The storm began as a series of accelerated risings and fallings of air, circular cells rubbing against each other and generating a thick, tortured layer of clouds throughout the first chamber. Western bloc scientists in the middle of the chamber along the zero road made quick measurements before retreating to their barracks. Dust and sand were kicked up in immense, slender twisters, which in turn uncoiled and gave way to thick columns of dust. The dust clouds billowed and spread, bouncing from cap to cap like waves in a channel. Cameras at the bore hole recorded the phenomenon, but there was nothing that could he done to control it. Either the storm was a planned part of the chamber’s weather system, or the chamber had no effective weather control. It had not, after all, been a steadily occupied part of the Stone. Weather control might not have been thought necessary.
In the years of the Stone’s reoccupation, nothing of this violence and strength had ever happened. The dust clouds covered the valley floor and slowly settled into a soupy, opaque layer a few kilometers thick.
Above the dust, water clouds became darker and darker.
By 1700 hours, 6 hours after the storm’s first high winds, rain fell through the dust and landed as great drops of mud. In the first compounds, people huddled in the bungalows, both alarmed and thrilled by the sudden change.
Hoffman watched from her mud-splattered window, chewing on a knuckle with eyebrows raised. The surcease from tubelight was welcome.
This was the closest to night that anyone had experienced on the Stone, and it made her feel drowsy and content.
Lightning crackled throughout the chamber and engineers and marines braved the wind and rain to fasten conducting rods to the buildings.
In the Russian command bungalow, at the middle of the second compound, the storm and darkness were ignored. The argument over the political and command structure ran late into the sleeping period, with Belozersky and Yazykov most vehement, and Vielgorsky staying in the background.
Mirsky insisted on a military organization and refused to reduce his power in any way, or to share it equally with (and he emphasized the point) junior officers.
Belozersky proposed a true Soviet structure, with a central party committee, led by a general secretary—Vielgorsky was suggested—and a president and premier acting through a Supreme Soviet.
Just the day before, Mirsky and Pogodin—the commanding officer in the first chamber—had supervised the beginning of construction on a Russian compound in the fourth chamber; permission had been granted to harvest wood from the thick forests. Tools were at a premium; everything was at a premium.
Negotiations over the second chamber had grown heated when NATO archaeologists protested the potential desecration of what they regarded as their site. Mirsky had brusquely informed Hoffman that the Potato was no longer a monument; it was a refuge.
That had worn him down. His long sessions in the third chamber library—often instead of sleeping—had added to his fatigue; and now, this.
“We must situate our people before we decide the final political structure,” Mirsky said. ”All we have are makeshift tents and this compound, and Hoffman—“
“That bitch,” Belozersky commented dryly. “She’s worse than the fool Lanier.”
Vielgorsky touched Belozersky’s shoulder and the martinet sat down obediently. Vielgorsky’s ascendancy among the political officers did not surprise Mirsky; neither did it please him. Mirsky was sure he could handle Belozersky, but with Vielgorsky’s cunning, reserve and authoritative speaking voice—and Yazykov’s razor-sharp legal mind—Mirsky felt a nasty challenge brewing.
Was there some way he could use Vielgorsky and Yazykov, with their talents to his own advantage?
In his favor, he felt, was his continuing education. Or, perhaps more accurately phrased, his enlightenment. Never before had he been able to wander at will through such a huge and diverse source of information. Soviet libraries—military and otherwise—had always been severely restricted, with books available only to those with a demonstrable need to know. Simple curiosity was frowned upon.
He had been unsure even about the geography of his own country.
History had been a subject in which he had never felt much interest, other than the history of space travel; what he learned in the third chamber library was turning him around completely.
To his colleagues he revealed none of this; he took pains to conceal the fact that he now spoke English, German, and French and was working on Japanese and Chinese.
“On the contrary,” Belozersky said, glancing at Vielgorsky, “political considerations must always be foremost. We must abandon neither the revolution nor its ideals; we are the last fortress of—”
“Yes, yes,” Mirsky said impatiently. ”Now we are all tired. Let us rest and start again tomorrow.” He glanced over his shoulder at Garabedian, Pletnev and Sergei Pritikin, senior engineer from the science team. ”Comrade Major Garabedian, will you escort these gentlemen to their tents and make sure our perimeters are secure?”
“There is more to be discussed than we have time for,” Vielgorsky said.
Mirsky fixed his gaze on him and smiled. ”True,” he said. “But tired men become angry men, and frustrations make for bad thinking.”
“There are other ... things which lead to weakness and bad thinking,” Vielgorsky said.
“Indeed,” Belozersky concurred.
“Tomorrow, Comrades,” Mirsky persisted, ignoring the barb. ”We need to be fresh when we face Hoffman and continue the negotiations.”
They filed out and left Pritikin and Pletnev with Mirsky. The senior engineer and former squadron commander sat down at the tank-baffle table and waited as Mirsky rubbed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. ”You realize what happens if Vielgorsky and his puppets take control,” Mirsky said.
“They are not reasonable men,” Pritikin said.
“Yet I believe about a third of the troops supports them wholeheartedly, and another third supports nobody—general malcontents,” Mirsky said. ”I am the commander, so the malcontents dislike me. If it was Belozersky alone, I wouldn’t worry—the malcontents hate political officers even more. But Vielgorsky has a velvet tongue. Belozersky lashes with words, Vielgorsky strokes. He can control a dangerous majority.”
“What do we do then, Comrade General?” Pletnev asked.
“I want five men to guard each of you. Hand-picked by Garabedian or me. And I want four squads with AKVs around this bungalow. Pritikin, I want the science team confined to the fourth chamber by the day after tomorrow. Vielgorsky will not trust intellectuals; he may not tolerate their existence if push comes to shove.”
The two left and Mirsky was alone. He sighed and wished for something to take his mind away for the rest of the evening—a bottle of vodka, a woman ...
Or more uninterrupted hours in the library.
Never in his life had he felt more aware, and more hopeful, then he did now, even though surrounded by ignorant vipers.