"Read it back to me, Alicia Andreyinichna, if you would?"
"Are you sure that?.."
"I am sure. I am also sure that it will be many long winter's days before you rise to Clerk First Class, Alicia Andreyinichna, unless you learn quickly to do what you're told." Seeing the way the girl's face dropped, sensing her disappointment, Zimyanin pasted on his best smile. "I am sorry, child. I had a brief falling-out with my wife, Anya. By the hammer and the anvil! She has a mouth sharper than the best polar bear trap! I should not take it out on you."
"I only worried in case Comrade Marshal Siraksi reproved you for stepping beyond your commission. That was all."
"Perhaps he will. Let us send the letter to him and find out, with copies to all members of the Internal Security Presidium."
She cleared her throat. "Having noted your last communication, I respectfully point out to the Comrade Marshal that there have been new sightings of the three mysterious outlanders. Now there is definite crime, proved: an assault on a decent and honest citizen of Ramenki, and theft. Who are they, Comrade Marshal? Why do they come here? Only one speaks our tongue, and that badly and with an accent that nobody can place with any surety. I repeat my request for the condition to move from yellow to orange at once, and that condition-red reserves be warned. He might agree... Gregori," she said, blushing at her boldness in using his first name.
"Add one more line, Alicia, which may cause him to foul his breeches."
"What?" Her pencil was paused over her ring-bound notepad.
"I have reason to believe that these three strangers might be American terrorists, bound on violence and sabotage. Go on, girl. Write that."
For a moment he genuinely thought that Clerk Second Class Alicia Andreyinichna was going to faint dead away.
Jak went out alone the next morning to scout for food, only to find that the small ville had taken some precautions: a deadfall trap had been cleverly concealed among the woods, as well as a couple of spring traps that fired sharpened lengths of pine at anything that triggered them. There was even a massive old iron bear trap with jagged, broken teeth. If Doc had been with the boy, there was every chance that he would have stumbled over one of the devices.
The villagers had a guard out, though the middle-aged man playing the part had fallen asleep against the wall of a hut, near the smoldering remains of a banked fire. Now that they knew that someone from the outside was stealing from the ville, there was no point in planting any more red herrings. Jak went in, lifted as much food as he could possibly carry and left the place in the opposite direction. He splashed through the stream and then doubled back to throw off any potential pursuers.
He reported the change to J.B., who agreed it was an ominous development. They decided that they would now have to keep a constant and careful watch, splitting shifts with Doc. The old-timer would do two hours at a time, and Jak and J.B. would alternate four hours each. "Closing in," J.B. said.
It was a bleak day, with low clouds scudding on the teeth of a biting easterly wind. Flakes of snow mingled with pattering hailstones, making walking a bitterly unpleasant chore.
Rick Ginsberg had suffered from a kind of fit during the night, crying out so loudly that Ryan had considered knocking him out. He eventually settled for pressing his hand down over the gaping mouth to muffle the sounds.
The freezie's wasted muscles had jerked and twitched, sending him thrashing about on the dusty boards of the third-story room in the abandoned house.
They had managed to get across the Moscow River the previous evening, over a bridge that seemed to have collapsed and been rebuilt a dozen times. The river itself was a ponderous gray snake, swollen with the spring meltwater. It surged at the piles of the bridge, carrying all manner of detritus. Tree trunks, scoured of their branches and bark, gleaming like huge skinned eels, rolled their way toward the distant ocean. A dead cow drifted past them, legs stiffly in the air, its bloated belly keeping it afloat.
The house they'd found was more ravaged than any of those a mile farther out in the 'burbs.
As Ryan had suspected, the sec patrols were thicker on the ground. Some traveled in open-topped multiwheel wags and some on foot in groups of three or four. By keeping a careful watch around, the three friends had managed to avoid any more direct confrontations with the sec men.
Rick's seizure lasted nearly ten minutes and left him drained of energy. It was obvious to both Ryan and Krysty that he wasn't going to be able to keep moving for very much longer. Already Ryan had decided that they would have to steal a wag to transport the freezie and any tools to their hiding place out in the wastelands.
