Ghost of the White Nights

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I like this not at all, Johan.”

  “Do you want to cancel the performance?”

  “Non! Who would ask again? And when?”

  She had a very good point there—very good. I flicked off the difference engine. “Let's have some chocolate.”

  “That would be good.”

  It would be, especially since there was little else we could do at the moment.

  14

  SATURDAY WE SPENT recovering, although I did handle some chores, as well as correct some quizzes and make a trip down to Vanderbraak Centre to the post centre and to Samaha's for the back issues of daily newspapers Louie kept for me. Unlike with Llysette's earlier performance in the federal district, the Asten Post-Courier had no references to her in any of the issues put out while we had been gone, not even the one on the shots at the Presidential Palace.

  On Sunday, I made a quick trip to pick up the paper, but neither Llysette nor I happened to be in the mood to attend church. Instead, we sat in the parlor, warmed by both sun and the woodstove, and sipped chocolate and read the Sunday paper. It was impossible for me to ignore the headlines and front-page stories in the Post-Courier.

  Peiping (WNS). Warlord Minister Wei Deng Tsao claimed that a Russian Perun rocket had crossed the northern borders of Chung Kuo before exploding . . . Little is known about the Perun. With a range of less than eight hundred miles, it is not a military threat except to Austro-Hungary, Chung Kuo, and the Swedish confederation. Despite last month's apparent nuclear test in Siberia, experts believe that Russian scientists have been unable to develop an atomic device suitable for a warhead.

  Austro-Hungarian Foreign Minister Erich von Braun reiterated the Viennese position that deployment of missiles with nuclear warheads would violate the High Frontier Treaty and the older Treaty of Warsaw, which concluded the Summer War. . . .

  Russian Minister of Communications Lamanov denied that there had even been a launch of any rocket. He also stated that the purpose of the Perun program was “purely scientific” and denied that the Perun would ever carry warheads.

  Skeptic that I was, I suspected that either the Russians had a bigger rocket under development based on what they'd learned from the Perun program or the Perun couldn't carry a big enough payload to make its development and deployment militarily useful.

  A smaller article did catch my eye.

  Athens (WNS). King Constantine and his consort Arianna saw their twin daughters off to school today. Both will attend the University of Virginia . . . Earlier Crown Prince Nicharos began graduate studies at Washington and Hamilton University. . . .

  I set down the paper. I must have sighed.

  Llysette put down the Culture section. “I should be the one sighing, Johan. Barely one word is there about my award. . . .”

  I took the paper from her hand and pointed. “I see a picture. I also see a beautiful woman in it, and a story about how she'll enchant all of Europe—”

  “Johan . . .”

  I almost missed the twinkle in her eye. “Go ahead and sigh. Do you really want more than this? Do you want every moment of your life in newsprint?” I deepened my voice. “Noted soprano Llysette duBoise is spending a quiet morning with her husband, the former secret agent and assassin. duBoise is known for her incredible voice and for her lack of judgment in marrying former minister Eschbach. . . .”

  She did laugh.

  “Seriously,” I pointed out. “That's your choice. Have every moment reported by someone, or risk dropping out of sight.”

  “C'est so triste. . . .”

  “It is, but that's Columbia. You'd have more of a private life in Britain or Russia, or even New France, but I don't know that you'd want to live there.”

  “I should think not.” Llysette paused. “Some did go to St. Petersburg, but it is colder there than here.” She shivered, although the woodstove had the parlor very comfortable. “The Russians, they are so filled with gloom.”

  With the history of Russia, anyone raised there had to be gloomy. There must have been thousands of ghosts haunting Moscow and St. Petersburg over the centuries. Maybe it wasn't so bad in the summers, during the white nights when it never got dark. Most ghosts would be hard to see then. I took a sip of chocolate before I turned on the sofa and asked, “Have you thought much about your program in St. Petersburg?”

  “Oui . . . I had thought of doing seulement the Russian songs.”

  “You'd said you'd do the Rachmaninov Vocalise. What else?”

  “The song of Mignon, ‘None but the Lonely Heart.’ That is Tchaikovsky. . . .” She sang a phrase, clearly in Russian, because I didn't understand a word, then shook her head. “So long it has been.”

  “You know Russian?”

  “Only the songs. A singer would be a diva of France, she always hoped to go to St. Petersburg.” Llysette shrugged. “Never like this.”

  “Then you won't have to learn so much so quickly.”

  “I must talk to Terese Stewart.”

  “Her number is in the packets we received from Vandiver. You could wire her later today. She lives out in West Kansas.”

  “Not today, Johan. Today, it is for us.”

  I wasn't about to argue with that. Instead, I inched closer to Llysette and kissed her neck.

  “Aprés . . .” she replied with a throaty and gentle laugh, leaning away from me. She held up a section of newspaper. It wasn't the Post-Courier, but the twelve pages of the Tower —the student paper.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “They are writing about the play. . . .”

  “Gregor's production of Hamlet? It doesn't open for two weeks.”

  “He talks about ghosts . . . and the need to understand.” Llysette shook her head.

  So did I.

