The Brain Eaters

Chapter 24

Viktor Raslov saw that Kuryakin was missing at the same moment that he was handed the telephone by Neal Henderson, the young assistant to the manager of San Francisco Airport.

Accident? A wrong turn? Or — O hated word — defection?

Raslov could not very well change his mind now about talking to the embassy, since he had made such a point of it with this nervous young man. However, he did not want to call attention to Kuryakin’s absence before it was absolutely necessary. Such things could be quite embarrassing. The head of a delegation was responsible for the safety, not to mention the loyalty, of its members.

He signaled the KGB men with his eyes, and one of them slipped out of the office to scan the terminal. While Henderson stood by perspiring lightly, Raslov punched out the number of the Soviet consulate. He identified himself and after some delay was put through to the chief consul.

“Yes, yes, Raslov, what is it?” The chief consul was senior to Raslov in the party and had no need to be polite.

“There seems to be some delay here in our flight,” he said in Russian. “Nothing serious, but I thought you should be informed.”

“If it is nothing serious, why did you call me? You must have heard about the trouble we are having down here with some right-wing protest group that is blaming us for these so-called brain eaters. The police seem in no hurry to disperse them.”

“No, I had not heard,” Raslov said.

“Everything here is confusion,” the chief consul said. “There is nothing I can do for you.”

“I understand,” Raslov said. “Please do not concern yourself.”

He hung up the telephone and said to young Henderson, “The consul says if the delay of our flight is prolonged, he will expect a full report from your superior.”

“I’m sure it won’t be long,” said Henderson. “Would you care to wait in the VIP lounge?”

“VIP?”

“It’s for … dignitaries and important travelers.”

“We will wait out there,” Raslov said, pointing back toward the terminal. “Where the people wait.”

“Yes, of course, whatever …” Henderson finished the sentence lamely as he saw he no longer had the Russian’s attention.

The KGB man came back into the office and gave a small shake of his head. Raslov swore under his breath and started out, the two KGB men flanking him.

“We’ll page you,” Neal Henderson said to their departing backs, “as soon as there is any word.”

“You did not see Kuryakin?” Raslov said to the KGB man who had left the office.

“No, sir.”

“Did you look in the lavatories?”

“No.”

“Well, do so.” To the other he said, “Search the other terminals. If you see Kuryakin, detain him. Do you understand?”

“Of course.”

Raslov’s eyes met those of the KGB man. They did not like to be given orders by anybody except one of their own. Not even a party official. Raslov resolved to be more diplomatic. It was never a good idea to get on the wrong side of the KGB.

Anton Kuryakin did his best to blend in with the other people milling around San Francisco Airport. It was not so difficult in the international terminal where he had slipped away from Viktor Raslov and the thick-necked men from the KGB. There the babble of foreign tongues was louder than the English, and the people were dressed in all manner of costumes. Indeed, Kuryakin, in his dark conservative suit and his bland peasant face, looked more American than the Latins and Asians who made up the bulk of the crowd.

Once he moved on through the other terminals, he began to feel more conspicuous. It was the first time he had been alone among Americans. He felt sure his foreignness would call attention to him, but no one seemed to be looking.

How colorfully they dressed in this country, he thought. And with so little formality. There were more women wearing pants than dresses. None of the men wore a hat. Kuryakin was glad he had left his own packed away. He saw also that there were very few neckties in evidence. Kuryakin considered removing his but reasoned that his suit and starched white shirt would be even more conspicuous without a necktie than they already were. Furthermore, he would feel decidedly undressed without it. He left it on.

The airport held a bewildering array of shops and services that seemed to Kuryakin to have nothing to do with air travel. It was in stark contrast to Moscow, where an airport looked like an airport and not a department store. Given the choice, Kuryakin would have taken the Russian way.

Here there were restaurants, bars, clothing stores, a barbershop, a beauty parlor, a medical clinic, a flower store, and stands selling sourdough bread. All manner of attractions to make a man forget what his business was. Kuryakin resisted the temptation to inspect the variety of goods available to anyone who had the price. He reminded himself that he had a mission, and he knew they would be looking for him soon — Raslov and the other two. Probably, also, the American authorities. He had no time to waste.

