End to Ordinary History

by Michael Murphy

  The three men stood and walked to the door. “Kirov, I want to see you again.” Rozhnov smiled warmly. “You might have to save me from my doctors.”

  Kirov did not speak until they reached the building’s entranceway. “Do you know much about his background?” he asked. “There is something about him I can’t place, something he’s holding back.”

  A cold wind was blowing. Baranov pulled up his overcoat collar, “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the passing traffic. “I felt he was completely straightforward.”

  “He was straightforward about his experience and the commission’s importance.” Kirov took his friend’s arm. “But there is a presence about him I hadn’t expected, something priestlike. I wonder what he learned in the mountains of Georgia.”

  “You are imagining things, Volodya. He is a fine scientist and a very good person, someone we are lucky to have as Chairman of our Committee, but an initiate of the Mysteries he is not. Are you nervous about your meeting tomorrow?”

  “Not yet, but I will be.” They stopped at the curbside to park. “Tonight, let us call on our guardian angels. We will need all the help we can get.”

  13

  IVAN STRELNIKOV’S MOSCOW LABORATORY had created more than half the original designs for industrial lasers in the Soviet Union, and Strelnikov’s theoretical work on lasers was known worldwide. But his influence on Soviet science was based as much upon his personality and his position as Chief Scientific Secretary of the Academy of Sciences as it was upon his scientific reputation. He was a student of many sciences, with degrees in chemistry and geology as well as physics, and his opinions on developing trends in science had been sought by journalists, scientists, and government officials for more than twenty years. He was a forceful speaker, a brilliant master of ceremonies—having memorized hundreds of Georgian toasts and the jokes of ethnic groups from all parts of the Soviet Union—and a prolific writer. As one of his colleagues had said in a famous remark, to combat Strelnikov in scientific debate was to fight against an army of opinion. Most people who knew him believed that he would have risen to the Politburo by now if he had chosen politics as his vocation.

  It seemed inevitable to the Russian scientific community that he would be elected Chief Scientific Secretary, for the job had come to demand someone with his many skills. The centralized structure of Soviet science required the Academy to scout the frontiers of knowledge, to keep all science in review, and to work with the government’s Committee on Science and Technology in assigning priorities. The Chief Scientific Secretary was a chief coordinator of the Academy’s massive apparatus, the man through whom the lines of communication ran between the Academy’s ruling Praesidium and the thousands of institutes, committees, and commissions that constituted the scientific bureaucracy. Until Strelnikov was elected, many academicians had thought that the job was too big for one man. Now it was said that he was the only one who could do it.

  At sixty-four, Strelnikov still had a muscular frame, conditioned by swimming and wrestling. Six feet tall, he was a formidable wrestling partner for the men in his sports club: some called him Ivan the Terrible. Among his fellow scientists, his imposing physical presence increased his dominance. It wasn’t fair, some said, that he had so much brawn to go with his learning and wit. Yet most academicians were secretly proud of their Scientific Secretary. Like most Russians, they liked to identify with a genuine hero.

  But Strelnikov did not feel like a hero this morning. The commission he would soon discuss had been proposed in spite of his objections. Once again, he would listen to arguments that parapsychology and the study of mysticism had a place in the Academy, that they were crucial to the future of science. But the form in which the arguments had arisen this time was stranger than usual. That he must supervise an investigation of two cosmonauts’ hallucinations and their connection to paranormal phenomena in general dismayed him. What pressures in the government had caused this project to be born? Had Alexander Rozhnov, able scientist though he was, secretly fomented the discussions that had led to this extraordinary mandate? The old man had been ailing, and there were rumors that he suffered from hallucinations not unlike those of the men in space.

