Facts Relating to the Arrest of Dr. Kalugin

Hey, that’s great! I’ve got an access code for you from Botanist Mendoza! Whyn’t you walk up to the road to meet me?

Very well.

He vanished into the great pine trees that grew along the stream and I trudged across the fields, sinking ankle-deep in frequent gopher holes. Long before I was able to reach the trees, he emerged from their green gloom and walked briskly to meet me, with his shadow stretching away across the fields behind him.

“Marine Operations Kalugin?” Grinning he grabbed my hand and shook it heartily. It was a wide grin, he had a wide square jaw with a wide full mouth whose front teeth were slightly gapped. I remember that he had a deep dimple in his chin and greenish eyes. His color was ruddy, his hair thick and curling. None of us look old—unless we age ourselves cosmetically—but he looked astonishingly young.

“Boy, I’m glad to see you. You wouldn’t believe the trouble I had getting up here,” he told me. I concluded that, despite his youthful appearance, he must be one of the truly old operatives. Have you ever noticed that the older ones tend to fall back principally on Cinema Standard when mortals aren’t present? I’ve noticed it, anyway. I suppose they do it because perhaps there wasn’t any complex human language back in Paleolithic times when they were made, and so Cinema Standard became the first real language they ever learned, their mother tongue, so to speak.

“Wouldn’t they loan you a horse at Port Rumiantsev?” I inquired. He widened his eyes in amazement.

“Were there horses for rent there? Gosh, nobody told me. Hey, that Rumiantsev place, that’s Bodega Bay, isn’t it? Isn’t Hitchcock gonna film The Birds there?”

“Some scenes, yes.” I smiled. “Tippi Hedrin is first attacked in that harbor. Are you a cinema enthusiast?”

“Well, sure! And, boy, do things look different there now!” He giggled slightly, I suppose aware of the banality of his remark, and swung his bag down from his shoulder. “Well, I guess I’d better give you that access code.”

From a narrow compartment he drew out an envelope, neatly addressed to me in Russian using Roman letters. “It’s in there.” He handed it to me.

“Wonderful.” I tore the envelope open and peered inside. Wrapped in a thin sheet of notepaper was the filmy strip of code. I closed it up again carefully and tucked it deep in my pocket.

“And the lady said to tell you—” his voice and face abruptly altered and I was hearing a woman’s voice, speaking smooth Cinema Standard with just the faintest steel of Old Spain: “This study was compiled in 1722 and while I don’t think any of the species described here have gone extinct since then, he should check with the local Indians. However, I’m quite sure he’ll find it comprehensive enough for his needs.”

His face resumed its normal appearance and I applauded. “How marvelous! Is that a special subroutine for couriers?”

He looked confused. ” I’m the Courier,” he said.

“Yes, but—” There was an awkward pause while I tried to fathom what he meant, during which I became aware that a few of the settlers had come out of their huts and were staring at us. The Courier lifted his bag again, shifting from foot to foot.

“Anyway. There’s your letter. What are my orders?” he asked me.

“Orders?” I stared at him. “I have no orders for you.”

His face went perfectly blank, a greater transformation than the moment previous; no more expression than a wax mannequin.

“You haven’t got any orders for me?” he repeated wonderingly. “But you have to. Where am I supposed to go next?”

“I don’t know, Mr.—er, dear me, you haven’t told me your name—”

“Courier,” he informed me. Strange; but our etiquette, as you know, frowns on remarking upon a fellow cyborg’s personal appellation, so I blundered on:

“Courier. My dear sir, I’m afraid I haven’t received any transmissions from Base since I’ve been here. Clearly there’s been some mistake. I’m sure they’ll send your orders any day now.”

“But what am I supposed to do ?” His knuckles whitened on the handle of his bag.

“Well—” I looked around uncomfortably. I could understand if he were irritated, but his flat incomprehension baffled me. “Perhaps you’d like to visit the colony here?”

Instantly his face cleared. “Okay!” he said cheerfully. I glanced over at the little crowd of Indians and frontiersmen beginning to gather by the stockade.

“We need to address the question of your cover identity, however. Your choice of clothing is a little unusual for a Russian,” I explained delicately. “Are you programmed to speak our language, at all?”

“Sure!” he affirmed. In a flat Kievan accent he inquired: “’Say, Comrade, what time does the boat leave? Where can I catch the diligence for Moscow? Is this the road to the Volga ferry?’”