There were decisions to be made. Which airline should he take? He passed up the one called American as seeming disloyal to his own country. The same went for Pan American. Continental suggested that it might somehow deposit him in Europe, and Trans-World was a longer jump than he wanted to make. How much simpler it was in Russia, where the joke was that when you wanted to fly, you either went Aeroflot or grew wings.

Finally, after studying a map board showing their routes, he settled on United. He got into a line at the counter, glancing around to be sure no one was yet coming for him. With the general excitement over the brain-eater business, no one was paying any attention to him. He relaxed and moved slowly with the queue. Standing in line was one thing he understood.

After ten minutes he reached the counter, where a harried black man explained that the line was for people who had already purchased their tickets and wished to check their luggage. Kuryakin sighed and moved out of line. Such frustrations were not uncommon in Moscow either.

By careful observation he found the correct line where people were buying tickets and took his place behind a Latin-looking woman with a very noisy baby. That line moved more slowly than the other, and tempers were fraying on all sides by the time Kuryakin again reached the counter.

“I wish a ticket to Milwaukee,” he pronounced carefully when it was his turn at the counter. He understood English quite well, but speaking the language made him uncomfortable. So much of it seemed to be pushed through the nose.

“Everything is full,” the clerk told him. “The best I can do is put you on standby on flight eight-fifty-nine for Chicago.”

“Cheecago … is it close to Milwaukee?”

“Practically next door. There are shuttle flights every hour. I mean, there used to be. Maybe they’re still operating, but I can’t promise you. Everything is a mess.”

“Yes, big mess. I take the ‘by stand.’”

“Standby.”

“Yes, that one.”

The clerk explained to him how it worked, and Kuryakin carefully counted off some of the American bills he had been given for the trip. It left him with very little money, but if he got where he was going, that would not matter.

The lounge where the standby passengers waited was extremely comfortable by Moscow standards. There were individual padded chairs for sitting, a huge window through which one might watch the planes taxiing by outside, and an immaculate public rest room. But what seized his attention was a fascinating machine into which young Americans fed an unceasing stream of coins.

The machine featured a televisionlike screen on which a voracious little head sped through a maze gobbling up white dots and blobs of various shapes until an even more voracious creature caught the tiny head and gobbled it up in turn. The progress of the gobbling head was apparently controlled by whoever put the coin into the machine, while the opposing blobs seemed to operate on whim. The whole process was accompanied by melodious electronic bleeps, blats, boops, and honks — altogether an amazing device. A microcosm of the capitalist system.

“Mr. Karloff, you may board Flight eight-fifty-nine for Chicago immediately at Gate Twenty-one.

So intent was Kuryakin on the machine that he almost did not hear his name called over the speaker. More specifically, the name he had chosen to use for concealment purposes. It was the first American name that popped into his head when the ticket agent asked. It pleased him to travel under the name of his favorite American motion-picture actor. Moreover, one whose name was pronounceable.

He found the behavior of the flight crew admirably calm, considering the emergency situation. Kuryakin had thought a self-indulgent society such as the United States would rapidly come apart when faced with imminent destruction. Although he generally considered Westerners to be weak and indecisive, he was not a man to withhold approval where it was due.

One of the female attendants leaned down over him suddenly, and Kuryakin thought for a moment he had been discovered.

“Would you like something to read, Mr. Karloff?” She fanned a display of American magazines.

She was an attractive young woman with a husky voice. Rather like his daughter, Natalia, back in Moscow. Thoughts of Natalia and home tightened his throat for a moment, making it difficult to speak.

“Sir?”

“No, thank you,” he said. “Nothing to read.” He did not want to be distracted from his thoughts during the flight.

“We will have sandwiches once we’re under way,” the young woman said. “I’m sorry, but due to the emergency there will be no hot meal on this flight.”

“Is all right,” he said.

“But I’ll be around with the cart if you’d care for something to drink. They’re free this flight.”

“Good.” Kuryakin made himself smile. Americans, he had observed, smiled at one another constantly without reason. Maybe not so much now as before the brain eaters came.

There was a delay of half an hour before the United flight was cleared for take-off. Kuryakin sat tensely all the while, expecting at any moment to be grasped by rough hands and pulled off the plane. It still amazed him that it was so easy to travel in this country without so much as being asked for one’s papers. How could the Americans possibly keep track of their people?

