bite you.”
Still Jo paced the length of the conference table and peered anxiously at the blank screen.
“The most conservative society on Earth,” Stoner said to his wife.
“Conservative? The Soviets?”
“The Russians. They like to tell themselves that they’re the savior of civilization, that Moscow is the third Rome, the last bastion of Christianity.”
“I’m sure Pope Gregory would be surprised to hear that,” Jo countered.
“He’s an American, what do you expect?”
Jo was smiling now, but barely. “I just don’t see the men in the Kremlin as conservatives, I’m sorry.”
“Come on, Jo! Look at these people. Even their architecture is a century behind the rest of the world. Deliberately. They look to the past just as naturally as Americans look to the future.”
Jo turned and glanced at the screen again. Then, “We should have left for the airport. There’s no sense staying around here.”
“We’ll just see what this doctor wants and then we’ll be on our way.”
“We should have gone, Keith. I do have business to conduct.”
“Well, let’s be polite to them for a few minutes, at least. You don’t want to make the Russians think that capitalists are insensitive, do you?”
Then he remembered that one of the few real friends he had in this world had just died, and his smile vanished.
“Maybe I should stay for the funeral,” Stoner suggested. “Kir made me his executor.”
Jo started to reply, but heard footsteps clicking down the corridor outside. She turned toward the door as Rozmenko ushered Ilona Lucacs into the tiny conference room.
Stoner got to his feet.
“Dr. Lucacs,” said Rozmenko with a gesture, “Dr. Stoner and Mrs. Stoner.”
Stoner could feel the heat of Jo’s sudden anger. Automatic response, he said to his star brother. Competitive female. Men respond to competition by displays of aggression supported on spurts of testosterone. Women use their brains. And their tongues.
Ilona Lucacs was almost a full head shorter than Jo. She wore a simple tweed skirt and jacket, the uniform of the academic. Jo’s knee-length suede coat of burnt umber was more expensive than a half-dozen such outfits. But the tweeds could not hide the curves of Lucacs’s figure, any more than Jo’s striking coat, slacks, and silk blouse could mask her strength.
Stoner looked from his wife to Dr. Lucacs and realized that the Hungarian must be no more than twenty-five years old. If that.
She smiled warmly at Jo, then held her hand out for Stoner to shake. He almost felt as if he should bow and kiss her dainty fingers, as a European would. Grinning inwardly, he decided he had better not. Not with Jo already fuming.
“I am very sorry about Professor Markov,” said Dr. Lucacs, in a throaty voice. “My deepest condolences.”
“Thank you,” Stoner replied. And he found that he could say no more. He wanted to tell her what a wonderful friend Kirill had been, how he had been a true champion of freedom and the restructuring of Soviet society. But the words choked in his throat. He felt a strange inner surge of sympathy from his star brother. I know what death is, said the alien within him. No matter how inevitable, it is always a loss, always a sorrow.
Jo was saying, “You arrived here too late to help, I’m afraid. What kind of a specialist are you?”
Dr. Lucacs blushed slightly. “Oh, I am not a medical doctor. Not a physician. My field is neurophysiology—the study of the human nervous system.”
Instantly Stoner felt a danger signal flash through him.
“My area of research deals with repairing damaged neural tissue,” Dr. Lucacs went on.
“Like fetal grafts for repairing brain damage?” Jo asked, all business.
“Yes. And for treating Parkinson’s and other diseases of the central nervous system.”
“Then why did you want to see us?”
Ilona Lucacs tried to smile and failed. “I have been assigned by my superiors at the university to examine the problems in
Still Jo paced the length of the conference table and peered anxiously at the blank screen.
“The most conservative society on Earth,” Stoner said to his wife.
“Conservative? The Soviets?”
“The Russians. They like to tell themselves that they’re the savior of civilization, that Moscow is the third Rome, the last bastion of Christianity.”
“I’m sure Pope Gregory would be surprised to hear that,” Jo countered.
“He’s an American, what do you expect?”
Jo was smiling now, but barely. “I just don’t see the men in the Kremlin as conservatives, I’m sorry.”
“Come on, Jo! Look at these people. Even their architecture is a century behind the rest of the world. Deliberately. They look to the past just as naturally as Americans look to the future.”
Jo turned and glanced at the screen again. Then, “We should have left for the airport. There’s no sense staying around here.”
“We’ll just see what this doctor wants and then we’ll be on our way.”
“We should have gone, Keith. I do have business to conduct.”
“Well, let’s be polite to them for a few minutes, at least. You don’t want to make the Russians think that capitalists are insensitive, do you?”
Then he remembered that one of the few real friends he had in this world had just died, and his smile vanished.
“Maybe I should stay for the funeral,” Stoner suggested. “Kir made me his executor.”
Jo started to reply, but heard footsteps clicking down the corridor outside. She turned toward the door as Rozmenko ushered Ilona Lucacs into the tiny conference room.
Stoner got to his feet.
“Dr. Lucacs,” said Rozmenko with a gesture, “Dr. Stoner and Mrs. Stoner.”
Stoner could feel the heat of Jo’s sudden anger. Automatic response, he said to his star brother. Competitive female. Men respond to competition by displays of aggression supported on spurts of testosterone. Women use their brains. And their tongues.
Ilona Lucacs was almost a full head shorter than Jo. She wore a simple tweed skirt and jacket, the uniform of the academic. Jo’s knee-length suede coat of burnt umber was more expensive than a half-dozen such outfits. But the tweeds could not hide the curves of Lucacs’s figure, any more than Jo’s striking coat, slacks, and silk blouse could mask her strength.
Stoner looked from his wife to Dr. Lucacs and realized that the Hungarian must be no more than twenty-five years old. If that.
She smiled warmly at Jo, then held her hand out for Stoner to shake. He almost felt as if he should bow and kiss her dainty fingers, as a European would. Grinning inwardly, he decided he had better not. Not with Jo already fuming.
“I am very sorry about Professor Markov,” said Dr. Lucacs, in a throaty voice. “My deepest condolences.”
“Thank you,” Stoner replied. And he found that he could say no more. He wanted to tell her what a wonderful friend Kirill had been, how he had been a true champion of freedom and the restructuring of Soviet society. But the words choked in his throat. He felt a strange inner surge of sympathy from his star brother. I know what death is, said the alien within him. No matter how inevitable, it is always a loss, always a sorrow.
Jo was saying, “You arrived here too late to help, I’m afraid. What kind of a specialist are you?”
Dr. Lucacs blushed slightly. “Oh, I am not a medical doctor. Not a physician. My field is neurophysiology—the study of the human nervous system.”
Instantly Stoner felt a danger signal flash through him.
“My area of research deals with repairing damaged neural tissue,” Dr. Lucacs went on.
“Like fetal grafts for repairing brain damage?” Jo asked, all business.
“Yes. And for treating Parkinson’s and other diseases of the central nervous system.”
“Then why did you want to see us?”
Ilona Lucacs tried to smile and failed. “I have been assigned by my superiors at the university to examine the problems in
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