  But there was a more basic reason for the mandate, Strelnikov thought. The repeated call for a new appreciation of the paranormal was an unfortunate legacy of the nation’s religious past, a result of Russia’s failure to pass through the Enlightenment of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It was conceivable that the peoples of the Soviet Union hadn’t sufficiently developed the disciplined habits of mind to support a scientific culture. As he sat in his spacious office on the Praesidium’s second floor, he remembered an American Nobel laureate’s remark that Soviet science had a looseness about it that permitted new beginnings, a remark made with good-natured mockery. The remark still nettled him. In response he had been forced to admit that Soviet science still didn’t have the West’s pervasive discipline. It was fortunate, he thought, that he hadn’t been called upon to defend this commission on disembodied spirits!

  Suddenly agitated, he started pacing. This commission just might cause a scandal like Project Elefant. He shuddered at the thought of the sagging barracks in Novosibirsk filled with military rejects trying to influence unsuspecting enemies through telepathy and microwave bombardments. Project Elefant was a national disgrace, a spectacle he had worked against for years. He would see that this commission didn’t lead to anything remotely like it.

  Crossing to his desk, he opened the file Rozhnov had sent him. At least Georgi Baranov had been assigned to the project. Having observed his work for several years, Strelnikov respected his intelligence. But Kirov was another story. Though Rozhnov had recommended him as the Soviet Union’s leading specialist in the subjects the commission would study, it was disturbing to think that the man worked for the Secret Police. Commissions headed by KGB men wouldn’t promote the Academy’s reputation for scientific integrity.

  Lost in these reflections, Strelnikov did not see his secretary come through the door. He started back in alarm when she spoke.

  “Georgi Baranov and Vladimir Kirov are here,” she said. “It’s about the commission on the space capsule crash.”

  “Let them in,” he said, buttoning the jacket of his dark gray suit. “No messages when they’re in here.”

  When his two visitors entered, Strelnikov did not rise at once to greet them. Only after they had crossed the room did he stand to shake their hands.

  Sensing Strelnikov’s distaste for this meeting as soon as he came through the door, Baranov felt intimidated. Kirov, however, was inspirited by this first glimpse of the famous man. Up close, Strelnikov seemed younger than on television. His prominent cheekbones and glowing skin showed that he was in excellent shape, and his blue-gray eyes had a penetration and clarity Kirov had not expected. But most impressive and challenging to Kirov was the man’s complexity. In this first instant of greeting he could see that it would be impossible to influence Strelnikov through debate. Only arguments or images that reached around his certainties would sway him. For in him Kirov saw two selves, one of which was ripe for an awareness wider, subtler and more complex than Strelnikov’s practiced arguments. This emerging intelligence was not fully connected to the great man’s public self.

  “It seems a long way from the Praesidium to the problems we are here to discuss,” Kirov began. “A long way from lasers to angels.”

  “Too long, perhaps,” Strelnikov said evenly. “It seems late in the history of science to study disembodied entities.”

  Baranov checked an impulse to apologize for the proposed commission. “We don’t understand the mandate completely,” he said. “It seems the government is worried about the panic in mission headquarters during the incident. Their concern has spilled over to this proposal.”

  “And their concern had caused a worry here,” said the Scientific Secretary. “Some members of the Praesidium are wondering about the government ministers w
ho support this commission. Are they cracking under the pressures of their jobs?” A first hint of good humor softened his expression. “Has either of you sensed that?”

  Baranov rolled his eyes as if to say yes, some of the ministers might indeed be cracking. “It wouldn’t be the first time I sensed it,” Kirov said, smiling with irony.

  “Baranov,” said the Scientific Secretary, “you and I have discussed parapsychology before. But what does your colleague think about it? Rozhnov says he is the leading expert.”

  “In such a tiny field,” Kirov said, “it is easy to be the leading expert. I have studied the subject, though, for more than twenty years.”

  “But you are only thirty-eight, according to Rozhnov’s account. You must have started early.”

  “In Tashkent and Samarkand, where I was raised, there are people who preserve the traditional wisdom about these things. I was lucky to study with them.”

  This Kirov, Strelnikov thought, had a remarkable self-possession. But there was something about the man he couldn’t place, something veiled. It must come from his KGB work. “What things did you study?” he asked. “I am ignorant about parapsychology.”