He had a momentary pang of conscience about leaving Raslov. Viktor would have to do some powerful explaining about the disappearance of his countryman. Kuryakin would gladly have included Raslov and even the KGB thick necks in his plan if he thought they would be amenable. He knew, however, that his thinking in that matter was unorthodox, and he was not likely to find any support from the others.

The decision to act had been made impulsively when he saw the opportunity offered by the confusion in the airport. Once he had decided what he must do, there was no question in Kuryakin’s mind of where to go. The American authorities were out of the question. He had heard of the prisons into which people like him were thrown. The political authorities there were no more to be trusted than they were in Russia. They were as bad as the police or the army.

The only people he felt free talking to were other men of science. Theirs was an international language that transcended politics. They could be trusted. True, there were scientists who had gone bad. Nazi Germany was a prime example. It was possible that he was making a mistake, but he had made his choice, and there was now no turning back.

When they were airborne, the young woman came as promised, pulling a cart loaded with liquor. Kuryakin selected a tiny bottle of vodka. The name sounded Russian, but it was an American product. Nevertheless, Kuryakin felt it was a small gesture of loyalty on his part.

Eddie Gault woke up feeling better. Much better. He decided he had not had the flu after all.

He got out of bed, pulled on a bathrobe, and went looking for Roanne. He found her in the living room watching TV with the sound turned low. She snapped off the picture when he came into the room.

“Well, you’re looking chipper,” she said.

“Feel fine.” He nodded toward the blank television screen. “Was that the news?”

“News is about all that’s on nowadays. Just the same old stuff.”

“What’s happening at the plant?” he asked. “Have they opened up again?”

Roanne eyed him strangely. “No. They’re going to be closed a long, long time.”

“You mean they shut everything down?”

“Almost. They say Kitzmiller is back. He and a few others are staying out there and doing something in the laboratories. Nobody else except security.”

“What’s he doing there? — Dr. Kitzmiller?”

“The television says he’s trying to find an antidote for the brain eaters.”

“Brain eaters? Oh, God.” Eddie moaned and sank into a chair. “For just a minute there I forgot about them. It seemed like a fever dream.”

“No dream, Eddie,” she said.

“Oh, God. God.”

“It won’t do you any good to carry on that way. What’s done is done.”

“What’s been happening the last couple of days? I felt so lousy I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Some people were killed at the plant.”

“Jesus, how did that happen?”

Roanne told him about the Biotron massacre as gently as she could, minimizing the role of the brain eaters as the cause of it all.

As she spoke, she watched Eddie carefully.

He sucked at a raw hangnail on his thumb.

“Are you sure you feel all right, Eddie? Do you think you should be up?”

“I told you, I feel fine. I’ve got to think. I’ve got to do something.”

“You’ll just give yourself a headache.” Roanne’s expression changed suddenly. “You don’t have a headache, do you?”

“No.” He eyed her suspiciously. “Why do you ask that?”

“I’m just worried about you.”

“Did you think maybe those things, those brain eaters, had gotten to me?”

“No, of course not.”

“Might serve me right if they did.”

“Don’t talk that way.”

“I mean it. I’m the one let ‘em loose. Serve me right if they got into my brain, too.”

A sharp retort formed in Roanne’s throat, but she swallowed it. She went over and stood in front of Eddie’s chair. In a voice that caressed him, she said, “Baby, I don’t want to hear you say that. You’re too important to me.”

“Am I?” he said listlessly.

“You know you are.”

She moved closer, gently pushing his legs apart and stepping between them.

“I got to think,” he said.

“There’s plenty of time to think,” she said.

“People are dying. Lots of people. And it’s my fault.”

“Everybody dies, Eddie.” She tried to lighten it up. “Besides, a little depopulation wouldn’t hurt this country. We’ve talked about that.”

“I don’t know. I just feel it’s wrong.”

She went down to her knees. “There’s nothing you can do now, baby. Nothing.”

“I can at least take the responsibility for what I did.”

“That wouldn’t help anybody. They’d only hurt you. And me.”

With deft fingers she started working on his belt buckle.

Eddie covered her hands with his own. “Not now.”

She looked up at him, her blue eyes half-closed, pale lips barely parted. It was a look that had always got him hot before, but now he only shook his head.

“Don’t, Roanne. I don’t feel like it. I got to think.”

He stood up and walked into the kitchen, leaving Roanne kneeling before the empty chair. She looked after him and frowned.