Chekhov’s Journey

by Ian Watson

  Not one single external object was visible. Not a tree, not a bush, not a stone. A blank white covering of snow hid what she remembered to be a paved path running right around the building; the thin even layer was as neat as a newly tucked-in sheet. As for the rest of the world, well, the Retreat might as well have been floating in mid-air in the heart of a cumulus cloud. There was only a dense white mist, woolly and indefinite, unmoving.

  “What weather!” she exclaimed …

  …just as DrKirilenko swept into the dining room, arm in arm with Mikhail, an elder statesman leading his protégé.

  “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to our little difficulty,” he said without preamble. “Now, it’s possible to project a hypnotic subject into a future role, as well as a past one. And when I say ‘future’, naturally I’m referring to the future as foreseen on the basis of subconsciously available data. The popular journalists might be tempted to describe this as ‘Reincarnation in the Future’—”

  Sergey glared malevolently.

  “—though needless to say it has no connexion with an afterlife in some future body—no more than yesterday’s work had anything to do with actual reincarnation! And when I say ‘actual’, I must remind you that no such thing as reincarnation exists, except in popular fancy. Nevertheless, an element of genuine precognition may well be present in such exercises. If it could be properly developed a superability of this type would make the work of Futurology less of a guessing game.”

  “Sod your Futurology,” said Sergey. “I’ve got a script to get together. Preferably this weekend.”

  When Kirilenko first came in, Sonya had quickly sat at table and helped herself to a slice of cheese. Now she found in her agitation that she was spreading the cheese with jam …

  “I think what Gorodsky means,” said Felix heavily, “is that while you would win our riveted attention at any other time, right now we have a more pressing problem on our plate.”

  “Quite!” Kirilenko refused to take offence. “So what I propose for our first session today is to tell Mike that he has already successfully completed his role in Chekhov’s Journey. In his mind, he will be living in the future. The film will already be … in the can. This may, ah, clear the stage …”

  Without further ado, as though it wasn’t up to Felix to yea or nay this suggestion, Kirilenko proceeded to sit down and tuck into cherry jam from the orchards down Irkutsk way.

  “Any port in a storm,” muttered Sergey direly. “To quote our beloved Fedotik.”

  Sonya discovered that jam spread on cheese was really quite tasty. This was just as well, since she could hardly scrape it off again, in front of them all.

  Mikhail grinned at her. “Onward to the future!”

  Eleven

  COMMANDER ANTON ASTROV was astonished to see a fly drifting midway in the observation pod of the K.E. Tsiolkovsky. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief, but the fly was still there. It buzzed impotently, and turned round and round in circles. How in the name of all that was wonderful had a fly got on board the ship? It eclipsed a star as he watched.

  A common house fly! Not a bluebottle or a horsefly or anything exotic like a tsetse fly … Just a common house fly. It was astonishing enough in itself.

  Really, he ought to catch it sharpish and snuff it out. Yet sentiment overwhelmed him. That wretched little fly was a tiny living portion of the earthly biosphere—and it was about to leave solar space for ever and for ever. As such, it seemed uniquely precious.

  ‘I’ve got myself a pet at last!’ he thought in amazement. ‘A pet fly, of all things!’

  Bringing out a little plastic box of space-sickness gum, he emptied the contents carefully back into his zippered pocket and secured them. A gentle push, and a few seconds later he caught the fly in the box with all the neatness of a deep orbit station receiving the docking of a supply craft. He shut the lid. The insect could gain some purchase now. The box zizz-zizzed in his fingers as the fly flopped and somersaulted, wings vibrating feverishly.

  “Little pet,” he addressed the box, “I name thee Pandora.” He tucked it into a smaller zippered pocket. “Mustn’t forget that it’s you in there! Butterflies in the tummy are one thing—but a fly? That’s another matter …”

  A moment later his continuing trajectory carried him up against the thick radiation-proof plasticrystal—stronger than steel—which formed the transparent hull of the pod. Gripping the nearest hand-hold, he hung just a few centimetres away from hard vacuum and gazed at the three-quarters-lit Earth. It was a fine day over the Indian Ocean and much of Asia. What little he could see of the Soviet Union was up near the visual North Pole.