"Better leave me here, Ryan. You and Krysty go look for what we want."
"It's no go, Rick," she replied. "Once we got the stuff we can high-gear it out of the ville back to the others. Until then we have to keep you with us. One question from a sec man and we could all be on the first wag to prison. You have to really try, Rick."
"Sound like my gran. Best foot forward. Shoulder to the wheel. Chest out. Feet together. Take it on the chin. Pick up the beat. And don't forget your fog, your amphetamines and your pearls!" He started to cry. "Oh, this is such bullshit, isn't it? I didn't want to... I'm sorry, guys. Real sorry. I'll be fine when I get..."
Ryan laid a hand on the sobbing man's shoulder. "Let it out, Rick. You have to keep on. That's what makes the difference. It's going on when you don't reckon you can. Come on. Let's go."
Once they got outside, huddling into their furs against the dreadful weather, Rick had another brief crisis when he couldn't recall the woman's instructions to find the places selling tools. He took several deep breaths, turned away from the others then faced them again with a broad smile. "It's okay," he said. "I remember now. Past the ruins of the sports stadium, then hang a right past a gas depot. On by a market and there's a line of white buildings."
"Right. Keep together. Rick, keep watching for any sec men. Don't forget. We're outlanders and me and Krysty can't talk or hear."
"Sure. The woman also said something about looking out for some sort of a... I don't know. She used a word, pamyatnik. Means a memorial of some kind. She said it was good for outlanders to see and remember the struggle and the fight for eternal vigilance." He smiled and shook his head. "At least I think that's what she said. You gotta remember it's around a hundred years since I learned Russian and it's gotten a bit rusty since then."
They soon came across another compulsory work gang, but Krysty spotted the sec men early enough for them to duck back up a side alley and loop around the detail. The tumbled wreckage of what had once been a massive sports arena told them that they were moving in the right direction. At last, in the distance, they could see the line of white buildings that the woman had described to Rick.
"That's it," Ryan said. "All we got to do now is to go on in and pick out whatever it is that we need."
"What's that?" Krysty asked, pointing to where a long line of people seemed to be waiting patiently around one side of an ancient, yellow-stone building, dotted with ornate windows and a carved portico.
"There's a sign," Ryan said.
"Where?" Rick blinked. "Got this goddamned sleet all over my glasses."
"Above the main door. It's in that Russkie writing. Can't make it at all."
"Wait." Rick fumbled under his fur coat for something to wipe the smeared lenses, finding a length of stained cotton waste. He bent over and sheltered the glasses from the wind, putting them back on his beaky nose when they were clear. "Oh," he finally said. "I see."
"What?"
"Pamyatnik."
Krysty gripped him by the arm, making him wince. "Just tell us, Rick. That was the word you said before, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Now I know what it means. I was nearly right before. Memorial. I was real close to it."
"And?"
"Amazing. It's a sort of museum about the struggle of the Russian people against the warmongering United States."
Ryan looked at the freezie, wondering if he was joking. He saw by the expression on his pale face that he wasn't. "Kind of museum of the last war, you mean?" Ryan was unable to conceal his own utter disbelief. "Let's all go and take a look." Ryan glanced at Krysty, seeing his own interest reflected in her face.
She shrugged. "Hell, why not? Let's tag on the end of the line."
The tall flank of the old building sheltered the queue from the worst of the wind. As they all shuffled slowly onward, various street traders came along the line offering various kinds of food and drink. All three of the friends were tempted by the delicious smells that came from the little carts.
It took the companions the better part of an hour to get close to the front of the line. Every now and again a bored female sec guard marched slowly along the line. Ryan noticed that nobody would meet her eye, so he did the same, staring at his feet, hoping that she wouldn't notice the steel-toed combat boots that peeked from under the trailing hem of the stolen fur coat.
"What'll be inside?" Rick whispered. "Pictures of captured nukes?"
Ryan shook his head. "Wait and see. I just wonder why so many folks are lined up in shit weather like this."