  “The qualities of light and their relation to consciousness, a subject that goes back to the Zoroastrian faith. It is a subject that bears on our proposed commission.”

  Strelnikov was struck by Kirov’s blue eyes. For one uncomfortable instant, it seemed that the man read his thoughts. “Which qualities of light?” he asked. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Think of laser light,” Kirov said. “It is coherent, and doesn’t disperse. Tradition says there is an inner light you can make through your own concentration that will cohere to penetrate stone. If it were directed toward certain images, it would create a replica of all existence, a mirror of the world, something like a hologram made with lasers. It is interesting to find such correspondences with our modern discoveries.”

  “Are you and Rozhnov in league?” Strelnikov raised an eyebrow. “He gave me a book—something Indian, I think—that described the same idea. Have you formed a cabal?”

  “A cabal?” Kirov was surprised. “I didn’t know he read such things. I met him for the first time last night.”

  “This had better not be a plot to influence me,” Strelnikov said, looking at Baranov with mock suspicion. “That would not sit well in the Praesidium.”

  “Rozhnov is not involved,” Kirov smiled. “But we think that the Academy should study the old traditions. That much we will warn you about in advance!”

  “And I should warn you that I am skeptical about the old traditions,” Strelnikov replied, leaning back in his chair. “I hope you will not propose another parapsychology institute. Every year we get such a proposal.”

  “Our proposals will come when the investigation of the capsule crash is done,” Kirov said. “We may propose much more than a parapsychology institute if it turns out that the cosmonauts’ apparitions were angels!”

  Kirov was tougher than he looked, Strelnikov thought, remembering he had survived torture by the French police. “It says in your KGB file,” he said, “that you have studied apparitions. Did you do it for Directorate T? I was surprised to learn that the Committee for State Security was interested in such matters.”

  “We have interviewed several hundred people who claimed to have seen apparitions, to find what features they shared. We found some striking similarities between their reports. You might want to look at the study. I have never been able to interest the Academy in it.”

  “What similarities did you find?” Strelnikov asked with amusement. “Can you give me some examples?”

  “Many of these people said their apparitions wanted to communicate with them. Sometimes the things they saw embraced them. Nearly always there was reference to an extraordinary light, a light that brought joy and healing, and a few said it left marks on their bodies. Many said the experience had profoundly affected their lives. Reading their remarks, one feels the intensity and authenticity of these peoples’ experience. In reviewing it yesterday, I was struck by similarities with the two cosmonauts’ experience. There were similarities all the way through.”

  “Yes,” Strelnikov murmured, taking off his glasses. “I would like to review your study. I have listened to the cosmonaut tapes.”

  “And there are other studies you should see.” Baranov leaned toward the desk as if he were sharing a secret. “Kirov has worked on this subject for years.”

  The Scientific Secretary rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Do either of you know about Project Elefant?” he asked. “It deals with some of these questions.”

  “But it is not the kind of enterprise that leads to knowledge,” Kirov said without hesitation. “It has nothing to do with science.”

  “How do you know about it?”

  “In my work for Directorate T, Project Elefant falls within my field of intelligence gathering.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course.” The Scientific Secretary sighed. “I keep forgetting that the Committee for State Security has an interest in these matters.”

  “Project Elefant is the military’s work,” Kirov said. “My superiors in Directorate T are skeptical about it, though they think it is useful as disinformation.”

  “But how does that help the Soviet Union?”

  “Some people think it diverts American resources from more effective weapons.”

  “Do you believe that?” Strelnikov frowned. “Their military isn’t so stupid!”

  “You’re right,” Kirov said. “But some of our people look for rationalizations. The American military has never mounted a significant project in parapsychology, and there have never been more than ten or fifteen full-time parapsychologists in the entire United States. Project Elefant is not even useful as disinformation.”