  They’ll think I’m nuts, talking to a fly when we’re about to set off for the stars! But it’s this sort of thing that makes a man, a man …

  ‘And a woman, a woman,’ he reflected. For his Astrogator, Sasha Sorina, had just poked her flaxen curls up through the hatch from the Control Room. Her blue eyes regarded him coolly: those same eyes which would soon pick out a suitable star with a habitable world orbiting it a couple of hundred or couple of thousand light years towards the antapex of the Sun’s motion—Right Ascension 90°, Declination 34° South—far beyond the stars composing the visible constellation of Columba …

  How far, of course, depended on how many times they would have to jump through the Flux before they found themselves close enough to a suitable new sun.

  “We’re nearly ready, Commander. I thought I heard you calling.”

  “No, no. I was just wondering aloud whether they’ll ever build a second Flux-ship …” The less said to her about pet flies, the better.

  “They’?”

  “I mean, us. The Soviet Union. It’s so altruistic, isn’t it? Sending out a colony when you can never receive any news of it.”

  Sasha was beautiful, but she was very literal-minded. “But wouldn’t there be a paradox of cause and effect, if they could hear from us? We jump one hundred years back through time, and this puts us a hundred light years downstream of the Sun’s motion round the Galaxy. Anything less, and a radio message could reach the Earth before we even set off!”

  “What bothers me,” remarked Anton flippantly, “is what exactly happens if we don’t find a suitable star? Shall we just keep on jumping back along the Earth’s world-line? If we go far enough we’ll circle the Galaxy, and catch up with Earth a couple of hundred thousand years ago—and we’ll colonise it in desperation!”

  “And become our own ancestors?” Sasha looked affronted.

  ‘And my pet fly, the ancestor of a mighty dynasty of flies …’

  “The Universe doesn’t allow such things. The Principle of Cosmic Censorship absolutely forbids subversion of cause and effect. We’ll find our star, never fear! Humanity will colonise the cosmos.”

  “A little bit of the cosmos, anyway … Hmm, it’s a pity the Flux-Field has a one-track mind. If we could go anywhere we pleased—”

  “But the Principle of World-Line Constancy strongly dictates—”

  “Sure it does. Just wishing, that’s all.”

  “It’s a far nobler use we’re putting the Flux to, than those mad Americans.”

  Captain America’s Shield: she was right, there …

  The official reason for the Flux-Shield, which could be switched on at a moment’s notice to blanket America, was that if any giant meteor or comet-head came zooming in on collision course with US territory, the Shield would bat it on its way—zipping it ten years into the past and ten light years in the direction of Columba, a piece of symbolism which no doubt appealed to those in power in District Columbia …

  But likewise with any Soviet satellite or missile platform overflying US territory. With a flick of the wrist these, too, could be knocked right out of the stadium. Any war, now, would simply leave Earth’s path through space ten billion billion kilometres hindwards littered with missiles and satellites and Soviet personnel staring glumly out at the interstellar void—like a trail of beer cans bobbing far to the
rear of the liner, Earth.

  Sasha drifted to Anton’s side; together they peered along the ship. All supply ferries had departed some hours ago, leaving the K. E. Tsiolkovsky alone in deep orbit a safe distance beyond the reach of Captain America’s Shield—should any malicious soul in Cheyenne feel tempted to send them on their way, untimely. Why should anyone do so? Why, out of sheer irritation. Since there was no reason at all why a starship should be streamlined, their ship was built in the shape of a huge Hammer and Sickle.

  The hammer shaft contained the fusion reactor jets capable of carrying them up to half a light year, once Sasha decided they were close enough to a friendly star system. The sickle shaft contained storage bays, and the polished blade of the sickle itself was a huge sweep of solar power cells. At the geometrical centre of the ship, where both shafts intersected, was the Flux-Drive. And up here in the head of the hammer were the crew quarters and control section; directly beneath this a thousand hypnotised colonists lay in yogic trance in rack upon rack, their body functions ticking over at a hundredth of the normal metabolic rate.