  Gregor was from the west. He had seen one or two ghosts in his life—and thought he knew ghosts. We understood ghosts—all too well. And neither of us wanted any closer or greater understanding. I massaged Llysette's neck, gently, while I waited for her to finish the article.

  15

  MONDAY MORNING CAME, and with it, the obligatory visit to the most honorable Herr Doktor David Donniger. So, after dropping off Llysette, I hurried in and picked up the paper at Samaha's, folding it shut and not even looking at it because I was running late. I drove back up to the faculty car park where I left the Stanley—again—in the last row and then walked through a clear bright morning, marred only by a cold and gusty wind out of the northwest.

  Gertrude and Hector were working on the lilac hedge beside the walk from the car park to the converted Dutch Republic dwelling that held my office. Both zombies had their rakes out and were attempting to remove all the leaves from beneath the hedge. The cold wind was light enough that leaves were not flying. Neither zombie looked up as I passed, but that was normal.

  When I stepped into the front foyer of the building, I could see that the door to David's office was open. Sooner was better than later. So I stopped just inside his door. “David . . .”

  “Yes, Johan?” Herr Doktor Donniger looked up from the oh-so-neat stack of papers before him with a look that suggested he really didn't want to talk.

  “Llysette will be singing in St. Petersburg on December seventh. St. Petersburg, as in Russia.”

  “I'm glad for her.” A bemused smile crossed David's face. “Dierk may not be so glad, from what I've heard.”

  “The Ministry of State has set it up as a cultural exchange program,” I added.

  “I suppose you want to go along. That would make matters a bit difficult here, you know?”

  “I've been requested to accompany her. One of the major Russian companies has an environmental problem. The State people thought I might be of assistance.”

  “Outside consulting is frowned upon during the school year, Johan. The trustees have pointed out that we are a teaching institute, not a research university.” David smiled blandly.

  “I understand,” I replied, just as blandly. “Still . . . the minister of s
tate met with us both personally on Friday. He expects us both on Republic Air Corps Two on the Sunday before Llysette's performance. He and the Speaker think that it's important enough to fly us there on government turbo at government expense. If you would like me to convey your concerns . . .”

  “Ah . . . Johan . . . I'm sure that won't be necessary. Even though we are not a research institution, both the dean and the trustees will be more than pleased to know that we have two faculty members so distinguished that the federal government has requested them specifically.”

  “I'll do my best to make sure that the university is mentioned, David.”

  “That . . . ah . . . would be helpful.”

  David was reaching for the wireset even before I left his office, doubtless to report to the dean. Dear Katrinka would prefer the publicity and the indirect spotlight for the university far more than perfect attendance by her faculty.

  Once upstairs in my small office, before unfolding the paper, I picked up the handset and wired Bruce, wondering if it were too early, and whether he happened to be in.

  “LBI.”

  “Bruce . . . Johan.”

  There was a low chuckle. “I said something was up. I presume you were the target of that anonymous shooting attempt?”

  “Llysette, I think.”

  “I don't like that.”

  “Neither do I. She's been picked to sing in St. Petersburg, a cultural exchange concert next month. I'm supposed to go along and help with some environmental matters.”

  “I see.”

  I could tell he did. “Believe it or not, I still don't know much more than when we talked, except that they seem to think that if I solve some environment negotiation problems they have, the tzar's people might figure out a way to help us with some energy concerns.”

  “Have you looked at the morning paper?”

  “No. I called you first.”

  “You ought to. What I said before still holds.” I reached for the paper and opened it. I winced at the headline: russians go nuclear. “I just read the headline. You're right, but I still don't know the angle.”

  “I have every confidence in you, Johan. You'll figure it out.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “I will, but I honestly can't think of anything else. The new difference engine really is a marvel. You told me that it was better to get it before I needed it, and you were right about that.”

  “We do our best. . . .”

  When I hung up the handset, I smoothed out the paper and began to read, knowing that I didn't have that much time before getting down to working up lesson plans and quizzes for whomever would cover my classes while we were gone. I still swallowed the second time I read the headlines, even before I got into the story itself.

  Vienna (WNS). Austrian Foreign Minister von Braun revealed a series of high-altitude photographs of a purported nuclear detonation at the Lobachevsky Proving Grounds in Siberia. “We will not stand by while the tzar threatens all of Europe. Nuclear weapons have no business in a civilized world.” For decades, Austro-Hungary has announced that it will not use such weapons on a first strike basis. . . .

  Independent scientific observers questioned the success of the test, noting that the seismic recordings showed a low yielding device, or one poorly designed for weapons usage, combined with an excessive amount of electromagnetic radiation. Initially, the electromagnetic pulse that created more than a minute of intense static in eastern portions of Austro-Hungary was what called scientific attention to the blast. Von Braun's statement did not comment on the effectiveness of the device. Other observers suggested that the Russians were attempting to develop a nuclear warhead that could be mated to the Perun rocket. . . .

  In reaction to such a question, Russian Communications Minister Lamanov strongly denied that Russia was developing nuclear warheads for the Perun, saying it was “absolutely ridiculous . . . totally out of the question. Russia has no desire to turn Europe or anywhere else into black glass or a radioactive wasteland. We Russians have always loved the land. We would not do that.”