  “I am relieved to hear your assessment. Most academicians think Project Elefant is a national disgrace, both morally and scientifically.” Strelnikov paused. “But what do you think about the possibilities of psychic weapons? Can clairvoyance be harnessed for warfare?”

  “It will never replace our reconnaissance satellites,” Kirov said quietly. “Nor will psychokinesis take the place of bullets. Besides, nearly every study shows that hexing shortens your life. You may not know this, but the people at Project Elefant have an alarming rate of alcoholism and cancer. That should teach us something.”

  “So you feel that the paranormal can be used in healthier ways?” Strelnikov asked with a skeptical look.

  “We think it deserves more study,” Baranov said. “I think the government’s call for this commission was a good decision.”

  “There shall be a commission, all right,” Strelnikov said with a sigh. “The Academy couldn’t refuse such a forceful mandate. But I must tell you both how sad I am about it. The cosmonauts’ hallucinations, I believe, can be explained as a product of stress or poisoning. We haven’t explored all the circumstances surrounding their mission. And in regard to the larger questions of the paranormal, well, I don’t see how one commission can tell us anything fundamentally new. But I bow to the Committee for Science and Technology. It is staffed by able people and they want us to sponsor this. Kirov, you seem qualified for the job. Your position in the KGB will not help your cause among our academicians, but your work in the field and your Order of Lenin won’t hurt.” He took a file from his desk. “Here is a short description of the procedures you will follow. Four weeks from now, in mid-November, we will hold a first review. My staff will choose a committee that will look at your discoveries and proposals, and if it recommends further study, we will circulate your entire report in the Academy’s Praesidium for its consideration. You can ask for no higher court of scientific appeal.”

  He stood. “Good luck, comrades. I hope to see you in good spirits four weeks from now. By then, perhaps, I too will have something to say about lasers and the inner light. I promise to read Rozhnov’s book.”

  After his visitors had left, Strelnikov sat at
his desk reflecting upon the exchange with Kirov. This was a complex character, he thought—a strange combination of modesty and self-assurance, of honesty and something concealed, who seemed to combine good sense with his interest in these fantastic subjects. But the commitment he felt in the man to the things they had just discussed disturbed him. Kirov was clearly an advocate of mystical studies and would make the best case he could for their inclusion in the Praesidium’s agenda. In the weeks ahead, he would track Kirov’s moves with care to make sure that his advocacy didn’t embarrass the Academy.

  After leaving Strelnikov’s office, Baranov and Kirov parted, but at nine o’clock they met again for a walk along the Moscow River to discuss their meeting with the Scientific Secretary. A crescent moon cast a pale light on the water below, and the red-brick walls of the Kremlin rose above them.

  “He has given us freedom for a month,” Baranov said in a voice that other strollers could not hear. “But his review will be difficult. He will not favor our proposals.”

  “But I don’t think he will actively oppose us,” Kirov said. “He might be intrigued by our reports.”

  “You took a risk with your remarks about the inner light and lasers.” Baranov turned toward Kirov, his heavy glasses reflecting the moonlight. “I thought you were rushing things.”

  “I knew we would not see him again for a while, and I wanted to leave something for his meditation. His work on lasers has prepared him for such thoughts.”

  They walked in silence, passing the golden domes of the Kremlin cathedrals. Most of the other strollers had turned off the promenade. “So what is our first step?” Baranov asked.

  “I am taking a new ally to see Umarov and the Well of Light,” Kirov said. “His name is Darwin Fall, and he has written a book he will contribute to our commission. Then I will visit Project Elefant and the Baikonur Cosmodrome. There are people in both places who will help us. Meanwhile, Georgi, I want you to assemble all the material we have gathered during these last twenty years—my studies, our summaries of European and American parapsychology, the studies of altered states and work on the biofield, the movies of Kulagina that show her telekinesis. When I get back from Central Asia, we will outline our proposals for an institute to study much more than parapsychology. And one more thing. Why did Rozhnov give Strelnikov that book? What’s the old man up to?”