  How very provoking to the Americans to see the Hammer and Sickle thus floating in space! But in another hour or so it would disappear forever, to become the little moon of another world. The onboard shuttles would descend ten times over, till the moon was empty. Thereafter the celestial Hammer and Sickle would shine down forever more upon New Earth as an orbiting monument, the only possible link—a symbolic one—with the USSR.

  Being alone with Sasha Sorina, with only the stars staring in, Anton Astrov thought of kissing her impetuously to celebrate. But she might slap him for impertinence. It wouldn’t do to start the greatest voyage of all time with a red handprint on one’s cheek.

  Twelve

  ON THE MORNING when Countess Zelenina called on Anton at the Staraya Rossiya Hotel on Blagoryeshtchenskaya, he was suffering a recurrence of one of his old enemies: migraine.

  It was only a mild attack as yet, compared with previous bouts, but he took it as a warning sign. Was it possible that all his old familiar foes—which he thought he had abandoned on the Siberian plain, somewhere between Omsk and Tomsk—were even now hastening to catch up with him? Were his haemorrhoids rolling along the Road within striking distance of Krasnoyarsk? Was his gastritis likewise oozing this way? All because he had dallied in one place too long?

  At the bedroom door Anton begged to excuse himself, but the Countess practically forced her way into the room. He yielded, and called to a passing maid to order tea.

  Lydia Zelenina was a tall slim woman with a fine oval face. Her hair was chestnut, and her eyes dark and bold, their lashes thickly ‘seductive’. At thirty-two she was a widow, whose husband—a rich local merchant—had perished from cholera three summers earlier, leaving her with two young daughters and a large town house, as well as income from forestry, lumber mills and tanneries. Unfortunately she tended to smoke and drink; this marred her somewhat in Anton’s eyes.

  Today she was attired eccentrically—in riding boots, a black brocaded gown, and (considering that it was the height of summer) an impossibly hot fur hat the size of a rook’s nest. She looked as though she had set out for a ball, to be held immediately after a funeral, but suspected she might have to escape from a wolf pack en route.

  Her noble grandfather had been exiled to Krasnoyarsk back in ’25 for taking part in the Decembrist plot. Accompanied by his loyal wife, together they had become part of the kernel of civilizing forces which eventually made this town a decent place to live in. Lydia inherited a penchant for conspiring, in the shape of organising social events, and for wild deeds …

  When tea arrived, she lit a cigarette. Mostly she held it far from her lips, puffing only a couple of defiant billows into the air. After a while she crossed her legs with a flourish, to display to best effect her smartly tooled boots which were so much more finely cut than Anton’s own tormentors.

  He regarded her through his pince-nez in silence. At last she crushed out her cigarette amidst the stubs of Anton’s own roll-ups.

  “Mon cher Anton Pavlovich, I’m sure there are secrets hidden in your silence—secrets which no one will ever know!”

  “If that’s so, Countess, they must be a secret from me too…” Actually, he had been thinking about gastritis.

  She disregarded his wry smile. “No, I mean it: just as surely as there’s a secret locked in the silent heart of the taiga! En tout cas, that’s why I’m here. Voyez: we aren’t all illiterates in Siberia. I propose that we should raise funds for your coming expedition by means of a benefit performance of your delicious farce, The Bear.”

  Anton could have groaned aloud. That stupid piece of vaudeville, hacked out for provincial clowns to laugh their silly heads off at!

  On the other hand, he had been living off the proceeds of its wretched nonsense for the best part of last year …

  “I would be delighted to take the role of the widow Popova, myself.”

  Oh yes. Undoubtedly. Ça va sans dire. And which of her suitors would she nominate for the part of the ‘Bear’, Smirnov? With whom did she wish to conduct a flaming row in public? And challenge to a duel? And wave a revolver at? Ah yes: with her eyes sparkling and her face a-flush—gunpowder and fireworks popping off at every word! And which of her rivals, amongst the ticket holders in the audience, would she glare at whilst issuing her challenge? Had Countess Zelenina perhaps found a packet of her own former husband’s billets-doux locked up in some drawer after his death, exactly as Popova had?