Rick tapped the young man in front of them on the shoulder and asked him a question. The Russian looked puzzled and Rick spoke quickly, gesturing with his hands. The young man nodded and smiled, speaking quickly to Rick, who smiled in return, showing his understanding of what was being said.
Once the Russian had turned away again, Rick gave them a hasty translation. "First off, he was kind of curious how come we didn't know why so many were standing in line. Like everyoneknew that, dummy! I said we were outlanders. That was okay. Seems you get no choice. Everyone in the ville has to come here every three months to get the date stamped on a card. They have to turn up."
"Card?" Ryan asked worriedly.
"Yeah, but relax. You don't have to show it. Guy said, what was the point? Nobody came unless it was their day."
Ryan pulled the freezie nearer to him. "Listen, Rick and listen hard. You don't ask that kind of question unless I tell you."
"Sure. But it's all right."
"Mebbe. Mebbe not. We keep as quiet as we can. Don't draw attention. Right?"
Rick nodded. "Sure. Read you loud and clear, boss. From now on it's low-profile city."
Major-Commissar Zimyanin had been allocated one of the better wags run by Internal Security. It had once been a Mercedes saloon, but the rear end had been crushed in an accident. The rebuilding had been done by various hands at various times and now little remained of the original auto. But it ran well and the heater worked.
Zimyanin was on his way to talk personally to one or two of the witnesses who'd seen the trio of strangers. The letter to the marshal had worked even more dramatically than he'd hoped.
The call had come through direct on Zimyanin's personal sec line. He'd picked up the cracked Bakelite receiver and held it to his ear without saying anything, guessing who his caller might be.
"Are you there?"
"Yes, Comrade Marshal?"
"Your letter! Have you lost your mind, Major?"
Zimyanin didn't reply for several seconds. Then, "No."
"No! Is that all you have to say?"
Again a careful pause. "Yes."
"But, but... You can't... Do you realize what a letter like this means?"
"It means I believe we may have a full condition red."
"Americans! There hasn't been any proved evidenced of Americans within our country for more years than I can recall."
"I think they are here now."
"Proof?"
Zimyanin smiled. It was the concession, the sign of weakening that he had guessed would eventually appear. Siraksi couldn't take the chance, however remote, that the suspicion might prove correct.
"Once I take them, you will have the proof, Comrade Marshal."
"If you do not take them?" The senior officer was slowly recovering his control. "Then what?"
"Then you'll be correct and I will not, Comrade Marshal."
There was a long, hanging silence. "You think you know them?"
For the first time, Zimyanin hesitated for a moment before replying. "I think it is possible that I have once met that one-eyed man and the woman."
"Your adventure in the Kamchatka? The same man, Comrade Major-Commissar? Could they have invaded us from the far northeast and trekked all the way to Moscow?" The voice was considering its own question. "Yes, yes, it is possible. You have my authority to go to condition orange and put any sec forces you need on red standby. Where are you going to search for them?"
Zimyanin was going to play a hunch. "Their trail leads directly to the heart of the ville, Comrade Marshal. Through Govorovo and Nikulino, into Ramenki and up to the river. I suddenly thought what lay in their path, what they might not be able to resist. You know?"
"What?"
"Pamyatnik," Zimyanin told him,
"Of course. Yes, of course. Brilliant, my dear boy. Brilliant! The Museum of the Peoples' Struggle Against the Oppressors of the United States! Yes, I'm sure you're right."
"I'm going there myself."
Ryan, Krysty and Rick had finally reached the front of the seemingly endless lineup, enduring the biting cold and the flurries of fresh snow, as well as the hectoring and bullying of the patrolling female sec guards.
Just as he passed under the portico of the building, Ryan glanced out into the wide street. A maroon passenger wag drove by and slowed down. The passenger was speaking to the driver, a uniformed man, bareheaded, totally bald, with a long drooping mustache.
Ryan was struck by the man's close resemblance to the Russian they'd met in Alaska, though the name eluded him.
"Zimyanin," Ryan finally whispered.