish overnight. Around eight o'clock, however, the man had packed up his estate wagon and driven off through the forest track, having had no luck. Now Petrosian was left in a silence broken only by the gentle lapping of waves on the shore just beyond the road.
There was a roaring log fire, and a hot plate of chilli con carne, and a woman with Lisa's wonderfully curved body and a warm, loving expression, and yet at the same time with Kitty's long legs and slim face and blonde hair. The warmth from the fire was penetrating his bones and he sank into the deep pile of the rug, and he yielded to the overwhelming urge to sleep, and he found himself lying in the snow, face down, with no recollection of having fallen. He had lost feeling in the toes of his left foot, wondered if they would have to be amputated, had a brief, panicky vision of losing his leg.
At first he wondered what had wakened him, and then he heard the faint engine sound, coming from the direction of the lake. At first he thought it must be some ship, but as it grew in intensity he recognized it as the sound of an aircraft. He rolled over, managed to get onto his hands and knees, and then with an effort staggered to his feet. He tugged at the briefcase, but it now seemed to be full of bricks. He started to drag himself through the snow, falling and picking himself up, steering around bumps and hollows.
And now he could see it through the trees, a small dark shape, its propeller scattering the moonlight. It was maybe a couple of miles out.
And there was a car, approaching swiftly from the direction of Kewaunee.
Petrosian stopped about twenty yards back from the edge of the track, hidden in the trees. The plane was low and seemed to be heading directly for him. The car was maybe a couple of miles away and closing fast.
The engine noise dropped in pitch, sounded almost like a cough. Then there were twin sprays of water, bright in the moonlight, and the engine was revving up and the aircraft was taxi-ing towards the jetty. Petrosian, in an agony of indecision, held back.
The engine of the little aircraft died. The door opened and a man stepped on the float. He was gripping the wing with one hand and holding something in the other. It looked like a coil of rope. He was looking into the trees, seeming to stare directly at Petrosian. Then, suddenly, the car was driving over the pebbled shoreline, its headlights momentarily flooding the plane and the pilot. Petrosian, terrified, dropped the suitcase and braced himself to run into the woods.
The driver of the car was out and running along the jetty. The pilot threw him a rope. There was an exchange of conversation in Russian. Petrosian recognized one of the voices, tried to run forwards, fell, couldn't get up. By the time he got to his feet the driver was half-crawling along the wing, a leg dangling in search of a strut, the pilot holding him by the arm while the little aircraft tilted and swayed dangerously.
And then they were in, the door was slammed shut and the propeller was revving up, and Petrosian was stumbling along the jetty like a drunk man, waving and shouting hoarsely.
The engine died and the door opened.
'Hey, Lev!' Rosenblum shouted in pleasure.
'I have them. The diaries.'
'So where are they? Bring them here!'
Petrosian stumbled back into the dark, returned with the briefcase. Rosenblum was halfway along the wing. He threw the coil of rope. Petrosian caught it and pulled, and then he was heaving Rosenblum off the wing and onto the jetty. It took up all his remaining energy.
'Thought you hadn't made it, old pal. The shoreline's crawling with feds. This is it?' He lifted the case, grinning, his spectacles reflecting moonlight.
'They're all there, Jurgen.'
Rosenblum reached into his inside pocket. For an insane moment Petrosian thought he was about to be shot. But then Rosenblum was handing over an envelope and saying, 'Passport, driving licence, birth certificate etcetera. They've even given you a life history if you want to use it. You're born again, Lev. Look, we can probably squeeze you in. You sure you want to do it this way?'
Petrosian nodded, took the envelope, looked at it stupidly.
'The car's yours, you've owned it for years. The key's in the ignition. Now take it and clear off fast. And excuse me if I get the hell out of here. The Motherland awaits her revolutionary hero.' They shook hands.
Just before he closed the door, Rosenblum waved and shouted, 'Get moving, Lev! Go to Mexico or someplace.' And then the propeller was revving up, and the aircraft was accelerating over the water.
In the life-saving warmth of the car, Petrosian took a last look over the lake. But there was little to be seen; only a decaying wake scattering the moonlight, and shadows.
31
Instability
Petrosian smiled sadly. 'The diaries were useless, you see. They had no information which could have helped Stalin to develop the Super. But I told my treacherous friend Rosenblum otherwise and he accepted them in exchange for a new identity for me. They were my passport to freedom. Thank you for these copies. They will be wonderful reading for me.'
Romella asked, 'Why did you suppress your discovery? It could have made you rich.'
'And conspicuous. Anyway, rich to what purpose? We are happy. We are comfortable. We have everything we need.'
Findhorn chipped in. 'It could have brought you scientific honours.'
Petrosian almost laughed. 'Ah! So I am talking to a scientist! Einstein once told me he wished he'd been a woodcutter. I came to understand what he meant. We have never been happier than when Lev Petrosian died in that air crash, and Leonard Peterson the antiquarian bookseller married Lisa Rosen the tutor of German. The key to our happiness has lain in our anonymity.' He looked at them, suddenly wary. 'Which brings me to the question of why you are here.'
Romella tried to say it kindly, but the words were harsh. 'We may have to take away that key.'
Lisa came in with a large coffee percolator. She had a slight stoop. She placed it on the tray and said, 'Have you seen the table mats, dear?'
Petrosian said, 'Lisa, I wonder if you would leave us for a while?'
She looked at him, suddenly alert, and then at the visitors. 'What is wrong?'
'Nothing,' said Petrosian.
'Then why are you looking like that?'
'It's nothing to worry about, Mrs Peterson,' Romella lied. Lisa left, trailing scepticism and worry.
'I think I understand. Your purpose is blackmail.' Petrosian's accent was acquiring a Germanic tinge. 'You wish to extort the secret of the process from me in exchange for your silence.'