  “I think we shall stage it at the Governor’s residence. He was a good friend of Zelenin’s … Mais écoutez, there’s more: I’m quite a rich woman—I’m sure I may speak frankly!—and I would be more than happy to pay a substantial donation towards the cost of mounting the Tunguska Expedition, provided that—”

  “Provided what?”

  “Provided that I go along.”

  “Eh?”

  “I want to accompany the expedition. I shan’t hold you back. I don’t expect any comfort. I anticipate danger and privation. Oh Anton Pavlovich, I’m so sick of frittering my life away on petty excitements. Dances or a duck shoot—what nonsense!”

  “I hardly think you fully understand—”

  “Women regularly go through childbirth, mon ami. I don’t think you know how much toughness and courage it requires of us!”

  ‘No,’ thought Anton, ‘and you haven’t seen what it’s like when it goes wrong …’

  “I doubt if a man could endure it!”

  “Fortunately, we don’t often have to, Countess … But it wasn’t your stamina I was questioning. If I might be blunt: one woman, alone in the wilderness with a band of men?”

  “Oh, you’re worried about my reputation?” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Or are you worried about yours?”

  ‘Good God,’ he thought, ‘she’s making a pitch at me. Be careful, Antosha, old son! On the other hand, don’t rebuff her—that’s dodgy, too. A woman spurned, and all that!’

  He spoke jocularly. “I’ve heard tell there are giant rats out in the taiga.”

  “You know perfectly well that’s just a tall story. And quite unworthy of Doctor Chekhov, the explorer of Tunguska! I’m completely serious.”

  ‘Yes, you are. That’s the trouble …’

  “I do hope, Countess, that you won’t challenge me to a duel if I greet your proposal with a certain degree of—”

  “Ecoutez: I can shoot straight. I can ride.”

  “What, on pack horses? We’ll be walking most of the time.”

  “I’d advise you to take a sledge or two.”

  “That’s assuming we ever do set off …”

  “You will, with my assistance.” Lighting another cigarette, she waved it around as though the whole matter was signed, sealed and delivered.

  “If you’ll permit me to say so, Countess, you aren’t qualified scientifically. To make observations, for example …”

  “Oh, as to that, I happen to own a camera—a
nd you won’t find its like anywhere east of the Urals. It’s the latest type, imported from Germany. No more fussing on with heavy glass plates—this one uses roll-film.”

  “What’s that? What’s roll-film?” he asked, unguardedly.

  Lydia smiled in triumph. “See? You do need a photographic expert. You hadn’t even thought of that! What’s more, I don’t see why you need go on spending money in this dreadful hotel. Quel ennui! It must be so confining. I should count myself privileged if you were to accept the hospitality of my own home.” She wagged a finger at him. “With no obligations to be on show to casual visitors—or pay any attention whatsoever to my darling daughters. You wouldn’t be bothered at all. You needn’t even be present at rehearsals of The Bear. Though, if you like, I could initiate you into the mysteries of a roll-film camera.” She winked. “Click!”—as though snapping his photograph.

  Anton shifted about uncomfortably in his seat, and as he did so he felt a brief pang in his bum.

  He had to admit it: he’d been stuck in this hotel far too long. Writing letters to all and sundry. Squeezing out articles about the taiga and the Tunguska Mystery. The room wasn’t exactly luxurious …

  Lydia leapt up and clapped her hands, knocking ash on to the threadbare carpet. “I take it that’s settled! What are you waiting for? Get your bags packed, mon ami.”

  Thirteen

  “THE WHOLE POINT of the film is Chekhov’s bloody journey!” swore Sergey in a passion. “Not how he sits on his ass in bloody Krasnoyarsk scribbling about something that happened eighteen years later when he was bloody dead!”

  Mikhail sprang to the defence of his alter ego. “I’m still planning a pretty heroic journey, ain’t I? It’s just in a different direction, that’s all.”

  And Sonya thought: ‘How like a Caribbean pirate Mikhail looks, with that patch over his eye! Like Captain Blood … Or—like Commander Astrov, with a pet fly perched on his shoulder instead of a parrot.’ She giggled quietly. Sergey directed a withering glare at her.