  I shook my head. With that strong a denial, the Russians were attempting something—and probably failing, given the observations in the newspaper. The smaller RPI story noted that with the Russian detonation, there were effectively five nuclear powers, although the Japanese had never detonated a device. But then, where could they have detonated one?

  The rest of the news was comparatively placid—another set of stories about the price of kerosene, and a semi-feature devoted to the growing influence of the Greek trupps. The story did note in passing that such criminal elements were a small segment of Asten's burgeoning Greek population and that the immigration from Greece had continued to climb, often illegally, as Greece became more and more of an Austrian puppet state.

  The story below the fold on the second page dealt with the Asten Aerodrome, and the wasteful nature of the long runways required by turbos, and the huge amount of refined kerosene-based fuel gulped by the handful of civilian turbos and the military turbo transports. That provoked a few thoughts, which, an hour or so later, in my eleven o'clock environmental economics class, led to a diversion . . . of sorts.

  I asked a related question, near the end of the class, since almost all the faces appeared bored or blank “Mister Unduval, would you care to explain why, in some senses, the title of this class is an oxymoron?”

  “A what, sir?”

  “An oxymoron, a contradiction in terms . . . such as a straightforward politician, an interesting professor, a hardworking student.”

  I got laughs on two of the three examples, but then, most students think they work hard. I know I had. I didn't find out I was wrong until much later.

  “Miss Zand?”

  “The most environmentally sound way of doing something should be the most economical?” The petite blonde swallowed after she answered.

  “That's very carefully and very well phrased.” I couldn't help smiling, despite the other blank faces. It was good to get a solid answer without having to go through student after student. “The word ‘should’ is especially important. Why? Mister Denheider?”

  The gangly korfball player gulped. After what seemed minutes but was less than thirty seconds, Alden Denheider finally stuttered. “Ah . . . Professor . . . because . . . well . . . Imean . . . the cleanup costs for oil spills and chemical leaks . . . they're not included in the prices of things.”

  For Mister Denheider, that was eloquence; it was also proof that he'd read at least some of the assignment, because originality wasn't exactly his greatest strength. “Exactly,” I said with another smile. “If . . . if . . . all the costs of producing and distributing goods, including all the environmental costs, were included in the price of the good, then it would be to each producer's advantage to produce products in the most environmentally sound manner.” I paused. “So why doesn't this happen?” I gestured to Miss Vught.

  “Sometimes price isn't as important as other things?” asked the redhead in return.

  “Can you give me an example?” I looked around the class.

  “What about military aircraft, sir?” asked the clean-cut Verner Oss. “A dirigible is more economical and efficient, but it won't stand much chance against a high-speed turbo fighter.” Oss was an older student, one who'd registered late, and I actually had him in two classes, practically back-to-back—both the environmental politics and environmental economics.

  “So economics has to defer to survival?” I shot back.

  “Well, sir, if a society doesn't survive, its economics won't, either.”

  Once upon a time, when I'd been a Republic Naval Air Corps pilot, I'd have probably given the same answer, but a few years had taught me that simple and accurate answers usually left out a great deal. “If the political and economic structure results in wholesale destruction of the environment,” I pointed out, “then the society won't survive much longer.”


  Mister Oss looked vaguely troubled at my response, but no one wanted to comment on that one, probably because it was two minutes before the bell was due to ring.

  I fingered my chin, grinning. “All right . . . what about this? The ultimate environmental economy is surviving.”

  Several students nodded. Most were looking at the wall clock yet again.

  “That's the topic of a thousand-word essay due a week from today.”

  The sighs and groans were muffled, but most dutifully wrote down the assignment.

  The wind had picked up and was colder when I stepped out of Smythe. Gertrude and Hector had pushed off their wheelbarrows, and the roots of the lilac hedge were clean and waiting to trap more leaves as I headed down to the post centre. There, I found only circulars and three bills, plus a thick envelope for Llysette from the New Bruges Association of Teachers of Singing.

  Llysette had the table by the stove when I got to Delft's.

  Victor was explaining the special. “The crabmeat is . . . just so . . . mademoiselle, and with les champignons . . . ”

  “Whatever it is, Victor, it sounds wonderful.” I slid into the chair across from Llysette.

  “Ah, Herr Doktor, it is.”

  I glanced at the menu, noting it was new, and that the prices were higher, but, in the end, we both ordered the special, which Victor had probably created especially for Llysette. She had tea, and so did I, and we sipped it, waiting for the French onion soups that we ordered in place of salad.

  “Did you tell Dierk about St. Petersburg?” I asked.

  “Mais oui. He was pleased, and he was not pleased.”

  “Is that because with you gone, and with Beau Jonn being called back onto active service, he has no one to teach your students while you're gone?”

  Llysette offered a Gallic shrug. “More professors we have needed. He has not asked.”

  “The department keeps growing. You can't keep adding music majors without adding faculty,” I pointed out. “Not when each one requires an hour of private studio lessons a week.”